My dog has an Oedipal Complex

But only in that she continues to gouge out eyes. I think the pics I've posted say it all.




Note the progression:
Sleepy Wiggles -- Fierce Wiggles -- Unfortunate Baby Seal (note the eyes laid out to the side) -- Creepy Faceless Baby Seal -- Exhausted Wiggles.

"Operation...you're the doctor! Operation...you're the doctor...collecting all your pay!"

In my never-ending quest to be a real looker, I sometimes have to sleep with one of those clear plastic mouthpieces. I'm a world-class teeth-grinder/jaw-clencher/crown-breaker who likes to drive her husband wild making sucking sounds through a plastic mound of hotness.

So last night, on the verge of a major headache, I popped it in and slurped off to dreamland. I awoke in the night to a horrifying feeling. The feeling of a rough little tongue slapping my nose. The feeling of a wet little nose bracing itself against my cheek, trying to drag out my mouth-guard.

Ew.

I jumped three feet in the air and Wigglepuppy ran off, her thievery thwarted. After rinsing and retiring the mouthpiece for the rest of night, I got to thinking: was my squeal the equivalent of Cavity Sam's buzzing red nose? Am I the marauding dachshund's answer to an Operation game? If my funny bone goes missing, I'll let you know.

The Silliest Catch

So there we were--Wigglepuppy, Chewie, and I--enjoying a sun-dappled May afternoon, walking down by the duck pond. Now, my fearless hunter of a wiener dog is usually mildly interested in duckies, but this afternoon both she and her aloof sister nearly pulled us all into the water when they saw a wee little duckling hanging out just offshore. Before I knew what was happening I became a marionette-ist of death, the mastermind at the end of two strings holding furry little menaces who were, literally, licking the duckling. To the duckling's credit, he held his own. He held very still while they licked and I wrestled them away, then turned and said "Eep." I believe that's duck for "kiss my downy ass."

I was about to take Duck Bullies One and Two home, when I realized that while the duckling was getting a tongue bath, he'd gotten separated from his mom and sibs. We were responsible for the disintegration of a duck family. We orphaned a duckie. I'm pretty sure that's a cardinal sin [being that it involves a bird and all]. I decided I had to right this wrong and rescue the duckling. So, in a fit of genius, I looped Wiggles' and Chewie's leashes around a nearby tree and went to scoop up the duckling and return it to its brood (passel? murder? unkindness? pack?...what is a bunch of ducks called?).

It only took a minute and three rounds of "heeeeeere, duckie, duckie, duckie!" before I had a handful of duck. I stopped to giggle about having a bird in the hand and made a beeline for the Mama Duck. I felt like a hero one minute and a beast the next; I started to wonder if I'd made a terrible mistake. Would the duckling smell all person-y and be rejected by its family? Would I have to take the duckling home and raise him as a dog? Would he ask me one day why he looked different from the other kids and, upon hearing my sheepish confession, scream "You're not my real mom!" and leave me behind, shattered and duck-free? And what do ducks eat, anyway? I hope it's weight control oatmeal, because that's all I have in the house right now.

I was so wrapped up in my duck-fretting that I walked right past the duckling's anxious family. Ever heard a half-dozen ducks shriek before? It's totally creepy. So, I about-faced and set the duckling down in the water, murmured an apology to it and the mother and ran like Hell (ducks bite, you know, and Ma Duck looked none too pleased). Once I got to a safe distance I watched him paddle away with his family. I will be a legend in Duckland, I mused. A hero of the fowl-est ilk.

Feeling like a nature show bad-ass, I turned back to my puppies. Chewie--normally deadpan and bemused--was jumping up and down by the tree, pointing to the pond. Wiggles...where the f@#& was Wiggles?!?!

Naturally, she was swimming out to visit the duckies, still tethered to the sugar maple.

I tried to reel Wiggles back to shore--freaking retractable leashes--but I realized I was pulling on the wrong string. I'd managed to wrap Chewie around my ankles, but my wiener dog was still bobbing in the pond like a ridiculous little buoy (although she's a girl *rim shot*). I went all Kris Kristofferson in Blade 2--"You're not gonna die on me!!!"--and started tying the leashes in a big unintentional knot. Finally, I found the right string and began to slowly pull Wiggles ashore. All the while, my genius puppy was straining to visit the duckies. When I finally wrestled her out of the pond, she turned to me, slick and happy, and licked my nose.

"Call me Ishmael," I said.
"You're a self-important dork," Wiggles replied.

And then we all went home, duck-less and soaked. I have since mounted Wiggles on a wooden plaque above my mantle.

Old-Timey Wiggles

On my way to drop off a friend at her place we passed some happy neighbors walking a pair of dachshund. Naturally, my response was measured and safe: I squealed and swerved, nearly missing a sign for SteelCankers Seashore Mill or whichever development it is. Now, a pair of wiener dogs--*giggle* the first three times I typed that it came out "wiener gods"--is enough to stop me in my tracks, but this was so much more. One of the puppies looked just like my wiener dog, Wiggles--same spots, same disoriented swagger, same curly ears--except without her rusty, golden brown coloring. This doppelwiener was black and white. It was the old timey version of my wiener dog.

