I’m just going to say it: Foxie Doxie was the worst dog ever and I miss him every single day.
He peed on everything. He barked at everything. He was obsessive about securing the perimeter of the yard. If he was a human, he’d be the kid who had to wear a helmet.
That dachshund had no sense of personal space. And even if he was next to you, he tended to spread. One minute, you’re peacefully coexisting on the couch. The next? He’s basically oozed against you and molded his body to yours. Why hello there. Come here often?
A dear friend pointed out the other day that it’s probably a good thing that Foxie has already passed on to the big backyard in the sky. Why? Because Foxie would have totally been called out for #MeToo.
My pal dogsat my menagerie and so knows of what she speaks. She was game for Foxie to sleep in her room, maybe even on the bed. But little did she know she was in for full-on, dachshund-under-the-covers-and-in-your-business action.
I’m so thankful to have a friend who remembers Foxie with a laugh and real love. Grief is weird – it changes, but it’s always there. Like the lingering sense of fence-line security. You’ll notice that no wild boars or wildebeests have invaded the backyard. I have no doubt that is Foxie’s ever-vigilant doing.