Adam Brophy of the Irish Times chronicles the love affair and how he futilely hoped it wouldn’t last:
I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe now she’d kick this young fella, this shoulder-rolling swagger hound to touch. Maybe hook up with another dachshund, settle down into respectability. Have pedigree pups, the sort that would get into the right schools, not sniff glue and set fire to warehouses.
Within weeks, up to my ankles in pup poo, I had resolved that the promise of sleek purebred pups was not enough to put up with the relentless binning of sodden newspaper and the stench of faeces from the utility room. We would have her snipped and that would be that. No more local pimp boyfriend, no more nothing, just peace and quiet and clean utility room floors.
Of course, the pups grew up, got fluffy like the da and long like the ma, and charmed the hearts of all around them. A 10-minute walk on the beach became an odyssey of poking children and cooing mothers.
The pups grew and found owners and we decided not to snip, but to bide our time and maybe a few years down the track we would allow her some quality time with Saturday Night Fever dog and rekindle her love. Next time around we would keep one of the super splendid friendly fluffballs for ourselves and spread the love among the many who had put in requests after seeing the first batch.
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