I envisioned my puppy's low-riding ancestor trotting back to a house in that exaggerated Steamboat Willy-way leaping through saloon-style dog doors. In Old Timey Wiggles' house, a player piano runs non-stop and men in fedoras roll barrels of liquor past scarlet women. Somehow, in my brain, the doppelwiener lives in a bizarre hybrid of Capone's Chicago and the Old West. I see her as the kid in the news cap who pushes pencils during the day and keeps watch for illegal craps rings at night. I'm just grateful that my own Technicolor Wiggles never took the road to perdition that her ancestors did.

BLOGGER'S NOTE: Many of you (okay, one) have called me on my spelling of wiener, preferring the more attractive "weiner." I looked it up, though, and mine is the original spelling...your (okay, her) spelling is the lazy man's answer. It's similar to people getting so sick of people refusing to use the proper, awkward-sounding past tenses like hanged or sneaked...now "hung" and "snuck" are acceptable. Where does it stop, people?!?!

Red Wiener

No, no one has an STD. (By the way: I think we should reinvigorate the term "a social disease." Who's with me???)

I now have further evidence that my wiggly, giggly, bright-eyed dachshund is harboring dark secrets. Making my umpteenth caffeine run to the fridge, I came across something shiny on the floor. After leaping a foot before concluding it wasn't a spider--not that that would bother me--I figured it was a button. But when I picked it up, my blood ran cold. It was an eye.

If you're a bean bag, plush, or otherwise innocent toy within a 100-mile radius of our house and you're missing an eye, chances are we have it. In fact, had I started a plastic eye jar when Wigglepuppy's reign of terror began, I'm confident I would have six times as many eyes as Wiggles has ever had toys. But here's the creepy icing on the creepy cake: the eyes never, ever have a mate.

When Wiggles gets a toy that toy is hemorrhaging poly-puff filling within a day. Two days if she wants it to suffer. She chews and digs and plucks, ignoring any squeaks for help. Then she spits one eye out for me to find/step on/get freaked out by and keeps the other in some dastardly dachshund lair. Maybe she's worried her own eyes will fail her and she'll need a spare. Maybe she's been sneaking my Thomas Harris paperbacks and fancies herself the Red Dragon. Or maybe, just maybe, she doesn't know what to do with second eyes...yet. And that gives me the heebiest-of-jeebies of all.

Just to be safe, I sleep in goggles. Maybe you should, too.

Neo-Wiener: My Dog Has Unlocked The Matrix

I have a long-haired, dappled, mini-Dachshund named Wigglepuppy. She loves people, Doritos, and socks. Oh, and she may "lead the humans to overthrow the machines and reclaim the Earth."

I have reason to believe that my wiener dog is the key to The Matrix.

We have a fenced-in backyard and when Wiggles was wee she could pull a Grinch, flattening herself to the point where she could slither underneath the fence. If we turned our backs for a minute, there'd be a knock at the door and an amused-looking neighbor would hand over the wriggling fugitive. Before long, though, Wiggles grew up, eventually topping out at a gargantuan 9-1/2 pounds. A few nose-pokes through the slats and she concluded she was now too big to squeeze through. So she ditched the Houdini bit and life went on. We could even leave the patio door cracked so she could run around during the day. Ours was a relationship of trust and freedom.

Then one day, after pulling in to the driveway after work, I opened the car door and a furry little creature lept into my lap. After calming down--it wasn't a renegade, monstrous squirrel after all--I asked Wiggles how in the world she got out of the backyard. Looking two-parts Max from The Grinch Who Stole Christmas and one part Odie, she simply tilted her head, licked my nose, and told me I wouldn't understand.

I, then, confronted her older sister, a reserved Ewok-alike Lhasa Apso named Chewie. I demanded answers, but Wiggles had obviously already gotten to her. No dice.

So I pointedly marched out to the backyard and blocked any area where the ground sloped even slightly under the fence. I filled in a few gaps with dirt and gave Wiggles a satisfied look. She wagged, tongue lolling with delight. And deceit. Because she escaped the very next day.

My husband and I scoured the backyard. There was no way she was getting through or under any part of that fence. We concluded that gate must've blown open and shut. There was no other explanation.

Until the day Wigglepuppy tore a hole in the space-time continuum and busted out yet again. We were leaving the house one lazy Saturday and our sweet, elderly neighbors told us that Wiggles had escaped the day before. It had been balmy that afternoon and I was coming right back, so I'd left the patio door open. I mean, the yard is totally fenced in, after all.

Apparently, when our neighbors saw a wiener dog dart across their backyard, they tried to coax her back home. Wiggles' greatest pleasure in life is flattening herself--hiding in plain sight--waiting until you get *this* close to her and taking off like she's on fire. So, they chased her for awhile and she ran in tiny circles, laughing all the way. Then she was gone. When our neighbors went to our front door to let us know we had a dog on the run, they were greeted by a beaming, fuzzy face on the other side of the glass. Wigglepuppy was back in the living room, nary a hair out of place. No panting. No mercy.

I checked the backyard one last time. No open gates, no broken slats, no holes, no tunnels. My wiener dog can trot through wrinkles in time. My wiener dog is The One.

I can only hope that Chewie doesn't turn out to be a Highlander.