Bella

An Introduction

Well, I’ve introduced you to myself, to my garden, and to Leo. That only leaves one protagonist I must introduce you to: Belladog Harrold Maxwell, Miniature Dachshund, born 07.02.2022:

I do not know how to write about Bella. My drafts folder is testament to this. I have started and abandoned several drafts of this post, each utterly failing to capture Bella’s being.

Bella was the dog I always wanted. I had longed for a dachshund since I was a child. Their enchanting, duck-like waddle, their hilarious, tiny legs. God’s (or if you prefer, evolution’s) greatest joke. So lacking in aerodynamics, so full of character; who could resist?

Initially, I am drawn to words like “complex” and “complicated” when describing Bella. Bella is so clever and manipulative that sometimes it frightens me. She is a terrible bully to Leo who she runs rings around. My poor, dopey Leodog. I thought he would be the alpha because he was bigger, older, and male. And I was certain that such a sociable beast would be glad for a friend. But this tiny little saus walked in and owned him immediately. For a few days he was delighted to have a playmate, but then he realised she was staying and his life has been mostly one of misery ever since.

Essentially, she is just much cleverer than he is. And because she is very clever she is also highly anxious. Unfortunately, this makes her the dog I never wanted - the dreaded yappy dog.

It is a terrible, continuous embarrassment having a yappy dog. She shouts when she senses danger which - because she is hyper-vigilent - she senses everywhere. She even initiates fights, e.g. by shouting at very big dogs who haven’t even noticed her, as if to say ‘don’t even think about it, I may be small but I will make you watch as I murder your family before draining you of blood and pissing on your corpse’. I mean, it works. No one fucks with Bella.

Recently I went with a friend to stay with her parents at their lovely home in Surrey. Bella positively screamed at them - the proprietors of the house - every single time they had the insolence to enter their own kitchen. They were very gracious about it, but I’m sure will not be rushing out a further invitation to stay. I should have told them that if they supplicated themselves, let her smell their hand, stroked and worshipped her – and made no sudden movements - they would have a friend for life, but I was too busy apologising.

One merry morning walk about 18 months ago, Bella almost killed a squirrel. The squirrels of south west London are all worryingly obese. This particular squirrel spent a moment too long ambling between two trees, possibly out of breath - as I would, winded, halfway up a long flight of stairs - and before either of us knew it, *munch*.

Bella shook. The squirrel and I screamed bloody murder. The attempted murderess dropped the squirrel. Broken, it dragged itself up a tree. Passing commuters rush over to ask if I was ok. Shame and horror overtook me and I couldn’t answer them coherently. Bella looked delighted. But then, for the rest of the day, I couldn’t look her in the eye. How could I live with this bloodthirsty animal in my home? Unable to lock me into her huge, limpid gaze she became highly distressed and understood that she had made a grave error.

But this savage little beast is also the biggest, wettest blanket you ever met. She is a bundle of contradictions. She guards me with her life against predators such as the postman, fast-moving toddlers, and every living soul that has the audacity to walk down our busy London street, but then cries cartoonish, whimpering cries until I give in and rub her tummy.

When Leo, Bella and I are alone, Bella lets her inner puppy out. She can be a very silly sausage. She and Leo will happily zoom around and play together. But you wouldn’t know meeting her in public. She prefers to stand apart, sometimes hiding behind my shins looking regal, while the dopey dogs chase each other. Her side-eye could cut a bitch, or dog.

She snores. She’s snoring right now, in fact. Typically she is never more than a few inches away from me, unless she is off somewhere being naughty or sleeping by the radiator on the landing (the warmest spot in the house). The smell of the top of her head is the greatest smell on earth.

She is a sun-worshipper. In summer I leave the backdoor open and when she isn’t by my side I can usually find her lying in the hottest part of the garden, a sun-baked sausage.

Dachshunds are said to be perfect city dogs but seeing Bella let loose on the Tors and trails of Dartmoor one sees immediately that this is wrong. She is a hunter. An adventurer at heart. That hyper-vigilance was honed over generations to ensure she could track a badger sett, not so she could protect me from the sound of my neighbour’s stairs squeaking as he climbs to bed.

Sometimes when I am not paying her the attention that she wants she rests her front paw on my knee, sits back on her hind legs and stares at me. With the big eyes and the indignant little cries it is a posture designed to invoke pathos. But she looks like a baked potato left in the oven too long, and it is one of the funniest things you’ll ever see. It makes me howl with laughter which, in turn, means she gets what she wants. I don’t think she’s ever intentionally funny, but then so often the best comedy comes from the straight man.

Between the snoring, shouting and crying, she constantly makes herself heard. I respect it, even if at times her shouting happens right beside my ear when I’m fast asleep, and quite often shatters a peaceful moment reading a book or something, tearing through it like a scream. Sometimes, I admit, I am compelled to shout back. This does not stop her, but it is cathartic.

One of Bella’s basic life principles is: everything is snacks. Unspecified animal poo? Snacks. Tainted street meat? Snacks. My snacks? Snacks. Leo is four and has never needed an emergency trip to the vet because of an errant snack. Bella is two and has been three times so far, with many other ‘monitor and see’ situations in between. She has an insatiable appetite. As a result she is more Saucisse de Toulouse than chipolatas and the vet tells me off on every visit.

She comes into her own as a hot water bottle at this time of year. From the day she arrived she has slept beside me, tucking herself under the duvet. She burrows under blankets and things so that sometimes all you can see is her juicy little booty, sometimes just her nose, like a snorkel. Getting her up every morning it is like trying to get a teenager up on a school day. Most days she has to be physically dragged from deep under the duvet.

Her tail will let you know how she feels more accurately than her behaviour. When she is focused the tail is DEAD straight. When she’s excited it wags madly and makes her whole body wiggle, and when she feels playful it is straight with a hooked end. But when she is afraid (often) it is tucked fully under her bum. If she likes and trusts you, she is a total flirt and will roll over to show her tummy so that you may have the honour of tickling it.