Shiloh

Last night, while reading The Economist, I came across an article that made me smile. It was about dachshund races in various parts of the country. I have seen a dachshund race on television and, no worries, they are not at all like those horrible greyhound races. They are usually small family events and are just meant for fun, as evidenced by the dogs themselves. It is not unusual for some of the dogs to simply wander about when the starting announcement is made, making for a hilarious spectacle. However, some of them do tear down the lawn like their tails are on fire and the author was right when he wrote that "A wiener dog at full throttle, flying down the lane with his ears inside out and tongue flapping, is a sight worth seeing."
This article made me think of my own dachshund, Shiloh. Well, she wasn't just mine, she was the family dog, but since she was the only family member I liked, I thought of her as mine alone. Actually, "like" is the wrong word. I worshipped that dog. First, she was the prettiest little dog I had ever seen. She was supposed to be a miniature short-haired but she grew to become what I would call a mid-sized compact. She was quite a character. She enjoyed a run herself and she would participate in her own single-participant races along the backyard fence. Fortunately, my parents have a very large yard, so she had a good track to work with. At some point in her life, she had determined that birds were a threat to the family and she often stood guard on the deck, ready to scare away the enemy. If you yelled at her for making such an unnecessary ruckus, she would give you a very indignant look, as though she was informing you of what an ungrateful creature you were. Then she would flip over to sun her belly. Also, she liked to clean us. Of course, my family and I shower regularly, but it seemed we were never clean enough for her. At every opportunity, she would pick a face or a limb to endlessly lick. In my case, she inexplicably found my forearms and feet to be an offense to her delicate sensibilities, and she personally saw to it that they became fit for polite company, i.e., her.
She adored my father, but judged every other man to be some sort of deviant. When I would walk her, I would have to remind her to "be social" whenever we passed a human male. Curiously, she understood that command, and would then just eye them suspiciously. It's probably a good thing that our mail person was a woman.
She snored like a sailor and I adored her. She was put to sleep in September, 2005, when the vet found that she had a tumor that could not be removed. My chest hurt for more than nine months. Up to that point, I had not yet experienced the loss of someone, or something, I loved. Even though Shiloh was just a funny little dog, I still miss her today. I truly hope I never have to feel that pain again.