An unexpected turn of events: my parents' breeder requested they take their dachshund puppy this past Sunday. The latter was supposed to occur after my departure from the Canadian prairies back to the American mountains.
Naturally, I'm ecstatic.
I'm covered in puppy kisses and bite marks from head to toe.
This is a little distracting from all the work I brought with me, but, but, but....that distinct new-puppy smell!
Pelagea (Polly) was a bit perplexed, however:
"I didn't know I had a son...of a different breed."
Polly lost her friend, Sharikov, a black and tan dachshund, seven months ago. Sharikov was a dog I adopted as an adult, but my parents eventually took him in, since I had dissertation-related travel obligations.
Two years ago, when Polly was herself a baby, the story was reversed: