Be More Sausage

COPYRIGHT

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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

FIRST EDITION

Text © Matt Whyman 2020

Cover layout design by Caroline Young © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

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Matt Whyman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780008405649

Ebook Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008405656

Version 2020-11-04

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008405649

CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

NOTE TO READERS

INTRODUCTION – HOW I LEARNED TO GET OVER MYSELF AND LOVE THE SAUSAGE DOG

1. DACHSHUND THROUGH THE DAY

At Work

At Rest

At Play

The Complete Package

2. ONE-OF-A-KIND MIND AND BODY

Weiner Well-being

All that Body Confidence

Relaxation

Food and Snacks

3. THE EMOTIONAL SAUSAGE

The Art of Bravery

Embracing Envy

Powers of Persuasion

Siege Mentality

4. WEINER WARS

Emotional Warfare

Managing Conflict

Protect and Survive

The Victim Card

5. THE LOWDOWN ON FRIENDSHIP

The Solo Sausage

Making Friends and Influencing Everyone

Security in Numbers

The Loyalty Clause

6. HOUNDS OF LOVE

Swipe Right for Sausage

Maintaining the Relationship

Sharing the Bed

The Long and Short of Love

Everyone’s a Weiner

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

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INTRODUCTION – HOW I LEARNED TO GET OVER MYSELF AND LOVE THE SAUSAGE DOG

We had a deal when it came to the dachshund. According to the family agreement, the new dog belonged to my wife and children. He would be their responsibility, and not mine.

‘I already have a dog,’ I reminded my wife, as if anyone could overlook the large snow wolf that sat obediently at my side. ‘A proper one.’

THE ALPHA DOG

Technically speaking, Sesi wasn’t a wolf. She just looked like one.

A white shepherd, Sesi sported upright ears and a lean, solid torso, with muscular haunches and a low-set tail curved like a sabre. I’d never been a fan of big, scary dogs until a few years back when we moved from the inner city to the countryside. There, on the edge of woodland, I found myself terrified of two things: the darkness and the silence. Sesi was the solution. She allowed us to sleep safely in our beds at night. Even so, it took me a while to feel comfortable in public with a dog of this calibre. The canine equivalent of a monster truck, she was so strong that walking her became an exercise in restraint. People would take one look at the slathering hell hound straining at the leash and cross to the other side of the lane.

After a while, I stopped apologising and trying to explain that she was a softie inside, and just rolled with it. When I walked Sesi through a tranquil village largely populated by old-timers, nobody messed with me.

THE NEW ARRIVAL

So, when my wife, Emma, announced that she had fallen for a sausage dog – and not just any sort, but a miniature variety – I laid down my terms and conditions. I had no doubt that the children would adore a new puppy, but someone would have to clear up the mess, and that someone wasn’t me.

‘We’ll do everything,’ she promised, and then lowered her voice a little. ‘Where possible.’

With great fanfare, the puppy arrived on a Friday afternoon. I barely saw the new addition to our household, such was the care my wife lavished on him amid the scrum of our children. That suited me just fine. I holed up in my home office and let them get on with it. In fact, I only got involved when it came to the naming process:

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‘You can’t call him Bieber,’ I said. ‘Be reasonable.’

‘Bublé?’

Emma was cuddling the puppy over her shoulder.

It looked like she had taken to wearing a draught excluder as an accessory. The dog turned to peer at me. I wanted to suggest Slinky but just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

‘He needs a name that inspires respect, not ridicule,’ I said. ‘How about Duke?’

‘Dad!’ I have four children. In unison, they didn’t have to say much to express their opinion.

‘Horatio?’

‘Stop being so stuffy.’ My wife was now cradling the puppy’s head as if to shield him from this conversation. ‘Harry Styles?’

‘Hercules!’ I shared the name as soon as it sprang into my mind, and then watched the kids try it out as if chewing on coffee Revels. It was perfect, I decided. ‘He’s going to need an epic name to survive life with Sesi.’

‘If we call him Hercules,’ said Emma, who then waited until she had my full attention, ‘does this mean you won’t tut every time we say his name?’

‘Promise.’ I pressed one hand to my chest. Then, against my better nature, I tickled the puppy with one fingertip. ‘I can live with Hercules.’

