I have a house full of Sausages. Not the greasy, squishy, edible variety, but more precisely, the loveable, quirky Dachshund variety.
Having my home filled with sausage dogs was not something I’d ever planned: it just happened.
And it all started with Kiri, or Saus as she became affectionately known.
Saus was a beautiful mini-wire haired dachshund who came to live with me by chance 16 years ago, after Mum had heard about her through the show dog network.
At just 3 years old, she had had 3 litters, needless to say, her life had not been ideal. And whilst not part of a puppy farm per say, she was apparently no longer of any ‘use’, and now in desperate need of a new home. On hearing her story, I wanted to meet her.
On meeting her, I could see her spirit had been severely broken at some point, she was timid, and frightened, however with love, patience and a nurturing home, she began to trust me, trust my love for her and slowly we became one.
The depth of her beauty and my love for her was immense. She was simply Saus, a beautiful, yet incredibly shy being who gave me permission to be the centre of her world.
I am, and always will be, humbled by her trust.
We shared 5 magical years together, years filled with so much love, so much laughter and so many discoveries of her quirky, sausage ways.
Her passion for cheese. Her need to burrow into her doggy sleeping bag and most of all, her great love of being in the car. She didn’t have to go anywhere, just getting in and being in the car was her pleasure. It was the getting out and walking bit she didn’t fancy: and her hilarious antics surrounding getting in and being out of the car can be read about here.
But sadly, on one tragic summer morning, I lost my precious girl to a previously undiagnosed, severe heart condition.
I was devastated. In losing her, I too was lost. She had become my world and when she died, part of me died with her. I was inconsolable.
The following day, Mum called to say she had a call from one of her friends asking if she knew of anyone who may be interested in re-homing a 9-month-old male, mini-wire. Whilst she knew my grief over losing Saus was absolute, the serendipitous timing of her friend’s call propelled her to ask me. My response was instant. No, I could not imagine adopting another right now.
Yet a good friend had other ideas.
Despite my inconsolable grief, my friend talked me into going to meet this little fellow. I remember his words: ‘Jen, you might need him as much as he might need you…’. He was adamant, so together we went to meet him.
Later that afternoon, as I sat on the grass in a local park, I watched Stanley (then known as Joey) jump out of the car and cautiously walk toward me. With his little wiry head darting from side to side, his body language screamed fear, and he was clearly terrified. I noticed him cower in front of the man who held his lead; was he terrified of that man, or the unknown? In the years following, I’ve noticed Stanley does not like strange men, so I believe his fear back then was indeed of that man.
I said his name, and he tentatively walked toward me, and on reaching me, he cautiously sniffed the area around where I sat.
I didn’t speak, I simply let him do his thing. Then without warning, he climbed onto my lap and buried his head in my arms. I was completely taken aback, yet held him close, hoping my touch would lessen his fear.
We sat together for some time and a little while later I placed him gently on the grass, stood up and walked toward the picnic table to retrieve a bottle of water. Stanley immediately followed and would not leave my side. At that moment I knew he had made his decision, I was his person. So Stanley came to live with me, and just as my friend said, we needed each other. In his company, my grief over losing Saus slowly eased and for Stanley, he began to experience a life filled with so much love.
Twelve years on, his loyalty has never waned. He is my best friend, and I love him with all that I am.
However in the first year or so, because of our special bond, I began to notice he suffered from separation anxiety. Family told me that in my absence he was sad, uninterested and would simply sit by the window, anxiously and eagerly awaiting my return.
And it was this anxiousness that led to Oscar’s arrival.
At the time, I was worked as cabin crew for an international airline, which had me jetting off to various destinations in the world for up to 4 -6 days at a time. This was hard for Stanley (and me, I might add), so I decided a companion may help ease his separation anxiety.
Enter Oscar aka Bear.
Again, through my Mum & Dad’s contacts in the dog world, Mum knew of a lady who had a 9-week-old standard wire-haired male available. Along with Stanley we went to meet him and in an instant, Stanley fell in love with his new brother and with time, Stanley and Bear were inseparable. As a standard wire-haired dachshund, Oscar grew to be quite a bit bigger than Stanley and ‘gloompfed’ along like a big ole bear, which is how he came to acquire his nickname, Bear.
