Guest Post!

By: Oscar the wiener dog

When Steve asked me to write this guest blog, I was hesitant at first. I’m not in the habit of writing more than a few words at a time for my twitter persona (@oscardelawiener), because being a dog, typing can be tricky. Most keyboards aren’t set up for paws, let alone paws as little as mine are—although I am pretty good at the long bar that makes a space. You would have thought that by now, someone would have invented a suitable canine letter-board for us to step on, but it just confirms what I have thought all along: humans don’t really want to hear what we dogs have to say.

Please forgive me if this tone isn’t what you’re used to reading from this blog. I consider myself a pretty funny dachshund and wouldn’t mind keeping things light. I know Steve probably just writes about things that I’m always hearing from him. Let me guess; you hear lots of blogs on topics like: “Potty Outside,” “No! Drop it!” or “Who’s poop is this?” Yeah, I imagine you do. Sometimes I feel like that’s all he knows how to talk about.

I don’t mean to say Steve is a total jerk. He very well might be to humans, if that’s all he talks to you about, but he has his good moments too. Would it surprise you to know that Steve sometimes tosses me an extra piece of his scrambled eggs sometimes or an occasional marshmallow? Well he does. Could he drop a little more? Yes he could, and I strongly encourage him to do so, but the point is, he’s not the cold hearted bastard that all of you think he is. Sometimes he’s very sweet.

I’m getting older now and in my golden years. It’s about time my story gets told. This blog will be a good exercise for me as I start my memoirs.

Here’s how I imagine the book would look like:

The Autobiography of Oscar Damm: The View From Five Inches Off The Ground

By Oscar Damm (with Irving Manchester)

Acknowledgements: Wendy, Steve, Gracie and the boy. Thanks to the music of Chopin for getting me through hours of writer’s block and the geniuses at Pup-Peroni for all they do.

Chapter 1: Everything

It sucks.

The End

About the Author:

Oscar divides his time between two gigantic houses in Washington State and Kansas. He lives with his family and Gracie the wiener dog. He enjoys eating and napping and will always regret being neutered.

I’ve never been one for flowery prose or fluff. I figured that book will say everything I want to convey. The word “it” meaning everything I have experienced and the word “sucks” meaning how everything generally turns out. I’ve already said too much.

I don’t see why I should go to all the lengths necessary to explain what it is like going through life with the challenges I have. I’m not the alpha dog in the house. So what? Yes, there have been times when I’m embarrassed by my lisp. I live every day of my life with a dangerous addiction to green bean casserole. Like we say in our meetings, we take it one food-oriented-religious-holiday at a time.

I didn’t always live with Steve. Oh, didn’t he tell you that? I’m adopted. Gracie came from a respectable breeder and knew her mom until she was passed on to her new one, Wendy. As I understand it, they had a lovely year together just as the three of them. To hear Gracie tell it, you’d think that she preferred life that way. She makes it sound like all the laughter stopped when I joined the family.

When I was adopted out of the dachshund rescue program to the Damm family, I asked that my history be changed. No family would have touched me with the kind of rap sheet I had rung up. You see, in the year or so before I met the Damms, I was living a life of crime with my owners as professional bank robbers.

I’m not proud of it. Sure, I could blame my actions on youthful, puppy energy, but the truth was that I knew what I was doing, and I liked the thrill. Ultimately, I think the arresting officers couldn’t believe that a dog my size could have been part of the crimes I was involved with and that made it easier for me to get away. It’s hard to think about that time and not be ashamed.

Here’s how most of the heists would work: I would find a way into the bank through the front door. I would limp to the center of the floor gathering as much attention as possible, then fall over on my side like I was having a seizure (I still do this sometimes when I feel like I’m not getting enough attention or to make Gracie mad). Everyone, and I mean everyone in the bank would come out to help me, leaving the counter and silent alarms unattended. Bingo! Lisa and Amber would run in with the gun and tie everyone together in the middle of the room. Lisa covered the crowd and Amber worked the cash drawers. We never messed with the vault, stuck to the plan and got away with a load of cash every time… almost every time.

We lived fast from town to town, avoiding towns with feds and stuck to areas that didn’t ask many questions. I was spoiled. I had the best treats and the fluffiest toys. Amber and Lisa let me do whatever I pleased yet took very good care of me. They had chosen me BECAUSE I was the runt of the litter. They would tell me over and over that they knew what it was like to be treated as outcasts and that the three of us were going to show the world that THESE two ladies and their wiener dog lived by our own set of rules and heaven help anyone that got in our way.

My last day with them, I could tell something was a little off. The bank didn’t seem right. Nothing seemed right. An off duty police officer standing at the counter made me from the police sketches and my tell-tale bald patch on my right side. I caught his eye and froze.

Lisa and Amber walked in behind me much earlier than usual and the police officer turned and saw them too. I could hear my heartbeat through my chest as the world became a slow motion blur. The off-duty cop signaled the guard at the door and pressed the silent alarm behind the counter. He yelled, “Stop!” to Lisa and Amber but they just kept coming.

