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My Mother’s Weenies

My mother is 65-years-old and has two weenies—dachshunds, that is. One of the creatures is an obsessive-compulsive female she calls “Lily” (though she could easy call her “Stinkweed,” which would be far more appropriate).  The other is a cowardly male that trembles all the time and often pees on himself.  She refers to him as “Garp,” her favorite character from John Irving’s The World According to Garp. I probably should add that she didn’t name him that because he trembled and lacked bladder control.  She gave him that name first, and then he grew up to be a full-fledged wimp.

Let me say this as plainly as I can:  I’m not a big dog person.  In theory, I like dogs somewhat when I’m in one of my all God’s creatures’ moods.  Dogs-as-abstractions are not that bad.  Flesh-and-blood dogs—the ones with real hair and fleas—are another matter altogether.  

Every summer I come home to America and spend some time visiting with my mother.  During these trips, I live with her in her house, which means I end up sharing space with her two creatures.  Even under the best of circumstances, this would be a challenge for me, but to make matters far worse, I have to observe her dogs bossing her around.  The beasts have this terrible habit of lying around on the sofa, and suddenly, as if they’re programmed to respond simultaneously in exactly the same way, both of them will raise their heads and start yapping.  My mother immediately comes running from wherever she is in the house, bends down, and politely asks them what they want.

“Be serious,” I say while rolling my eyes.

“What?” she asks quizzically.

“You don’t actually think those nincompoops know why they’re barking, do you?”

“Please don’t say that word around my dogs.”

“What word?”

“The n-word you just said.  They are very sensitive.  You’re going to hurt their feelings.  And yes, to answer your question, I do think they know why they’re barking.  As a matter of fact, the three of us communicate very well together.”   

There is ample evidence to support the fact that “nincompoops” is the perfect word to use when referring to her dachshunds.  This is especially true about her favorite, Lily, the eldest.  Lily is a basket case who has to take medication for her various mental conditions, foremost of which is the whole OCD thing I mentioned earlier.

Every morning, before leaving for work at 8:15, my mother gives Lily one milligram of Xanax, which is suppose to have a calming effect.  In reality, all this does is keep her from barking herself into an early grave.  She still barks and yaps and howls and moans but stops just short of giving herself a coronary or a brain aneurysm.  And that’s just while she’s inside.  Outside, she runs pell-mell around the yard like a wind-up toy gone berserk.  There are so many more barking targets out there as well, which means she yaps at the neighbors, the birds overhead, the thought of birds overhead, the shadows, the play of early morning sunlight against the side of the house, and even the blades of grass beneath her feet.  Due to her meds, Lily may not be headed for a premature demise, but all of us within her barking range are perhaps not so lucky.   

The second, smaller hound often puddles on the floor in response to hearing “his sister’s” (as my mom would say) barking.  All he has to do is look through the screen door at the female, when she’s in one of her manic states and the urine begins to flow.

“What are we going to do with you, Mr. Garp?” my mother will say to him if she happens to be around when he lets go.  He won’t say a word in self-defense when she asks him this question, but the expression he wears on his face speaks volumes about little doggie mortification.

This past summer, for the first two weeks of my visit, I thought long and hard about what my mother saw in those two hot dogs.  My direct observation led me to believe that at least part of her attachment to them has to do with the fact that she appears to be relishing the opportunity of playing “mommy” again, now that her real children are all grown up and living in various far-flung spots.  I decided to test this theory out one evening while the two of us (make that the four of us) were watching TV together.  

“Do you think of those dogs as your children?” I asked her.

“Yes, because they are my children.”

“Come on, that’s a little silly, don’t you think?”

“Why?  My children can be whoever I say they are.”

I stopped and thought about that for a moment.  I concluded, after a minute or so, that she had a point.

“That would mean, then, that those two are my brother and sister.” I said.

“Well, you three look alike.  And you definitely act alike.”

“Very funny.  Okay, just supposing that those two are really your children, as you say they are.  It occurs to me that you’ve become a much more mellow mom this second time around. With them, you are very lenient, but with us, you were very strict. Maybe you like them better. Don’t you think that’s true?”

Instead of responding to this, my mother just gave me a big smile.  I would have liked an answer to my query, but I didn’t press her to provide one.  

Five minutes later, during a commercial break, Mom got up from her place on the sofa.  Of course, this caused her two weenies to lift their heads and watch her as she made her way to the kitchen.  On her way there, she passed behind the chair I was sitting in,  placed the palm of her hand on the hair on top of my head, and paused for a minute.

“Good doggie,” she said. The three of us settled down to wait for her return.

Troy Headrick is a writer, artist, university instructor, ex-Peace Corps Volunteer, and expatriated American who currently lives in Turkey.

~Troy Headrick