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Brock: My wife’s dachshund dog, Pressley

Admitting you own a dachshund is not an easy thing for a man to do, so I have always told folks Pressley is my wife’s dog. I am quick to tell folks that I own Griff, a Wirehaired Pointing Griffon bird dog ugly enough and pretty stupid, but an acceptable masculine working hound. You would think dachshunds — and especially the miniature version — would suffer from low self-esteem, going through life after all being called a wiener dog and laughed at by everyone. Nothing could be further from the truth, and maybe it is because they go through life with the wiener dog label that they have to be aggressive and uncompromising.

Much like a cat, nobody really owns a dachshund, because they own you and such is the case of our 12-pound miniature hound. The moment he stepped into our house as a tea cup size puppy he set about letting all of us know who was in charge, especially Griff. Pressley fears no dog and not much else. The bigger the dog the quicker he is to start growling, and doesn’t seem to consider dogs his own size worthy of a fight. Nothing is as unnerving when walking a wiener dog in the park who decides to challenge a pit bull.

Pressley has lots of duties that he takes very seriously. Topping the list is supervising the two old people and bird dog who share his home. He also considers the cul-de-sac where we live as his domain and spends his time awake perched on his chair, staring out the window for the next person or animal to cross his view. His barks warn creatures foolish enough to do so that their life would be in serious jeopardy, if not for the window holding him back. He is dutiful if nothing else barking at rabbits, cats, dogs, strangers, mailmen and neighbors.

I read somewhere dachshunds bark a lot and miniature ones bark even more, and I think Pressley read the same article. Patience is a virtue, but not to dachshunds. Pressley will badger you incessantly until he gets his desired response. He is quick to let us know if he wants to go outside, go for a walk, needs a treat, fetch his toy from under the couch — which, by the way, he just pushed under there for the umpteenth time — time for us all go to bed or if it is 5 a.m. and time to go for a walk. Pressley thinks 5 a.m. is time to wake and doesn’t care if it is the weekend or a holiday. He has persuaded me sleeping in is really overrated. And besides, you don’t usually run into many other walkers at that time in the morning who care that it is your wife’s wiener dog.

Brock is the publisher of The Dickinson Press. Email him at