Mumma had the satisfaction of being right about Rosie in some ways. My little pet was indeed a poor specimen of her breed. She matured to sixteen pounds—on the awkward border between the miniature and the standard for the breed. Her coat grew in long but thinnish. She was timid as well as unprepossessing, and spent her puppyhood hiding behind boxes in the kennel, darting out to steal food or toys from the stronger members of her litter.
“She’s sneaky,” Mumma would report whenever I telephoned to check on her and Rosie. “She plots and she schemes.”
“She’s clever,” I’d reply, “and resourceful.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
Those were the last words Mumma said to me, in life, a few days before the influenza swept my family away.
Weeks later, when Mrs. Motta handed me all those awful telegrams, I hardly reacted at all. I was so … depleted, I suppose, that I simply did not have the energy to weep.
In fact, I did not cry at all until I was strong enough to meet the lawyer at my mother’s house. You see, Mr. Reichardt brought Rosie with him that morning. She remembered me. And she came to me when I called.
Well, three times out of five, anyway. Dachshunds have their own agenda and can be stubborn about seeing their plans through to completion. What Rosie lacked in consistency, she made up for in enthusiasm. Most of the time when I called her name, she sprinted back, her long ears cocked and flying like a little girl’s pigtails. Each encounter was a glorious reunion, even if we’d been parted for only a minute or two. I had never felt so beloved.