Inglorious Bassets

Things one retrieves from a baby dachshund’s mouth: branches, leaves, tennis balls, thread, your other dog’s ears…

Obviously, this is not a basset hound. However, both dachshunds and bassets can be categorized as Glorious Long Dogs. So I made a separate tumblr focused on this subject called Inglorious Bassets (and Other Long Dogs) featuring my photography (and an occasional illustration).

Follow me, but only if you like cute things.

Roediger's Birthday

My little ray of sunshine in a sea of darkness, my slobbering, deer-chasing polyglot, my perpetually howling Russo-Germanic aristocrat, my wrinkly stress relief turns two years old today! 

To celebrate, we went to a local pet shop to select a new squeaky toy destined for annihilation (naturally, it had to be the abominable snowman of the Northwest!) and delicious treats. (I settled for some chocolate.)

The festivities were slightly dampened by the fact that Roediger got smacked in the face by a devious cat (aren't they all?) perched up on a bench in the store. Yet all was quickly forgotten when we found several deer on a long walk that followed.

And now--well-deserved sleep while cuddling with the green yeti. 

Sans Titre

One particularly worthwhile aspect of travel involves the realization of what you miss the most when you're away. Family? Friends? Your own bed? 

Sometimes, it is things.

Funny, surprising things.

Today, I ran into Harrods here in London to get...SOUR GREEN APPLES (and tea)!  

And, of course, for me, it is dogs--those adorable parasitic creatures that share our homes (more like, let us live there), paying us back with humor and stress relief. And love.

It takes about two days to begin approaching every single canine in my vicinity (naturally, ignoring their owners--all "dog people" do this!). Since large cities primarily have smaller breeds, let's just say that no itty-bitty dachshund was safe! ;)

 

Where Wolf Howls Can be Heard

Earlier in the week, Roediger, the aristocratic basset (despite the drool!), and I climbed to the top of the world, though it wasn't even the top of the mountain. The valley below--in baby-blue pastels--along with shorter peaks creates that impression, as does the sheer feeling of ascent. 

And it is where the basset stands that we heard afternoon wolf howls on a number of occasions, but only in the winter. They'd come from all directions, north and south, above and below, eerie and awe-inspiring. Unable to differentiate between responses and echoes, we felt disoriented and, for once, I was glad not to be concealed in the blue snow shadows cast by the Moon.

And on a different (inappropriately dressed!) hike, I stand not too far from a deer carcass, that very "natural vanitas," which I photographed a few weeks ago. The wolves were here too, as the deer was dismembered by them, tossing its skull several feet away.

 

in the woods sep 2013 750 px.jpg

The latter now rests surrounded by Autumn's unchallenged advance.

And I?  I secretly hope that no one takes it, so that I could photograph it again, at a different turn of Nature's cycle.

Soccer Polly

This afternoon, I played a strange mix of soccer, handball (more like hand-and-dog's-mouth-ball), and fetch with Polly in the rain.

It felt like autumn. 

Tongue out, and basset ears flapping, Polly was quite resilient. As the game continued, the following rhyme manifested itself in my mind:

Polly plays soccer really slowly.
At times, she's a striker, at times--a goalie.
Her basset howl is loudest of all,
As she runs chasing that tennis ball!

This is not the first time the clumsy and lovable red beast inspired spontaneous (kids') poetry or stories in me. I just hope that some day, out of this collection emerges enough decent material for a children's book. 

Writing and illustrating one of my own has been a dream for about ten years. But, you know, work, college, work, Master's, work, work, work, PhD, work, work...

A Pawed Surprise!

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:

Prairie Polly

Despite my earlier threats, I did not spend Friday's afternoon photographing rolled and sunlit hay bales against the backdrop of an endless prairie sky (or something just as stereotypical).

I did capture something equally idyllic--my parents' basset hound, Pelagea (Polly), and spent a bit of time at a provincial park here, in the very center of the continent.

Polly is an untamed beast much like any other red-haired woman!

She was my surprise gift for my mom two years ago, after our first family dog had passed away. She was also the sister of my first basset hound, whom I lost at mere six months of age due to an unforeseen health condition. This remains a rather painful subject to discuss.

It suffices to say that I feel an additional connection with this clumsy and outgoing dog who greets me with hysterical barking whenever I fly in for a visit.

And even if that weren't the case, how could you not fall in love at first sight with those endearing basset wrinkles?