With the sausage dog in our midst, the weekend sailed by. At least, it did for me. My wife and children were so besotted with the new arrival that I barely saw them. Then came Monday, and with it the start of the school and working week.

‘Have a good day,’ Emma said on the way out to do the school run before she headed for the office. ‘I’ll be in meetings mostly, but you can always text.’

‘What about Hercules?’

The pup was busy clambering over my slippers. I scooped him up and held him out like she’d forgotten her lunchbox.

‘Feed him at around midday and when the kids come back from school,’ she said, as if that was all there was to it, then kissed us both. ‘You’re so lucky, working from home!’

It wasn’t the first time I had found myself providing day care for pets awaiting the return of their owners. We’d had our fair share of goldfish, gerbils and rabbits. Once, Emma had even gone so far as to adopt a pair of not-so-mini pigs. Butch and Roxi – names that had been overruled by her as my suggestions for children – had arrived in a cat basket. Several years later, having grown to weigh in at twenty-five stone each, they left in a horsebox for life turning the fields on an organic sheep farm. Our back garden had yet to recover from that ordeal, and to an extent nor had I. As much as Emma assured me that I’d barely notice the addition of a little sausage dog during working hours, this one was peering up at me as if awaiting a rundown of the entertainment options on offer. I sighed to myself and hoped that Hercules would quickly find his feet.

ON GUARD

As it turned out, it was Sesi who stepped up to help me out. After her initial disbelief that this elongated scrap could even be classified as the same species as her, she took him under her wing. She became very close to Hercules, in fact, in the same way that a lioness might adopt an orphan monkey. I did wonder whether having such a formidable maternal figure instilled more confidence in the little dachshund than he might’ve developed on his own terms. After just a short while in my care, Hercules took to stationing himself on top of the office sofa overlooking the front path. Then, when the post arrived, he would kick off as if we were about to receive a suspicious package.

‘Stand down,’ I said, scooping him from his sentry post. ‘Our security threat level is not at critical.’

SAUSAGE LIFE

As the weeks ticked by and Hercules found his place in the family, I found he looked less ridiculous in my eyes. I became used to his long body and funny little waddle when he scuttled across the house to greet my wife and children at the end of each day. They adored him, and that made it hard for me to retain the moral high ground regarding his daily upkeep.

It wasn’t difficult to look after a dachshund, I discovered, just as Emma had promised. They are far from stupid dogs, and despite being low to the ground, Hercules still seemed to consider himself to be on a level with me. While Sesi preferred to bask in the yard, he’d sit on the sofa as I worked, as if his presence was responsible for my productivity. It was quite endearing. I even found myself talking to him at times.

In the comfort of my own home, I started to notice his personality more than his physical shortcomings. I suppose I became steadily desensitised to his unique body shape. Until, that is, Hercules was old enough to head outside for walks. Given the fact that they were at opposite ends of the canine spectrum, there was no way that I could exercise him with Sesi at the same time. So, having been dragged around the village by what looked like an apex predator, causing locals to scatter from my path, I returned home and switched dogs.

THE WALKING CHALLENGE

The experience was a little bit like jumping from the driving seat of one car and into another. Everything is essentially the same and yet feels completely different. Leaving the house with Hercules, I sensed no pull on the lead at all. Instead, I discovered, I had to shorten and then quicken my footsteps to avoid tripping over him. He was just so long that even if he trotted ahead, his hindquarters remained within kicking distance. What’s more, being so low to the ground, the little dachshund picked up on scents that other dogs might miss. As a result, he would stop dead without warning, which left me with no option other than to break into a little skip to avoid stepping on him.

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Sesi weighed close to forty pounds. She could’ve eaten Hercules for breakfast and still been hungry. With such a featherweight little dog in my care, I had no need to brace my arm across my chest to counter the strain or bind the end of the leash around my fist. Instead, in a bid to maximise the distance between Hercules’s rear end and me, I extended my arm in front of me and just lightly pinched the lead between thumb and forefinger.

I had it all sorted by the time I registered a cyclist riding towards us. All of sudden, I became incredibly self-conscious. Having lived in a bubble with Hercules since his arrival, I now realised that I wasn’t so much walking a dog as sashaying in his wake. Outside in public with a miniature sausage dog, after years of manhandling a massive white shepherd, I felt completely ridiculous. On seeing the cyclist acknowledge me with a grin, I dropped my gaze to my feet and cringed so hard it hurt.

