attack of the killer dachshunds - sort of

Yesterday, the blond and I went to the dogpark.  He's a seasoned citizen in the dog community (approaching fifteen years, thank you very much) and has never been much of an alpha.  He lived with an alpha for years and thought he could emerge into the role as alpha when he had his own day in the sun ... it never really worked for him.

Blondie is very much the live and let live type - don't sniff my rump and I won't sniff yours.  It usually works for him and it usually works for me.  Noses, not a problem.  A strange human's hand? No big deal.  The true identity of who/what the other guy is?  Pass - unless he knows the other dog at least a little.

Apparently Tuesday afternoon is/was unofficial dachshund day.  There was a pack of them (no less than five to the same owner and three singles).  Taken one on one, Blondie would have been just fine - sniffed a couple of noses and been about his business watering the bushes.  Unfortunately, the herd mentality took over and they ALL wanted to sniff every inch of him.  It reminded me of Jonathan Swift - the 'giant' golden retriever being subdued by several dogs that were half a dog tall and a dog and a half long ...

In the end, lover boy decided to sit on his dignity since hiding wasn't an option.  Five long minutes of sitting and whining produced peace and a strong hint it was time to leave.

The moral to the story?  There really isn't one other than the Golden Years aren't necessarily easy, not even for a dog.