Thursday, Oct. 16, 2008 | midnight
I should have known after the first five minutes of puppy ownership who was going to be the boss, but I didn't. I lost the competition to a 2 1/2-pound, 5 1/2-week-old dachshund.
After months of searching for a black and tan miniature, male doxie, fate stepped in and presented my husband, Ed, with a newspaper ad "hot off the press." He excitedly called me from work to pass on the phone number of the breeder.
The breeder brought the two males to me so I could make a choice. They explained that the first-born was their favorite. I scooped him up onto my lap, and over he flipped so that I could rub his tiny, bald belly. Well, I was smitten. I gave the owners a check.
They gave me the puppy and a small cardboard carton to transport him in.
About 10 seconds into the trip home, the puppy began whining and jumping frantically to get out of the box. I couldn't drive the rest of the way home with all this commotion next to me, so I leaned over, picked him up and placed him on my lap.
Big mistake! He curled into a ball and promptly went to sleep. I'm sure he chuckled inside knowing he won this round, the first of many he was to win over the next 15 years.
We have another dachshund now and she is adorable, but there is no other dog that can ever replace Hans.
Of all our dogs, he is the only one who left paw prints on my heart.