On the circuit, which I eventually cut short, we passed several locals. With Sesi in tow, they’d have given me a wide berth. Now, even if they didn’t all chuckle outright, I found myself giving just one explanation as to what was going on here.

‘This is Hercules,’ I told them all as we breezed by. ‘My wife’s dog.’

For a short while after that first outing, Hercules might well have assumed that all human life beyond our family had ceased to exist. This was down to the fact that I could only bring myself to walk him after dark along isolated footpaths.

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ Emma said one day, and our children backed her up. ‘You can’t keep avoiding people.’

‘I just feel so stupid,’ I reasoned. ‘What does a dog like this say about me?’

‘Where shall I begin?’ she asked, but there was no need for her to do that.

The fact was, I liked Hercules. In the short time he’d been with us, he’d moved into the heart of my family. He was loud, proud and incredibly loyal, while there was nothing he liked better than a walk. Unless there was dew on the ground, which he didn’t enjoy as it meant his undercarriage got wet quickly. Trotting up front on a dry day, however, with his head held high like a cross between an aristocrat and an otter, this was a dog who had no idea how much I was dying on the inside behind him.

It was, if we go to the heart of the issue, my problem and not his.

RISING ABOVE IT ALL

The next time we ventured out under moonlight, I found myself having a long, hard think. For here was a dog with no concern for his appearance or apparent shortcomings. If I chose to be more concerned about what other people might think of us, then more fool me. Unless I changed my world view, I realised, only one of us would continue to make the most of the cold night air and moon-silvered solitude that the British countryside has to offer.

The next day, having taken Sesi for her morning prowl, I followed my footsteps with Hercules. This time, I set out to share his attitude. I refused to look at my feet, greeted everyone cheerily and focused on the world around me rather than my insecurities. If people had a problem, I kept telling myself, that was their lookout and not mine. With every walk we enjoyed in this manner, I felt more like the person I wanted to be. Like Hercules, I found an inner confidence that rose above ridicule or a fear of being judged. I was happy. Relaxed. Comfortable in my own skin.

And it was a liberation.

THE LONG GAME

Hercules is ten now. He’s getting on. While Sesi sadly passed away some years ago, a generation ahead of her unlikely little friend, Hercules has gone on to become an elder statesman of the sausage-dog world.

Since I wrote a memoir about my experience in coming to terms with life as an owner of a miniature dachshund, he’s also become a familiar face. Hercules is often invited to open fetes, attend talks and, of course, sausage-dog walks, in which hundreds of dachshund owners and their dogs assemble for a grand promenade.

I’ve come to understand what makes Hercules tick, as well as countless numbers of his kind, and learned from experience that there’s a great deal they can teach us. The dachshund might be seen as the embodiment of the disadvantaged dog, and yet it lives life to the fullest like no other. What’s more, in recent years it’s grown from a canine curiosity to become the hot dog in countries across the world. Yes, it looks like no other breed, but there must be more to our bond with the dachshund than that.

So, rather than consider it as no more than a canine comedy act, let’s celebrate the sausage dog in all its glory. What drives the dachshund to forge its mark on this world so magnificently? How does it make each and every day count, successfully manage everything from relationships to conflict, play life to its advantage and maintain and inspire so much love?

If we can just look beyond appearances, we’ll find that they’re a lot like us in many ways, which leaves us with just one question: what can the sausage dog teach us about being human?

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1. DACHSHUND THROUGH THE DAY

When life is short, we grasp every moment available to us. Time becomes precious, and with that comes a sense of purpose. We become focused on extracting the maximum from everything we do, which means savouring each second.

We’re not just talking about the sense of urgency that comes from limitations to our longevity here. Standing at five to seven inches at the shoulder, which is next-level short, the sausage dog views each day like a postal worker’s ankle: something to be seized with passion and zeal.

Despite a world view that’s blocked by almost everything in his path, the sausage dog sees only opportunity. He can’t hope to perch his front paws on the kitchen counter to swipe that slice of cake you’ve just cut for yourself. Instead, he’ll deploy an alternative method of claiming his prize, and will do so with ruthless efficiency. Any dachshund owner who has ever sat down to enjoy a cup of tea and a slice of Battenberg will be familiar with ‘the look’ delivered to them from floor level. Sure, you can resist, but the sausage dog’s wounded expression will only deepen. As will your sense of guilt and selfishness until only one option is available to you.

