I wasn’t looking for a long dog. I knew little about dachshunds, that odd-shaped breed with short legs and suspicious eyes. But during pandemic lockdowns I began scrolling PetRescue the way friends were swiping Tinder, and with just as little luck.
So when I spotted her, I prepared for disappointment. I had recently been ghosted by an elderly chap with a heart condition. I had visions of giving him his golden senior years; he had better prospects.
Yet, somehow, McKenzie was suddenly mine. My first dog. I’d never lived with one before and worried I had romanticised dog ownership. I read all the books and watched all the YouTube videos, but how would I really fare with the training, the barking, the poo?
It wasn’t love at first sight. On the drive home, McKenzie and I were both stressed and baffled. I was resolute about only one thing: she wouldn’t sleep in my bed. I placed her new bed beside mine.
McKenzie had other ideas. She kept plopping on to my bed in the dark until, too tired to fight her, I gave in. Tomorrow’s problem.
The next morning, I woke to find her lying on her back under the covers, her little paws poking out, her ears splayed like wings. My heart exploded into a million pieces and reassembled into the shape of a sausage dog.
Before I adopted McKenzie, I thought I wanted a happy lapdog. A best friend. I named my imaginary dog Mr Cookie – a scruffy, cheerful, ball-chasing dog. Maybe not the brightest banana, but so smiley.
Instead I got this mournful-looking hound whose eyes speak of existential crisis. McKenzie doesn’t chase balls. Despite being one-foot tall, she hunts cats, cars, skateboarders and drones indiscriminately. In the dog park she shouts at dogs 10 times her size like a short, angry German personal trainer.
McKenzie’s separation anxiety causes her to pace, howl and scratch at the door whenever I leave her. For a long time she was my constant sidekick while we figured things out, which bothered me less that it should have. By now I’m too in love with this ridiculous, beautiful animal.
My home has filled with dog ramps and dachshund paraphernalia. I’ve been given long-dog coasters, blankets, doormats, brooches, mugs and paperclips. Paperclips! The best bit is I don’t even mind.
A lifelong city girl, I moved to the mountains because I longed for a garden my solar-powered dog could sunbathe and snoot about in.
Watching McKenzie gambol off-lead at our local dog park, I’m joyfully in the moment. There’s nothing like the strut of a satisfied dachshund butt to lift the spirits and calm an anxious mind.
She’s a happy constant through injury, depression and grief – a reason to get out in the sunshine, her soft furry weight by my side, her nose nudging me back to hope. In one particularly dark moment, she licked tears from my face and collapsed into my side in a full body hug that reminded me we’ll be OK, and that I’m not alone.
No one warned me dachshunds are like tattoos; it’s hard to stop at one. Two years later I adopted another, this one with even greater psychological damage. Number two, Elodie, was impulsively acquired because I’m a sucker for her sad story. The product of a back yard breeder, she is equal parts adorable and broken. She howls at everyone and everything in a jarringly high-pitched yelp. A friend nicknamed her Psycho Muppet. She’s more of a slow burn to love but in time my heart expanded again, reconfiguring to fit two needy sausages. I love watching them spooning in our bed, a dachshund croissant. My found family on eight legs.
I didn’t plan on one sausage dog, let alone two. But sometimes the life you didn’t know you wanted can make you feel whole.
