Years of wheedling and unsubtle hints finally bore fruit last summer when The Man Of The House caved in and agreed to get a puppy. I wanted a dachshund, a shiny black and tan companion who would romp in the yard with the kids and snooze at my feet in the evening. Dachshunds, you see, are the perfect breed for someone who wants a smallish, low-shed canine who isn't a yappy lap dog but is also unlikely to eat the neighbor's cat.
And I got exactly what I asked for - her name is Sarah Marie and she is a classic standard dachshund, with a long ebony frame and I adore her.
Except right now. She is under my bedroom window, barking herself hoarse over heaven-knows-what and driving us nuts. The icing on the cake is listening to Jamie shouting, "HUSH, SARAH!" at the top of his lungs.
I feel certain the neighbors are not amused.
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