The Dachshund Racer

(To Tiffany, not that I think you'll grow up to race dachshunds)

He raced dachshunds; you could see them on the Channel 8 News at nine. He was lucky, because after many years he had finally been able to cultivate enough of a following of dachshund racing fans to allow him to quit his part-time job at the local bookshop (what can you do with an English degree, eh?) and focus on racing his dachshunds full time. A lot of other local dachshund owners had gotten in the fun and started racing their own dogs so the races were fun, exciting, "a great way to spend a Saturday afternoon: two thumbs up," and certainly nothing less of completely adorable.

You see, dachshunds are nothing like greyhounds. Instead of running like they're always about to fall down, they run like dozens of small rubber bands shot from childish fingers, skittering and confused. Their ears flopped as they bounced into the arms of their owners at the finish line. They got head rubs and belly rubs and chest rubs; children fed them doggy treats as the owners looked on, beaming. And since it was apparent that all these owners loved their dachshunds; no one protested; no one banned it; no one called PETA to make a fuss. It was good fun, and the dogs certainly enjoyed the attention, plus burning some extra energy on Saturdays.

All of his dogs were named Bo-Bo Little Tiny. To keep them from getting confused when he called them (and not the other way around, for he could never get his babies confused in his head) there was Bo-Bo Little Tiny, then Bo-Bo Little Tiny II, Bo-Bo Little Tiny 1.5 (retroactively named when it turned out he was actually younger than II), Bo-Bo Little Tiny III, Bo-Bo Little Tiny IV, and Bo-Bo Little Tiny V. He never shortened their names to just "Two" or "Five." To do so would be demeaning to them. He took great care of them, brushing them and playing with them. All their shots were up to date. Fleas were promptly taken care of; heart worm dispensed of with preventive pills. And to keep his house from becoming a giant dachshund orgy, they were all appropriately neutered and spayed. Thus any wiggling they did with each other was nothing but platonic.

It was only a matter of time before this handsome, caring bachelor met an eligible young single woman. She was new in town. They met at the post office, because the lines were always long and slow. The post office held limited hours on weekdays and even shorter hours on Saturdays. Not that he could ever get there in time with all the racing he had to do. It was while inching forward toward the two person manned desk that he turned around and began to speak to her. He was mailing a birthday present to his mother, he explained. At this rate by the time he finally got up there he might have to mail two. She laughed and said she was here to register her new address, but, - and here she imitated his tone of voice -, by the time she got up there she might be moving again, so she would have to register an all new address. They laughed and chatted and he thought, My, here was a likeable woman he could fall in love with. It was time he got settled anyway, but he was never interested in any of the women he knew. Here was a new one; one that got his jokes and was cute and possibly utterly lovable. She had short orange-red hair and a burst of freckles across her face. He loved freckles. They were a good omen.

During sex, for the first time, he saw the future. He saw them together growing old; her orange-red hair streaked with gray. Perhaps by then he would not have any hair. She would kiss him on the top of his bed, soft as petals and the grandchildren of his dogs would circle around them, barking happily. He sighed, content, and laid back.

Then the excited dogs rushed out of their soft beds and leaped onto his large one. They romped around them like nymphs celebrating the rites of spring. He snuggled against her and asked her what she thought of them. She frowned and said, "Frankly, I'm not a dog person."

"What do you mean?" He asked. The relationship was still salvageable.

"I mean-" she said as she pushed an overtly eager dog lapping at her face off the bed "-that I think I'm allergic to them." She sneezed, as if offering up hard evidence. "I mean, I'm not too allergic normally, but I think five might be a bit much."

"I have six," he offered, weakly.

"I'm sorry," she said, rising. "I think I have to go." She pulled on her bra, her panties, her top, and her pants. She swatted away Bo-Bo Little Tiny IV, who was chewing on her shoes. She fished out her socks from Bo-Bo Little Tiny II's mouth. Depositing the socks in her purse with a grimace, she pulled on her shoes and walked toward the door. "I...I guess I'll see you around sometime."

And that quickly, it was back to just him and his dogs again. But he was happy. Every morning he took his dogs out to the track, all twenty of the tiny wriggling things, and let them loose to run round and round and round.