Reader, if I cast New York City in a bad light, I apologize. Perhaps under different circumstances, I might have left with a better opinion of the place. 

In addition to thinking shysters ran the place—which is true—I felt necessitous for good food, fresh air, and above all else, good sleep.

My gracious hosts owned a dachshund. I kept my trap shut, but I felt like calling the little bitch a bunch of names.

I know, I know: I am merely displacing my anger on an innocent animal, who had nothing to do with the meddling balderdash responsible for its breeding. Perhaps I should direct my ire onto those who would breed such a dog—a breed that evolution would have thrown on the proverbial scrap pile. Why would you breed a dog just to course badgers? Indeed, badgers are a noble and docile species, unless incited, and only desired for their pelts or their ability to amuse man’s baser appetites.

(Though I am told they are eaten in Russia and China—which is all well and good—but I’d much rather eat ground dachshund than filet of badger.)

Now, I don’t have a problem with a dog that barks. It is a desirable quality to a point. However, any time someone entered the apartment complex where I stayed, the dog caused a considerable rumpus. It was very difficult to sleep, despite the roar of the fan that was there to drown out the rest of the city’s babel.

Moreover, the dog was incapable of pissing or shitting on its training paper. Perhaps that is an exaggeration. But the reality was worse: the dog could hit the mark sometimes, which gave me a hope for its training that would soon be dashed by a steaming log beneath my cot or a puddle of piss by my overnight bag.

Perhaps I misjudge the beast, though. In spite of my latent hostility, I did befriend her and I even gave her a nickname, “baby sauce,” much to the pleasure of her owner.

Her owner told me (and this is a bad paraphrasing, mind you) that her dachshund was first attracted to her boyfriend’s dominating nature, but recently, the animal was taking refuge in their mutual womanhood. I chuckled at her good-natured, albeit slightly barbed, anthropomorphism. After all, I am always delighted to meet a woman with some intellectual teeth.

That said, I know her boyfriend a little better than she does. For instance, I remember another diminutive dog—a shitzu, to be exact—that caused his heart to melt despite his machoism.

As did mine, at times, at that alarm clock of a dachshund.