Willie and Winkie Welcome you to their Wonderful, Witty, Wiener-dog Webpage!

Before we begin, we beg--please!--no "bun" references! The above photo is tasteless and offensive to us. While Peggy may find "hot-dog" dog humor amusing, we truly hope she is alone in this rather twisted regard (other than the obviously simpatico--as well as sick--individual who took the aforementioned photo). Because Peggy has a penchant for dressing all of her dogs up in costumes of ALL sorts, we have concluded she suffers from a generalized dog-dressing disorder. Her occasional use of hot-dog humor, including bun costumes, must be tolerated as a nonspecific manifestation of her disorder. We know she doesn't mean to make breed specific slurs as she humiliates us, and that she truly does perceive the Dachshund as a noble, stoic dog of small but sturdy stature. We do hope that Peggy has sought professional help before the next Pet Parade comes around, and ask you to encourage her in this matter. Please be aware, though Peggy does make use of the hated red (catsup), yellow (mustard) and green (relish) colors for the fonts used on our page, she has assured us this is merely coincidence, and that we are being overly sensitive to suggest it might indirectly hint at more hot-dog humor.

Amusing? Or just plain tasteless?!
	Yes, we are really short. Ha, ha. So what? Laugh away, but watch your ankles; we aren't called landsharks for nothing!

More tasteless "humor"...
Mr. Larson is NOT a Dachshund owner, obviously; if he were he'd know we are NOT nervous, and never drink any sort of espresso drinks. We are strictly tea drinkers. Period.

Yet another example.
	Make the dog fat and then laugh at it. Great. And how might that twisted Mr. Larson have gotten an inside scoop on what snakes dream about, anyway?...that is unless... He IS one!!!

Is this supposed to be funny?
Larson may be working for the US Postal Service. Perhaps he is trying to justify these humans' frequent flipouts by blaming them on us, the United Dachsunds of America! Let him show proof of a single act of aggression we have unleashed upon a postal worker without provocation.

Creativity? Or serious mental illness??
	What "creative" humans can do with a college education financed by their parents....

Speaking of creativity...

Hollywood loved Dachshunds!
Yes, that is "Owner Dearest," Joan Crawford, with one of her little wieners before he wrote his tell-all. Bad move. VERY bad move. Watch for her so-called "mink stole" in later films.

Marlin Bran-dox!
	REAL men knew a REAL dog when they saw one!

True fact: The REAL Toto...
Was supposed to be a Dachshund!

Otto's owner was a witch...
	Well, actually his owner was a woman who played a witch, in "The Wizard of Oz;"Margaret Hamilton, that mean old wicked witch of the west! Otto must have misbehaved, or not looked so good during his screen test, because somehow that sruffy Cairn Terrier got the job, and the rest is history.

Apparently Otto was history, too...
He ended up with embarrassing bit parts opposite Colonel Klink in "Hogan's Heroes," and retired not long after.

Willie's Story      I wish I could say I am the proud progeny of a pair of dignified show dogs, or even well-loved, loving pets;  unfortunately that is not my story. I am a puppy mill dog, and I still hang my head as I admit it. I was whelped in one of those southern states, where dogs can be, and often are, raised as "livestock." My first home was a dirty cage where I lived with my littermates and loving mother. By the time my litter came around Mom had had so many of us she stopped giving us names. "Hon," she called me. Though she was never in a dog show, or even out of her dirty little cage for that matter, my mom was a beautiful dog. She may have never had the chance to be in a loving relationship with a human, but I loved her and I know she loved me. We used to cuddle at night, with the moonlight streaming into our dingy barn's window, and wonder together about the world beyond. I still think of her every night as I am falling asleep, and wish she were here. I never met my dad, and I'm not sure Mom exchanged more than a few--intimate--moments with him. She told me he was a good dog, handsome like me, and that he apologized to my mother for being unable to help with us pups when we came along. Mom held no grudge against Dad; he lived in a dirty cage most of the time, too.      I was taken from Mom when I was very, very young--still cute and "marketable," supposedly. That turned out to be a sad, cruel joke. I ended up in a pet store, up on the higher tier of glass fronted cages where people could come and look at me and tap incessantly on my glass, day in and day out. The really horrible thing was having to--go--in plain site, right on my wire cage floor. The you-know-what would drop through and then sit there, smelling and humiliating me with its unavoidable presence. Unlike some of my fellow inmates, I never got comfortable ignoring that aspect of prison life.

