Meet Fanny.



I know. You are staring aghast through the droplets of coffee you just sputtered all over your computer screen, whispering, "Dear God, what is it?" It's okay. Take a minute. Get a paper towel. Collect yourself.

Then meet Fanny, the hound from hell. No, don't shakey-paw. She bites.

I just thought you should know, mine is not the only face that I've kept hidden from you. (Incidentally, I also have glossy dark hair and an eager, forceful way of jumping up on people. A firm knee to the chest works well for us both).

Fanny is a Daschund-Rottweiler mix. I kid you not. We call her the dauttweiler. Or rottschund.

How is that even possible, you say? One can only hope the sire was an especially scrappy daschund and the dam was the rottie, and not the other way around. Extensive google searches have yielded a mere handful of such matings. This one, in England, merited an article in the local newspaper. Note how they quote a dog expert, like the obligatory scene in every monster movie where they bring in the wise old priest or professor, who gravely says, "it should never have been allowed to happen."

The other day I made an appointment for Fanny at the neighborhood doggie salon. The guy on the telephone asked what breed she was. I told him.

"Good god," he said. "Sounds like an alligator."

"Kind of," I said. "More like a monitor lizard, crossed with a badger."

I bet you are intriegued now; strangely fascinated. Where can I get a rottshchund? You are thinking. And can I get one in time for Halloween? Stop right there. Before you entertain that thought a moment further, I want you to consider the daschund. Get a really clear picture in your mind. Now, do the same with the rottweiller. Think about the very worst traits of both those breeds. Now imagine a 40-pound beast with the brute strength and aggression of a rottweiler, combined with the hyperactivity and non-stop barking of a daschund. Imagine it growling and snapping at small children, including your own. Imagine incessant barking. Imagine a neck too thick and a head too pointy to fit into any conventional restraint. Imagine fangs sharp enough to cut through every single retractable leash you ever buy the first second your attention is diverted. Imagine a problem that you couldn't feel good about foisting off on your worst enemy, let alone the wheelchair-bound strangers who respond to your ad on the animal rescue site.

Tintin had Snowy. Dorothy had Toto. Dooce has Chuck.

Me? I have Fanny.

Now you know. It's too late for me, but you go warn the others. Fix those weiners.

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