My Very Good, Very Bad Dog by Amy Newmark

Author:Amy Newmark
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Chicken Soup for the Soul

Runt of the Litter

Fun fact: “Dachshund” means “badger dog” in German. Long ago, they were coveted for their digging skills, which enabled them to hunt underground pests such as badgers.

I stepped off the back porch and approached Fritz’s house, which was nestled beneath his favorite spot under the shade of my family’s sprawling pecan tree. Using our shared German language, I commanded Fritz to dinner: “Fritz! Kommen Sie hier — Abendessen!”

Yet, Fritz didn’t come when called to dinner. I knelt down and peered inside his doghouse. I caught a glimpse of his shiny dark nose and found him huddled in the back corner of his doghouse, shivering and whining. He tried to stand up, but whimpered and immediately collapsed.

“What’s the matter? Why are you shaking?” I reached inside, hoping to pull him into my arms, but he yelped even louder. His doghouse had no floor, so I lifted up the house, placed him in my arms, and wrapped him in the softest blanket I could find. I rocked him back and forth, gently stroking his back. “Just go to sleep. When you wake up, you’ll be okay.” As I waited for him to drift off to sleep, I remembered the day Fritz had come into my life.

I was just six years old that hot August afternoon when I heard Mr. Davis announce, “Hilda’s gone into labor!” I leapt down the back porch steps, ran next door, and watched Hilda strain as five pups slowly wriggled their way from her belly. Fritz was a runt and the first of Hilda’s litter of five milk-chocolate-colored Dachshunds.

I giggled as I watched the five bundles of energy squirming beneath their mother’s tummy, all begging for lunch at the same time. But the magical moment abruptly ended when Hilda nudged her runt puppy away from her. Although the runt inched his way back to Hilda’s stomach, she shoved him away again, growled and then pounced on his tiny back and tail. The runt yelped; I screeched in horror as Mr. Davis — the neighborhood Dachshund aficionado — ran to my side.

“She’s hurting him… make her stop!” I waved my hands in front of Hilda’s growling face.

Mr. Davis scooped up the injured pup and placed him in my hands. “Run, kiddo. Find a shoebox and put that pup in it! Hurry back!”

I darted for the Davises’ house, gingerly holding the wounded pup in my hands. I found a shoebox, placed the pup in it, and then watched it stretch and twist its tiny body ever so slightly. Relieved, I returned to Mr. Davis’s side.

“Hilda’s a mean dog… I don’t like her!” My voice trembled. “Why would a mama dog kill its own puppy?”

“Kiddo, you have to understand that Hilda’s not mean; she loves her runt. But her instinct tells her that her puppy is too weak to survive, and she believes that killing it is the strong and merciful thing to do.” Mr. Davis patted me on the back. “Hey, kiddo, if you have a doll blanket and baby bottle back home, go get them.

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