A SAUSAGE DOG NAMED HERCULES
Style-wise, I’ve never marked myself down as a man who would have much in common with a Parisian housewife. This changed when my wife Emma announced that a dog was lacking in our family life with four children. Not just any dog. A sausage dog. And not just a standard sausage dog. The miniature variety.
‘No way,’ I said immediately. ‘Out of the question.’
For one thing, I already owned a dog. A proper one. Our white German shepherd was often mistaken for a large snow wolf. On walks, she commands respect, from a safe distance. How would people react if they saw me in the company of a 6in-high, elongated hound that you would normally find tied to the railings outside a boutique du coiffure near the Louvre?
Now, I didn’t just roll over when Emma persisted. Instead, she refined her pitch to make it impossible for me to raise an objection.
‘It’ll be my dog,’ she insisted. ‘The children and I will do everything. I’ll even take it to work with me. You won’t have to lift a finger.’
Unwilling to be the kind of father who is blamed by his kids for deprivng them of a happy childhood, I felt I had no choice but to step back from my objections.
Emma opted for a male puppy, though I didn’t think it made much odds with a breed so inherently feminine. In my view, calling the new arrival Hercules failed to make him any manlier. Watching my family dote on the little dog, and deal with all the soft toys and cushions that he went on to shred, I was happy to pretend he didn’t exist.
All that changed shortly afterwards, when my wife was hospitalised for several weeks. Emma had been in a serious accident that left her with a badly burned leg. It left me beside myself with worry, and faced with keeping the family afloat in her absence. At first, Hercules went without a walk. Why? Because frankly I couldn’t face the shame of being seen with him in public.
When I did muster the courage, I slipped out under cover of darkness. Taking the shepherd with us made things more bearable. Then, I felt it was clear that the dachshund couldn’t possibly belong to me. I just looked like a guy with a gender-appropriate dog who also happened to be doing a favour for the woman in his life. It was only as I spent time with Hercules that my self-esteem returned. Then, I began to realise what it was that makes the miniature sausage dog an increasingly popular pet in the UK.
It isn’t just the comedy value, though everyone smiles when we’re out together. This is largely down to the way Hercules walks. A dog of two halves, he paddles along at the front while hopping like a rabbit at the back. Just to liven things up even more, when trotting ahead on a lead, his sheer length makes it impossible for me to break into my standard stride. Not without kicking him up the backside.
The most obvious solution is to take shorter, quicker steps. However, as Hercules is so low-slung and sensitive to the slightest smell on the ground, he also tends to halt, without warning, for a good old sniff . To compensate, I hold the lead with my arm outstretched to maximise the stopping distance between us. Both tactics combine to help me avoid connecting with the dog. It’s just easily mistaken for skipping.
For a dog that looks like he’s been assembled as some kind of divine joke, Hercules has clearly never looked in a mirror. Miniature dachshunds pack more attitude than the kind of raging hellhound you’d normally cross the road to avoid. They just lack the presence to pull it off . Hercules regularly rounds on the postman, who just looks on bemused. Other dogs don’t know what to make of him either. Even the cat regards him with complete indifference. Ultimately, as a threat, the sausage dog personifies Short Man Syndrome.
At the same time, as I discovered to my cost, they’re as loyal as they are loving. In fact, the miniature dachshund is said to bond very closely with its primary carer at a formative time in its development. This became apparent when Emma was discharged from hospital. Hercules was as delighted to see her as the rest of the family. Until, that is, I left the house to fetch her bag from the car. He didn’t just hop off her lap to follow me. He cried and pawed at the front door until I returned. When Emma completed her recuperation and went back to work, it was clear that Hercules had no intention of joining her.
Nowadays, he spends his days at my feet as I write, and won’t let me go anywhere without him. I still feel like a fool as I trip over him in public, but nobody is actually interested in me or my social hang-ups. It’s the sausage dog that brightens their day. And as I’ve come to quietly admit to myself, life would be just too serious without my little wingman.
Walking With Sausage Dogs, by Matt Whyman (Hodder, £8.99).
‘No way,’ I said immediately. ‘Out of the question.’
For one thing, I already owned a dog. A proper one. Our white German shepherd was often mistaken for a large snow wolf. On walks, she commands respect, from a safe distance. How would people react if they saw me in the company of a 6in-high, elongated hound that you would normally find tied to the railings outside a boutique du coiffure near the Louvre?
Now, I didn’t just roll over when Emma persisted. Instead, she refined her pitch to make it impossible for me to raise an objection.
Unwilling to be the kind of father who is blamed by his kids for deprivng them of a happy childhood, I felt I had no choice but to step back from my objections.
Emma opted for a male puppy, though I didn’t think it made much odds with a breed so inherently feminine. In my view, calling the new arrival Hercules failed to make him any manlier. Watching my family dote on the little dog, and deal with all the soft toys and cushions that he went on to shred, I was happy to pretend he didn’t exist.
All that changed shortly afterwards, when my wife was hospitalised for several weeks. Emma had been in a serious accident that left her with a badly burned leg. It left me beside myself with worry, and faced with keeping the family afloat in her absence. At first, Hercules went without a walk. Why? Because frankly I couldn’t face the shame of being seen with him in public.
When I did muster the courage, I slipped out under cover of darkness. Taking the shepherd with us made things more bearable. Then, I felt it was clear that the dachshund couldn’t possibly belong to me. I just looked like a guy with a gender-appropriate dog who also happened to be doing a favour for the woman in his life. It was only as I spent time with Hercules that my self-esteem returned. Then, I began to realise what it was that makes the miniature sausage dog an increasingly popular pet in the UK.
It isn’t just the comedy value, though everyone smiles when we’re out together. This is largely down to the way Hercules walks. A dog of two halves, he paddles along at the front while hopping like a rabbit at the back. Just to liven things up even more, when trotting ahead on a lead, his sheer length makes it impossible for me to break into my standard stride. Not without kicking him up the backside.
For a dog that looks like he’s been assembled as some kind of divine joke, Hercules has clearly never looked in a mirror. Miniature dachshunds pack more attitude than the kind of raging hellhound you’d normally cross the road to avoid. They just lack the presence to pull it off . Hercules regularly rounds on the postman, who just looks on bemused. Other dogs don’t know what to make of him either. Even the cat regards him with complete indifference. Ultimately, as a threat, the sausage dog personifies Short Man Syndrome.
At the same time, as I discovered to my cost, they’re as loyal as they are loving. In fact, the miniature dachshund is said to bond very closely with its primary carer at a formative time in its development. This became apparent when Emma was discharged from hospital. Hercules was as delighted to see her as the rest of the family. Until, that is, I left the house to fetch her bag from the car. He didn’t just hop off her lap to follow me. He cried and pawed at the front door until I returned. When Emma completed her recuperation and went back to work, it was clear that Hercules had no intention of joining her.
Nowadays, he spends his days at my feet as I write, and won’t let me go anywhere without him. I still feel like a fool as I trip over him in public, but nobody is actually interested in me or my social hang-ups. It’s the sausage dog that brightens their day. And as I’ve come to quietly admit to myself, life would be just too serious without my little wingman.
Walking With Sausage Dogs, by Matt Whyman (Hodder, £8.99).