About two years after Oscar’s arrival I began to foster for the rescue group, Devoted to Dachshund Rescue (D2DR) and they called to ask if I would foster a smooth haired, black & tan male. At nine years old, Simon had only known one family, however within minutes of him entering our home, it was as if we were that family. Simon loved being with his new brothers, seemed to simply fit with our family and so the decision to adopt him was unanimous.
A year later we were asked to foster another, however this little soul was in a very, very bad way. Eddie, as we later chose to later name him, was found in an industrial waste bin, bound in wire. Extremely emaciated and terrified, whoever found him, took him a pound where he stayed for 6 weeks before the pound called D2DR. Whatever had happened to this beautiful soul was beyond tragic. You have to wonder what possesses someone to subject a defenceless, sentient being to such obvious cruelty.
When I first saw him, the fear is his beautiful, amber eyes was absolute. Ribs and spine protruded through his rich, copper coloured coat and his severe overbite, gave him somewhat of a comical expression.
I knew that in time, and with loving care his physical issues would mend, yet the emotional trauma he so obviously experienced was another story and would take time and patience for him to begin to heal. His fear of people was deep seeded, but interestingly, just as Stanley made me his person, it was my son Max that became Eddie’s person.
Eight years on, Eddie’s intense fear of strangers remains, despite our ongoing training. He fears being outside of his home; even going for walks brings on anxiety, as does being anywhere strange with people other than his own. He is content to be at home, with his family. He is a delightfully funny and extremely smart little guy, who idolises my son Max and his partner, Kassie. She has taught him to ring bells to go outside, she says ‘speak’ and he barks and if she says ‘whisper’, he will give a little, ‘hmmpf’ – so adorable.
And so we lived harmoniously and happily until March, 2020. We noticed a small lump on Simon’s face after which Simon was diagnosed with an extremely aggressive form of cancer. At 15, surgery to remove the lump in his right, lower jaw was not an option, as the surgery required long anaesthesia and due to the severity, the margins needed to ensure all the cancer was removed would mean removing part of his jaw. Our long term vet knew Simon well and he suggested the best course of action was to simply allow Simon to live these last few months showered with love. He told us to he had approximately 3 months. Whilst his tumour grew at an alarming rate, Simon continued to be Simon: a funny, quirky, very opinionated, toy stealing sausage who lived to love. On August 19th, our beautiful big-bigs crossed the rainbow bridge surrounded by his beloved family.
We were devastated. We knew his passing was on the horizon, yet when he left, his loss was immense. Max was inconsolable as Simon was his boy, and to see my son be so heartbroken was awful.
We had barely begun to process Simon’s loss when 3 weeks later, on September 16, 2020, I woke to find Oscar aka Bear, unable to walk. After rushing to the vet, Oscar was diagnosed with Stage 5 IVDD, which required immediate surgery. Despite the best efforts from our extraordinary vet team, on September 22, my precious Bear crossed the rainbow bridge. To say I was devastated is an understatement, and the grief I felt was immense and raw. I wrote a detailed post about him, which you can read here.
So in a matter of weeks, our two beautiful, special and dearly loved boys crossed the rainbow bridge, which left us feeling raw, alone, and totally lost. Stanley and Eddie felt it too. Their grief was absolute, you could see it in their eyes, feel it in their mannerisms. Stanely in particular was lost. He was bereft, Oscar was his soulmate, his brother, his everything. I could sense Stanley’s sadness. He seemed to have little motivation and I was concerned. Thankfully I wasn’t working at the time, so I was able to put all my energy into ensuring his welfare was paramount, yet we were both so sad. We dearly missed our Bear Dog.
I made a call to Oscar’s breeder to see if she knew of any wire’s in need of adoption. As it turned out, she did know of a 23-month-old standard, wire girl who had recently retired from the show ring and could possibly be available for adoption. A couple of weeks later, we met Freida and fell instantly in love.
Stanley adores her, we adore her and she has brought so much to our little family. She is my light in grief’s darkness, and like my precious Stanley, I will be forever grateful for her presence in my life.
We will always carry grief from losing Saus, Simon and Oscar, yet through their loss, Stanley and Frieda came into my life and these two beautiful souls eased the pain of our loss.
Beautiful things can definitely bloom from the seeds of the most difficult times.
So I have a house full of Sausages, and what a house it is.
stanley & bear 