Of course, most dogs know how to hold out for a treat. Only the dachshund sets out to make you feel really bad for not bending to his will. It’s not just in his eyes. It’s his whole demeanour. When it comes to body language, nothing demands pity more forcefully than an elongated pooch with paddles for feet.

‘Look at me!’ he pleads silently, and no matter how strong-willed you’re feeling, that cake is bound for the hound. ‘I’m the most disadvantaged dog in existence, and you won’t even share a crumb!’

Without question, when it comes to seizing the day, the sausage dog lets nothing go to waste. From the moment he wakes to curling up at night in a spiral and then back around to daybreak, the dachshund is devoted to maximising life at work, rest and play. Here’s how Hercules and his kind ensure that the winning never stops …

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‘Despite a world view that’s blocked by almost everything in his path, the sausage dog sees only opportunity.’

Marcus Wallis on Unsplash

AT WORK

Despite looking like his only useful purpose in life would be to serve as some kind of lumbar support cushion, the dachshund is in fact classed as a working hound. Believed to have originated in Germany in the eighteenth century, the early sausage dog was in fact known as a ‘Dachs Kreiger’, which translates as the frankly terrifying ‘badger warrior’. Five hundred years ago, nobody laughed at this bad boy.

In hunting circles, the badger warrior was a hound that could be appreciated in segments from one end to the other. While slightly bigger than the dog that we know now, it was no less distinctive in shape. Starting at the front end, this courageous canine possessed a pointed nose, muscular chest and paws like mining shovels. Head on, it was effectively a living, breathing excavator. Through careful and selective breeding, encouraging a sense of purpose, pluck and courage, the hound proved machine-tooled for opening up rabbit warrens, fox holes and badger setts. Even those long, flappy ears were bred in to help keep out soil, spores and grass seeds.

Moving to the mid-section, the dog’s long, lean torso was purpose-built to wriggle into tight spots, with loose skin to reduce the risk of tearing on its mission to pull out prey. The back end wasn’t much to write home about, with the breed sporting the canine equivalent of frog legs. Even so, these crooked little stubs provided something for the hunter to grab in order to haul the hound out of the ground. Even the curved tail could prove to be a useful anchor.

Design-wise, the early dachshund was a lean, mean forest predator. As hard as it might be to get our heads around this idea now, it was the ultimate hunting companion.

In packs, this forerunner of the modern sausage dog found strength in numbers. Back then, a pack of badger warriors was capable of tracking wild boar. They’d flock through tangled undergrowth, flushing out their quarry before taking it down. The dog was revered by hunters but had lofty ambitions. Over time, it crept into royal courts across Europe. Perhaps the most famous dachshund disciple was Queen Victoria, who owned several over her lifetime, including the grandly titled Waldman VI and his consort, Waldina.

It is perhaps this combination of hunting origins and centuries spent yapping at royal servants that forged the temperament of today’s dachshund, or wiener dog as it’s also known. While the breed has evolved into the standard and miniature variety (basically different degrees of dinkiness), with short-, wire- and long-haired editions, it’s still a wildly spirited dog with an elevated sense of its own importance.

So, how does this mix of energy and entitlement translate to the modern dachshund’s approach to work? In short, the sausage dog will tackle any task wholeheartedly, but only if it chooses to do so.

In total, Hercules attended two dog-training classes. After the first one I assumed he just needed time to settle and recognise that the teacher expected him to at least attempt to follow instruction.

He was only a puppy at the time. He’d been part of the family for about a month, during which time responsibility for his basic upkeep had fallen to me. By extension, this applied to his schooling. Our German shepherd, Sesi, had failed to step up as a tutor by then, and continued to regard Hercules with an air of disbelief that he could even be classed as a dog at all. So I’d enrolled us both on a course in the hope that it would help him to fall into step with me. I didn’t think he would learn basic commands straight away. I had just assumed that, like the other young dogs in the class, he’d make an effort. While a few flopped and goofed in response to a command to sit, wait or walk to heel, most figured it out within a short space of time. Only Hercules flatly refused to make an attempt.