If I am repaired, can we meet again for the first time, in all of the places I have feared to go, and then, again, in all of the places I will have forgotten, if I am repaired?



Tuesday, March 26, 2013


George’s mother was a St. Bernard. Like any St. Bernard, George is big and goofy and slobbery. Collar a pint-sized oaken keg beneath his ever-drooling jowls and George would be your picture-perfect Alpine savior. At least from the belly up. From the belly down, George is another story entirely.

          It seems George’s father was a Weiner dog. Yes, I said Weiner dog—a Daschund. I don’t know how. I wasn’t there. Possibly, some marvel of German engineering was involved, but I’d just as soon not envision the whole process, so please, just accept that it happened, be thankful it wasn’t a miniature, and let’s move along.

          German hunters, tired of having their hands mangled by wounded rabbits, needed a dog that was long, yet short, slick-haired and feisty. A dog they could send down into rabbit holes to fetch out the evening’s hasenpfeffer, as it were. Hence, the Daschund, with its stubby legs and easily retrievable length. St. Bernards, on the other hand, needed long legs for bounding through piles of avalanched snow. They needed big, furry bodies to wrap around frostbitten victims, like a thick, warm living coat.

          You could be an optimist and say that George was blessed with the best of both of these worlds. Or not. This bit of illicit genetic modification, by no means produced an X-Dog. Oh, George would have no problem staying off hypothermia with his thick, brown and white coat. But don’t expect him to come bounding nobly through any snowdrifts to rescue you. I didn’t measure them exactly, but at a glance, I’d say that with the legs George’s father bequeathed him, he’d be hard pressed to get off the porch if it snowed more than an inch. No jest. One can hardly distinguish the difference between George's lying down and his standing up. He looks Photoshopped. Despite his stature, George is far too big to be stuffed down any rabbit holes, either, so there goes that bit of dog joy as well.

          They say it’s best to let Nature take its course. But I’m thinking there’s a clause in there, somewhere, regarding horny Weiner dogs. If not, maybe we should look into adding one. For the sake of any future Georges.



  1. I've run across a few 'George's' in my vet field years. One can only think there was an over amorous male or an extremely accomodating female. Either way it makes for interesting offspring.

  2. Yep, I had a George too at one time, but the father was a Shelty and the mother was a minature long hair dachsund. Trust me he was one weird mix.

  3. What a fabulous genetic splice! Gorgeous George indeed......!

    ps......you took me right back to my youth when you mentioned rabbit hunting. I'd nag to go with my dad and brothers and loved the tension as our ferrets scoured the bolt holes. Not happy enough with a skipping rope as a kid me.........

  4. and this is a new house mate of yours??
    Pretty darn cute!! Your description was perfect..

  5. well...that's not so bad, is it...

    (caught up on your other story hoping there is more to come. it is a strange thing waiting for that which is not created yet.)


  6. erin... not bad at all.

    (don't be holding your breath)


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