Walking those wiener dogs

Photo by chrisnichols on flickr

It's official: Julian took his first steps over Thanksgiving weekend. He's up to 3-4 max, but hey, we all gotta start somewhere. He shuffles his little feet a few inches forward, then pauses, musters the confidence to do the same with the opposite foot. This is the point when he usually falls on his behind, but a few times he's stuck with it and continued on. He's been crawling for months now and we thought his steps would come a little earlier, but no complaints here. He's quick enough as it is; I imagine we're entering an entire new phase of the chase-me game. His favorite hiding spot of the moment is the bathroom. He loves the hard floor and standing up beside the toilet or bath, knocking over whatever shower products he can reach. Don't even get me started on how much he loves trash cans.

So, "walking" might be a bit of a jump, but that's around the corner. He's also learned how to throw a fit. He stood up and squealed loudly ("Gimme, gimme" I swear it sounded like) and violently shook his hands. It was so cute, I couldn't help but laugh. Let's hope I can always take his fits so lightheartedly.

He's eating like a champ lately. The only thing we're holding off on feeding him are raw nuts, milk for drinking and honey. Or at least that's all I can think of. No reaction so far to the peanut butter or eggs he's been devouring at breakfast. (I don't know what I would do without the peanut butter tortilla roll that is now his favorite snack.) He stuffed his little face at Thanksgiving. Right there at the table. Turkey, stuffing, green bean casserole. Oh and the pumpkin pie and ham, which he could not get enough of. Gluttonous little dachshund, he is.

What a perfect segway to a little story about GaGa. My grandmother (who is actually GaGa No. 2. GaGa No. 1 was her mother. No you get an idea of where YaYa comes from...) has a thing for dachshunds. She and my grandfather, PaPa (see the pattern?), in addition to raising four kids (when you include Fernando, the Ecuadorian exchange student who lived with them in high school and who is like another uncle to me and Chelsea), they had like 5 dachshunds. One after the other, they all either died or got hit by cars on quaint little Pleasant Street in Aurora. After the last one died many years ago, GaGa vowed never to get another dachshund again because she couldn't stand the heartbreak of losing another.

So she collected them instead. Porcelain miniatures make up the majority of the 100+ litter that Chelsea and I used to carefully dust and rearrange whenever we'd visit, but there are also corn cob holder, glass and clay dachshunds in the mix. Playing ones, sleeping ones, red ones, black ones, long haired and short. They kept her company for years, even through PaPa's death. About 10 years ago, she finally gave in. A neglected runt needed a home, so she took her in. Daisy was a high-maintenance mutt who brought a zest to the house my mother grew up in. Then along came Chloe, an overweight wiener dog whom GaGa was charged to babysit but who never ended up going back home.

There's just Chloe now. The heartbreak of losing a pet came in full force when GaGa had to put Daisy down not too long ago after years of battling various strange pet illnesses, not to mention Daisy's inability to keep from urinating all over the house. Chloe is getting her turn as princess of the house.

My grandmother is such a good caregiver. She's too humble to admit it, but it's probably what she will be most remembered for. By her children, her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, the little old ladies she visits every day and takes to church on Sunday. And, not the least of all, her dachshunds, both figurine and real.