I barked a warning to them to run away, leave me and come find me at the shelter later, to save themselves. They didn’t understand, or maybe didn’t WANT to understand. My tail had tucked completely between my legs and my eyes grew large in their sockets as I saw Amber leap towards me and Lisa reach for the gun. Lisa’s single-shot flintlock buccaneer style pistol was no match for the modern handgun the Police officer carried. It was an impractical choice for bank robbery, but Lisa said it made her feel like a true outlaw… a pirate. As Lisa lay wounded on the floor, Amber had made it to me and was sobbing a gentle goodbye. We both knew this was the end and the law would never let us be together.

Lisa and Amber were arrested and sentenced to thirty years in a medium security prison. You know? I was supposed to break them out if I got free. Oops.

I promised myself two things that day: I would never rob another bank and I would stop wearing my tiny bowler hat.

I came to live with Steve and Wendy about two weeks later. Those two weeks were awful and by the time I met Steve, I literally would have gone home with anybody. You would go home with anyone else too, if the people you were staying with stole YOUR testicles.

Steve and Wendy treated me very well. I hardly thought about my old life as a bank robber (hence the fact that my former owners are still locked in the clink). They gave me plenty of food and some very nice blankets to sleep on. They always take me on adventures, sometimes to the beach (Yay!) and sometimes to the vet (the opposite of yay).

Gracie is good company sometimes, but just because we’re both brown dachshunds, it doesn’t mean we’re just going to be best friends. Instead, we’re kind of stuck in a state that most resembles the second act of a buddy cop movie. We are two opposites thrown together by the captain because he doesn’t know what to do with us. Our personalities clash but we are starting to realize the importance of the other. Gracie and I have never really gotten to the third act where my daughter’s character is kidnapped by drug lords and Gracie has to fight Gary Busey on a wet lawn… That about sums it up. I’m getting too old for this.

I’m about done with this guest post, and the keyboard is pretty slimy from me poking my nose on it. It’s very gross. But
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention a couple wiener dog master peeves (yeah I said it, “MASTER peeves”)

I can’t tell you how many times I have been stepped on by a human. It hurts. Would it kill you to look down once in a while? I’m standing by you because you either have food, or I’m scared. Take it as a compliment and don’t tread on my tiny paws.

I don’t have thumbs. I can’t get some things for myself, you’re going to have to be a little more attentive or put items closer to the ground.

Yes, oddly enough I do prefer what you’re eating to the dried up survival pellets you feed me. I know you buy “better” food than “normal”, but it’s still terrible compared to those breakfast burritos I see you make. You know what? It’s terrible compared to EVERYTHING you eat. Share. Everything. Always. Do you remember that embarrassing day where you caught me eating my poop in the backyard? Well, that’s because I can’t tell the difference between THAT and what you feed me. I know it’s disgusting. Fix it.

Steve, you need to scoop the yard more often. If you expect me to use the yard as my toilet, you need to either clean it more, or make it flushable for Gracie and me.

Steve, your sister Somer needs to visit more. She is kind, shares food and can match me nap for nap. She is delightful in every way. Make it happen.

Enough with the fat jokes already. You know I have an enflamed liver. It’s not funny.

I’m not going to do tricks for treats. Look at that last sentence. I’m not a prostitute. I always deserve the treat. I have yet to see any of you roll over in order to eat desserts and I’m not going to either. It’s a principle. If you need a reason to give me a treat, remember that I DIDN’T bite your face last night while you slept. It’s always a possibility. Treats, randomly and often please.

Now the vet tells me that I have Cushing’s Disease. They say it makes me hungry and have to pee all the time. Well, I have always been this hungry and have always had to pee. Maybe Cushing’s just makes me less polite. But thank you for getting the meds for me, they are delicious.

I take pills now and have a cream that they squirt in my eye every day. So this is what getting old is like?

And Steve, I know you’re worried about me passing away soon. I know you asked me to write this guest post as a way to learn more about me before I depart. I just want to tell you that we have some time left buddy. I can’t chase the ball as well as I used to, but I still enjoy watching you throw it for me and then you going to get it yourself when I don’t. It amuses me.

You and Wendy don’t have to worry about me. I’m tough, and I will last longer than you think. Let’s just spend more time together doing what I like most: napping and eating. Who knows, maybe I’ll teach you a thing or two about life.

Looks like this post got heavy toward the end. I didn’t mean to drag all you readers into Steve’s and my personal stuff, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to hold my nose on the delete key long enough to delete any of it.

If you ever see me in the real world, remember I don’t mind having a gentle scratch behind the ears. Don’t ask me about my bald patch. Please come say hi. I love people, some of my best friends are people (that’s not species-ist). Definitely come say hi if you plan to share a bite of your food, you will never be turned away by Oscar the wiener dog, and that’s the dog Damm truth.