And On the Topic of Snow...

Tonight's snow -- which, by the way, is covering all traces of rabbit poop, a frozen delicacy this time of year -- harkens back to many great memories I've had in the winter wonderland. In particularly snowy winters, Mr. Bill has carved out quite intricate mazes for me to traverse in the yard. I rather enjoy it, as I've always been an athletic dog and once excelled in agility class (perhaps more on that another day).

It's a little odd to see a middle-aged man, shovel in hand (he does not own a snow blower, which would make things much easier), digging to China through feet-high snow. But that's what he does. Here's an example of his handiwork and my incredible athleticism (and I was about 80 when this was filmed). Enjoy!

Shortcomings

I've got to be honest with you. I'm short. There, I said it. You were probably wondering anyway but were too kind to ask.

To be sure, I'm not as short as if I were one hundred percent Dachshund or had any of that miniature variety in me. Bill likes to tell people that "next to a regular dog, he looks like a dachshund, while next to a dachshund, he looks like a regular dog." You get the picture.

The annual snowstorm mug shot.

Tonight, we're having a little snowstorm here in Minnesota.  As the snow begins to pile up, it's hard to get away from the fact that I don't have the clearance of an 18-wheeler, and I must count on master to clear a path for me in the backyard. Perhaps there is no other way to assess the devotion of an owner than to see how regularly he shovels snow from the tundra for his height-challenged dog. I've got no complaints there. My heinie always stays dry.

A Consignment Purchase

I had good looks from the start.

It was the week of Thanksgiving in 1995. I was hanging out at Penny’s Paws and Claws, a pet shop in the burgeoning California central valley town of Folsom, with a bunch of other puppies. We had a steady stream of visitors that fawned over us, picked us up, talked to us as if we were babies, and generally made us feel like the most important things in the world (and really, who could argue that?).

I studied the visitors closely once I realized that any of them had the power to take me home. I listened carefully to the questions they asked Penny, looking for any clue about a prospective owner’s style.

Most asked about a dog’s personality, lineage and approximate size at maturity. One guy asked all those questions, and more. He asked if he could purchase a puppy on a one-week trial basis.

That guy was Bill. After another hour's worth of questions, I finally hopped into his car and off I went. I was finally free -- yet I felt like I was on some sort of probation that made no sense to me.

Blog? Schmog!

In the twilight of my life.

For once, I'm giving in to my ever-adoring master's long-held wishes.

His grandfather was a writer and occasional Einstein penpal. His father wrote books about baseball. And master himself likes to think he can turn a phrase. So why shouldn't his dog write, or so went his delusional thinking.

So here I am, toiling away as a writer in the last of my years. Honestly, this isn't how I pictured myself at the ripe age of 105, but I've elected to see it as the beginning of a final, lasting act to please Mr. Bill.