A Letter From The Editor
Best Antidepressant Ever
T
4
he final days of August and the
early part of September were
awful. Two dear, longtime friends
died. We were broken-hearted.
Then, our 15-year-old Jack Russell/
Dachshund mix died just before her
16 th birthday, and three weeks later,
our other Jack Russell/Dachshund
died. Our remaining dog Hazmat
(our French, Wire-Haired, Pointing
Griffon) went into a huge depression
and stopped eating. We were afraid
we would lose him too.
Then, Steven, my permanent
boyfriend, got sick and for a while
we couldn’t figure out what was
wrong with him. It was disconcerting,
to say the least. I began shopping for
black dresses.
Everyone could see how sad I
was, and a lot of our friends began
looking for dogs for us. Some of them
even found a Vietnamese pot-bellied
pig. It was a great pig that somehow
had ended up at the Weatherford/
Parker County Animal Shelter. She
was all white and pink and talkative.
You have to bid on shelter pigs
online. I did that, but somehow the
process was a bit complicated for my
simple writer brain. I was outbid by
$1. Really? $1. Urgh!
A friend took me to the animal
shelter to search for a new dog. I
met with several dogs and none of
them seemed to actually like me. The
exception was a “ginormous” black
puppy that seemed to be half pit bull
and half moose. He was adorable. He
was adopted by someone else while I
contemplated whether or not I should
adopt a dog that was taller than I am
and outweighed me.
A dear friend helped me through
the process of applying to adopt a
dog from a Dachshund rescue. I had
once looked into adopting a child.
The process was far less rigorous than
adopting a Dachshund from these
folks — but I understand their think-
ing.
I had been approved — except for
the home inspection. They only had
so many home inspectors. I thought
about remodeling. Meanwhile, the
dog I was interested in was adopted
out to someone else. Then the next
one I selected went and then the
next.
At the magazine, we were on
deadline and Steven works long, long
hours at night (it’s apparently easier
to create beautiful magazine
images when you don’t have a
gaggle of women staffers chattering at
you). I’d go home to a silent, empty,
dogless house that reminded me of
how much I missed my adorable
Jack-o-Weenies. Hazmat stayed with
Steven at the office. That’s his job.
I was in a funk. I caught myself
watching “Dirty Dancing” on HBO
and eating potato chips and wonder-
ing, “How is it that everyone in
that last scene knew how to do that
dance?”
I was blue.
Then, I received a text message
from the wonderful Jenni Day, my
dear friend from Parker County Pets
Alive. It included a picture of two
puppies with a caption, “9-week-old
Chiweenie Puppies.” They were tiny
and adorable.
Jenni got a number so I could call
the people who were fostering them
and of course I called it.
A sweet lady answered the phone.
It took a few seconds before we
became fast friends. Seems her neigh-
bor bought a Dachshund with the
intent of raising more Dachshunds,
but somehow a fence-jumper hurled
himself into the intended mother-to-
be’s life. Soon she was “expecting,”
and nobody knew who or what the
father was. Her owner tossed her
out on her tail. The sweet lady and
her husband took the Dachshund
in and saw her through the birth of
her 7-piece litter. The family found
homes for all but a male and female
— the two Jenni sent pictures of.
The sweet lady on the phone
asked, “Do you want a girl or a boy?”
I said, “Yes.”
We arranged to meet at her
home, but the directions were a little
complicated. We decided to meet at
the Wal-Mart in Eastland.
Steven had already made plans to
go on a fishing trip out in the general
area.
“I’ll meet you all out there in case
these people turn out to be danger-
ous,” he said, gallantly.
“Dangerous?” I said. “They’re the
nicest people ever.”
“How do you know?” he said,
ever the skeptic. “Do we want the
boy or the girl?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Do we need two dogs?” he said.
“Do we need any dogs?” I said.
“We probably don’t, but I want both
of them. Up to you, though.”
“I don’t think we need two more
dogs,” he said.
Saturday rolled around and I
headed to Eastland. I was about 15
minutes away when Steven called
me. “I found them,” he said.
“Are they the nicest people ever?”
I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “I knew they
would be. I just wanted to check on
something. Is that little pink crate big
enough for both these puppies?”
We now have both puppies. They
are pretty much house broken, with a
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