War of the Roses

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War of the Roses
A down-on-her-luck Dachshund finds her forever home

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We had hadn’t really planned to get another dog. Not that we'd tell her that. But it was one of those things. Rosie’s sweet photo and heart-rending write up of past abuse suffered had us sending a brief email of inquiry and before you knew it, she was ours. It was pre-destined.

Not so sure of this new member of our family was our only-child dog, Esther; Esther Louisa Rose, a Miniature Dachshund of regal temperament and sore back, an old soul of five years with, alas, a spinal cord much better suited to a much older dog. And now, a new dog (though not younger), a shaggy little walking carpet of a Dachshund with a tongue much too long to contain in her small mouth and breath that could strip paint, intruding on her territory with, insult of insults, a shared name—Rose. Oh, the ignominy of it all.

Surprisingly, we’ve all settled in quite nicely. Rosie, my near-constant shadow, follows me from room to room, tail wagging, silly. Esther, mistress of the manor, presides from the largest of the small dog beds, resting her back when not begging cheese, while Rosie opts to either pee on the carpet or venture over to the neighbour’s patio to do her business, where her work will be discovered with displeasure. One dog occasionally tries to hump the other into submission or they eye each other before instigating prematurely aborted overtures of play. Funny little creatures, these two rounding out our motley crew. I marvel—how did we all find one another?—and whisper a greeting of recognition to our newest member: Welcome, little one, you’ve found your way home. We’re so happy you’re here.

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