Perhaps even more humiliating were the increasing mark downs written on my glass window in black marker. Nobody wanted me, even as my selling price plummeted! I cannot imagine why; I am quite adorable, and was even more so as a pup. The fact I ignored all of the little humans who antagonized me with their tapping was a display of my great self control and polite manners. I never once barked or snapped at their fingers in mock attack. I hoped for a home like all of the other pups, and though I was happy for each one that got a home, I used to wonder at night, lying alone in my cage, why no one wanted me. I have to admit I spent many a night with my little snout pointed to where I imagined the moon might be, calling out to Mom. I knew somewhere she was under the same moon.

The pet store employees were actually very kind to me, and all the more so each time the slashed prices on my window dropped. Finally the day came when I overheard the manager tell the girls who cared for me it was nearly time for my "final markdown." She said this with great significance and a quiet voice, and I'm sure she was hoping I could neither hear her nor understand what was being said. Unfortunately, I knew exactly what "final markdown" meant. I was by now five months old, going on six, and though still on the short side, I was getting past the point of being "marketable." Many an older pup had been lovingly lifted for the last time from his or her cage by the manager, and left after that last markdown in a sealed bag. This is a sad but horrible truth; though you'd think they would take us to a shelter and allow us a shot at being adopted, that would be bad for business. The pet store makes its money by selling dogs, and would never create competition for itself with their own products being given away for an adoption fee. Everyone would simply wait and get us more cheaply!       On the day I was pretty certain was to be my last, I waited quietly and resignedly. At least I'd finally be out of the cage! In the afternoon, when the store was getting quiet, and I felt something was about to happen, it suddenly did--but not what I was expecting. Peggy came into the store, and walked right to my cage where she stood looking at me with a worried look on her face. One of the pet store girls came over and whispered something to her, and Peggy nodded. I didn't yet know who this woman was, or why she was there looking at me, but suddenly for the first--and actually the only--time in my life, I sat up. Straight up on my slightly short back legs, holding my rather long back perfectly errect, in an absolutely pathetic begging position. I wasn't thinking--I was reacting, probably to desperation I didn't even realize I was feeling. I have no other explanation. Even more atypically, I also rolled over, not once, but three times, then assumed "play bow" position, and finally, barked. It was just one little bark, but for me it was a grand finale! I'd never exerted so much energy at one time in my entire life! Well, not two minutes later I was removed from my cage, handed quickly over to Peggy, and out the door we went, TOGETHER, to my new life!

Arriving at our new home, I couldn't believe my luck. I actually wondered for a moment if I hadn't gone to "final markdown" and was in heaven! A perfect angel met me at the door--the tall, leggy, beautiful, leggy, red headed (actually she is all red), leggy Nefer! She was just a pup herself, but as I came into her life she met me with open paws. OK--actually, she met me with open jaws, and beat me up quite a bit--but I loved every minute! We were married not long after, and remain madly, passionately in love to this very day.      Because we have both had "the procedure," we were unable to have children of our own. Just as well, because though know one notices, I have a minor genetic concern. Though you cannot tell looking at me, I carry the gene for dwarfism. I'd hate to have a litter with my sweet Nefer's great looks and my slight shortness problem. Though we were unable to have our own pups, we have been blessed with an adopted son, our own little imp, Mr. Winky! Strangely, he resembles me a bit, though he has long hair and I am smooth. He is also slightly short, and I suspect there may be a minor problem with dwarfism somewhere in his family tree. He also was born with only one eye, the poor little guy. But it seems to cause him no problems at all, and we don't even notice. Like me, he is a big dog in a slightly short package! I hate to brag, but we both make up for it by being tall on manners, good behavior, and great looks!

Winky's Story Unlike my dad, I do not come from a pet store; nor do I come from a reputable professional breeder like Mom did. I am the product of a backyard breeder, which is something similar to a puppy mill, but not as prolific and--at least in my case--not as horrific. My breeder had good intentions, and many years of experience producing many (too many) litters of Dachshunds. Unfortunately experience doesn't necessarily mean knowledge, and my breeder had no idea who Gregor Mendel was. She was a sweet grandma type, and was trying to do the right things to be considered a "good" breeder, including having Peggy "temperament test" her puppies. The old dear was trying but had no clue about genetics. Unbeknownst to her she was crossing dogs that produce what is known as a "lethal gene." I won't bore you with all of the science, but lethal genes can cause puppies to die at or just after birth, or to have defects including the absence of one or both eyes. I guess all things considered I am one of the lucky ones. Other than the fact I am missing one eye, I am really a very healthy and totally adorable dog.

