Nothing like a buff wiener dog to make you forget shortcomings
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You know, if you can't write a dog story — one of those stories about our canine friends that brings a little glimmer to your eye — then you shouldn't be in journalism. Because the thing is, you can put up a dog story against that 80,000-word investigative piece, and darn those readers: They go for the dog story.
If only we could force readers to attend journalism seminars and make them understand.
The problem is, people simply like dogs. For some of you, when you come home after another cruddy day at the office, overwhelmed by memos and meetings, what you look forward to is that nonjudgmental dog of yours.
There is Fido or Spot or whatever you call him, just panting and waiting to sit by you on the sofa and watch TV.
Anyway, I think that's enough of a justification for launching into my dog story for 2002. It is about the fittest dachshund I've ever seen — not that I've actually paid that much attention to wiener dogs, but he looked buff enough to me. He was brought to my attention by his very effusive owner, Vanessa Vajdos, 50.
The way Vanessa explained it, Dylan, named after Bob the folk singer, should be in the paper because:
"I think of all the strangeness going on in the world, with Enron, stock-brokerage firms, accounting firms, the list goes on and on. It would be refreshing for people to read about Dylan. If a little dog can win, we as a human race can overcome. The world needs to see this through the eyes of this champion Dylan, a muscular wiener dog!
"You know how the bellies of dachshunds sag to the floor because they're out of shape? Not Dylan's! He's like Sarah Hughes who won the gold medal! Innocence and courage!"
Some of you who've attended dog shows are familiar with the particular sort of spirit exhibited by dog owners such as Vanessa.
With a build-up like that, what was I supposed to do? Especially when Vanessa promised me I'd see actual, for-real muscle DEFINITION on little Dylan's thighs, a buff wiener that for-sure would never have common wiener back problems because he was in such great shape. If that won't make you forget Enron, I don't know what will.
A couple of days ago, Vanessa, who used to be a chiropractor but invested well so now she lives in a Seattle waterfront condo and is looking for opportunities, stopped by. That's when I saw Dylan.
"Vanessa!" I said. "Where is the muscle DEFINITION?"
Because 14-pound Dylan ... well, how can I say this. He kind of looked like a regular dachshund. Damn! Fell for the hype once again!
"No, no," Vanessa said, holding up Dylan's stubby little thighs. "Can you see the ripples?"
Dylan looked mournfully back at me, although I think all wiener dogs have that mournful look about them, as I assessed the alleged muscle ripples in his thighs. Oh, yes, definitely could see that definition popping through.
Vanessa explained why Dylan was such an inspiration. Like how three times a week, he jogs with Vanessa for six miles. And not just old-fogie miles, but a nine-minute mile, which is nothing to sneeze at. I did some quick calculations. Dylan has been on this pace for nine months, so he's run something like 700 miles, all on those stubby 3-inch legs.
I asked Vanessa if little Dylan had to be, hmmm, cajoled into those six-mile jogs.
"He loves running!" Vanessa said. "Right before we get to the park, he's jumping around to get out of the car! Then, when we run, all these people say, 'Look at that dog, he's so-o-o-o buff!' "
Vanessa once again lifted one of Dylan's little thighs. Yes, yes, OK, I could see the muscular definition. "Erik, he is the Hulk of dachshunds!"
We went outside, and I watched Dylan run and jump. Vanessa again told me that if little Dylan could do all this, we all could, and not have our stomachs hang to the floor. I asked Vanessa if Dylan took a nap after one of his jogs, because just watching him was making me tired.
"Oh, yes, for an hour or two," Vanessa said. I'll bet it's at least two hours.
Vanessa asked me if maybe I could win some kind of journalism championship for writing about what an inspiration Dylan was. I looked at Dylan and he again looked back at me with his mournful eyes. I think we both knew the answer. Sometimes you just gotta be satisfied with being able to run six miles.
Erik Lacitis: 206-464-2237 or elacitis@seattletimes.com.