Although dachshunds have a reputation for being mild-tempered, sociable animals, Bud was anything but. He was
ill-tempered, difficult and unpredictable. And the only person in the world he liked was my mother. Bud was obsessed with Mom to the point that whenever she went on any kind of trip, he would climb
into her closet, stand on his hind legs and yank all her clothing off the hangers, piece by piece. Then he would drag them somewhere and pile them up, making a bed for himself.
He also tried to keep
my father away from her. If Mom took a nap, Bud would sleep in front of her door and not let anyone in the room. And everybody in the family took Bud seriously whenever he was guarding Mom. I remember my
250-pound father trying to get into his own bedroom one night when Bud was guarding the door. Daddy reached down to pet the dog in an effort to make him move and Bud reached up and bit his metal watchband in
two.
I distinctly remember my father standing outside the bedroom calling my mother to wake up and move her dog. There was no contesting it – Bud was the boss around that house.
But Precious
was just the opposite. She was exactly as her name implied – a happy-go-lucky, affectionate little poochie who loved everyone in equal measure, but as she aged, she started having problems with her back
legs, a fairly common occurrence in dachshunds.
By this time, my father and Bud had both passed on and Mom had only Precious to keep her company. My teenaged brother was still at home, but he wasn't
there too often, so mother lavished her affection on the dog.
One day Precious was having more trouble than usual with those legs and her regular veterinarian was closed for the day. So Mom took her
to another vet with whom she was unfamiliar. He treated Precious for the problem, gave my mother a piece of paper and sent her on her way.
Thinking the paper was a prescription, Mom stopped at the
pharmacy on her way home and handed it to the pharmacist, who knew Mom's last name was Moore. He opened the paper and read for a moment, then looked up at her and asked, "Excuse me Mrs. Moore, but just what
exactly do you want me to do with this?"
Mom thought it was a peculiar question. But when he handed the paper back to her she realized that it wasn't a prescription, but a note addressed to her
regular veterinarian. This is what the pharmacist read:
"Precious Moore is wobbly on her legs. I gave her shot and she seems just fine."
I don't know if my mother ever went back to that
pharmacist again, but I'm sure he wondered why my mother was "wobbly" and why the vet would write a note about it.
And we always wondered what he thought about a grown woman named "Precious."