I'm not bragging, it is a fact. Everyone tells me I'm cute, especially my human sister Stephanie. She tells me in a high pitched, squealing, baby talking voice " Oooh, Mr. Winkums is SOOO cute!" I just LOVE it when she does that! Luckily she isn't particularly well obedience trained, because despite Peggy's protests she talks to me like that all of the time. She also lets me jump into her lap anytime I want, without having to sit first or wait for an invitation like I have to with everyone else. I just love Stephanie! But here is the weird thing; despite the fact she is incredibly bossy and rarely baby talks me, when Peggy is in the room I only have eye for her! And when she starts doing her dog training stuff with my family, I just can't help myself; I want to do everything she asks, and I want to be the dog who does it first and best. I'll admit it; I turn into a total suck-up; and if it weren't for my half Tasmanian devil brother Blue, I'd be the star. Every time I am sitting like a good boy, looking up at Peggy with a worshipping eye, the Aussie hulk has to go and step on me, or sit on me to get me out of the picture. He knows I am the better dog, and he just takes advantage of my slightly small stature, dominating me so he can steal all of the attention! Dad and Mom don't seem bothered, but then I don't think they share my work ethic. I'm adopted, you know, and I must come from obedience lines.

Speaking of adoption, back to my story: I do have birth parents, and though I never met my biological father, I do have memories of my first mother. I know Mom doesn't mind if I talk about her, and understands that I still have feelings for my "other" mother. She was, after all, the one who whelped me, and the first one who loved me. I know she was worried about me right from the start, because I was different from the other pups. First of all, though we puppies were all long haired like our birth parents, I was the only black and tan pup. I also was the only male, and I was my first mom's pride and joy. My breeder was thrilled with me too, at least for the first ten days. But then my eyes opened; or, I should say, my EYE opened. Suddenly the breeder treated me differently. She had mixed feelings about me, and I could tell. So could my mother, and she would try to hide me under the blanket whenever the breeder tried to look at us. Each time, the breeder would pull me out and hold me up gently, looking at me closely. Then she would cuddle me close and say "Oh, I know what I should do, little one" with a very sad sounding voice. But then she'd look at my mother and shake her head and say "No, I just can't do it; don't worry Girl, here is your son." She would put me back in the whelping box and my mother would lick me all over, as if to wash away the words our breeder had spoken.

Time passed, and soon we puppies were weaned; not a good time, I have to say, but we got through it with the help of Puppy Chow. People started coming to look at us, and each time our breeder would put me all alone in a crate and not allow any visitors to see me. I guess she was ashamed of me. Anyway, one day Peggy came to check us all out for our breeder, and again I was put aside, this time left in my old whelping box. Peggy noticed me. "Who's that little guy?" she asked, and my breeder said "Oh, I'm putting him down soon; he was born without an eye." Humph! In my opinion I was born WITH an eye! Well, Peggy was thinking about this statement when her husband Dave spoke right up; "We'll take him," he offered. This seemed to make my breeder very happy and relieved, and it worked well for Peggy, too. She didn't even have to come up with a plan for talking Dave into it, since taking me was his idea. Instead of getting "put down," whatever that meant, I was given away. I wasn't happy about it, and my feelings were really hurt that my first mom seemed relieved that I was going. "It's truly for the best, son" she told me with a knowing look, and I could tell she really believed it. She cried, and so did I, but then she licked me good-bye and wagged her tail, and that was the last I saw of her. (time out--Winky has become upset and needs a break from telling his story)

Sorry; I'm OK now. Anyway, I was brought to my new home, and that is where I met my adoptive parents. At first I was slow to warm up to them; it took a good twenty minutes before I was attached to Mom like Velcro, and letting Dad teach me how to wrestle cats. But then I realized these two needed me as much as I needed them. Besides, my first mom would have been too busy having subsequent litters (hopefully with non-lethal genes!) to have really spoiled me in the style I'd have appreciated even if I'd been allowed to stay with her. Being an only child to two adoptive parents has its perks! These days I just think of Mom as my mom; but I do still remember and will always love my other mother, too. As for Dad; well, he is really cool. I give him a hard time, but I really love him. And there is no better cat wrestler on the planet!