I'm not a weiner dog

When people ask what kind of dog Mom and Dad have, their first response is "dachshund." When they're met with a puzzled look in return, Mom and Dad's second response is "weiner dog," and the questioner's eyes always light up.

I'd argue that Bratwurst would be more apt, for two reasons: 1) it's German, like me, and 2) I'm becoming quite a little brat. It all started when we moved to New York. Dad stays home with me all day, and sometimes he'll be on an important-looking phone call or typing frantically on the computer, meaning he isn't devoting one hundred percent of his attention to ME. To rectify this, I have a plethora of tricks up my sleeve: tap dance around at his feet until he grows tired of my shuffling and picks me up, torment the cats until he decides to rescue them and pick me up, and let out one shrill yap to let him know I'm there, waiting to be picked up. Some of these techniques are more effective than others (the latter takes the longest, and hence is only reserved for extreme cases, because he scolds me, I run under the couch and hide, and then he feels guilty and coaxes me out), but in the end, I always end up on his lap.



When Dad has to move, say, to use the bathroom, my brattiness is unfurled like ticker-tape at a parade: I growl at him. But I need to work on my ferociousness, because he just laughs at me.