Ah, yes, Shortz. The miniature black and tan daschund. So named by my sister because most everyone in the family was tall.
There has always been a condescending streak in my sister's personality.
Mom originally hadn't wanted us to have a dog, or any kind of pet (other than the occasional parakeet or a tank of fish). She had been bitten by a German Shepard when she was very young, and just didn't like dogs. But Dad convinced her that a small dog would be good for the family, so we went to a reputable breeder and there he was, even as a pup filled with that typical daschund spunk.
Although Shortz was supposed to be the family dog, my sister pretty much claimed him as hers for the longest time. Then she abandoned him for college, and he transferred his loyalty to me. I, at least, had the decency to give him the option of a more dignified name, such as Herman or Henrick, which he seemed to appreciate. After I moved out, he again transferred his loyalty, this time to Mom, although he loved my returns for visits whenever I could.
He was a smart fellow. We originally closed him in the kitchen when we all had to leave the house, but he figured out how to open the door, so we ended up giving him free reign through the household. He also enjoyed the back yard, his kingdom, and learned to stay there even though we didn't have a gate to keep him in - Mom had long before knocked down one of the gateposts while backing out the too-narrow driveway in the family station wagon. Every day, when I returned from school, he would be waiting for me at the line we had trained him to stay behind, and would only come charging merrily up when I called to him.
He lived to the ripe old age of seventeen, or was it eightteen. Mom decided he couldn't be replaced, she had loved him too much during those later years. But then, Shortz was the only dog she had ever cared about, her only animal companion. We were lucky to have had him.
