An Oscar Nomination

We used to have a miniature Dachshund named Oscar. We didn't choose the name -- I'd like to think I could come up with something more original -- it just came with him. We got him when he was 3 years old , so instead of trying to teach him a new name and since he was already accustomed to Oscar, we decided to keep it.

We received him from a friend of Mrs. B's mother who had to get rid of the dog. It was a bit of a hard sell for me in the beginning. Not that I don't like dogs, I love 'em. It was just that we lived in an apartment and didn't have a lot of room for a dog. Plus, the inevitable house-training and all. I also didn't want to take the dog, fall in love with having him, then have the previous owner turn around and want him back. After assurances from the owner that he would not, as well as could not, change his mind and cajoling from the wife on how small and easy to take care of he was, I relented.

He was a wonderful dog, as sweet as could be, and great fun to have around. Not to mention, a chick magnet. But, me being married, that was more of a curse than a blessing. We had him from 1992 until the day he died which, unfortunately was a few years ago due to liver failure. I still think about him quite a bit. I have never been more upset over the loss of an animal than I was over Oscar. But I thank God for every day that we had him. He gifted us with an enormous amount of love and left us with many wonderful memories.

One of my favorite Oscar stories involves a routine trip to pick up some take out food. We often allowed Oscar to ride with us whenever it was reasonable and the weather wasn't too extreme. He loved riding in the car and being able to "snorfle". For those uninitiated, "snorfling" is when a dog sticks his head out the window of a moving car to allow the wind to blow his floppy ears back and start his nose to running like Niagara Falls (at least, that's how it worked with Oscar). It's a technical term, look it up. I just don't make these things up, you know.

Anyway, in this particular instance, Oscar and I went to Blimpies to pick up a couple of sandwiches. They were nicely wrapped in paper, placed inside a clear plastic sleeve, which was then placed inside another paper bag holding both sandwiches. On the way home, Oscar, as usual, was sitting in the passenger seat while the bag of sandwiches were leaning upright against a corner where the center console met the front of the passenger seat. This was standard operating procedure (SOP). We stopped a small convenience store, known to us simply as "the little store", approximately a mile from home to get a couple of Cokes. This also was SOP. We had done this dozens of times without incident.

So I go into the store while Oscar stands watch over the vehicles and the sandwiches. I can't be in the store for more than 3 minutes, tops. This is not a unfamiliar store. I know exactly where the Cokes are in the cooler and there is never a line at the one register in the place.

As I say, I'm in and out in a matter of 2 or 3 minutes. Oscar, as always, is sitting up watching for me and happy as pie when he sees me (SOP). Anytime we would leave him alone, be it in the car or the apartment, he seemed to think we were never coming back. His previous owner caused him to have great separation anxiety. Anyway, I jump into the car, head home, and Oscar and I grab the food sack, jump out of the car and head inside.

Once inside, I head to the kitchen and start unloading the sack (again, SOP). Now all this time, I never notice anything amiss. The sack shows no sign of being disturbed. Oscar has no remnants of any food on or around him. Nothing on the seats or in the floorboard. And did I mention, Oscar is NOT a tidy eater. In fact, one might call him slovenly. Especially with things that he is not supposed to be eating and have lots of condiments added. Yet, not a shred of lettuce, a crumb of bread, nor a fragment of paper was found in the vicinity of the bag. I, of course, was not suspicious at all because, say it with me, this was all Standard Operating Procedure (SOP, to those in the know).

Then it slowly begins to dawn on me that something is wrong. At first, it just looked like the sandwich maker was a little (not a lot) messy with the sandwich when putting the lettuce on or when wrapping the sandwich up. But as I pull the sandwich out of the plastic sleeve and unwrap it, I notice that the sandwich (mine, of course) seems to be a bit thin in the meat department. I'm thinking maybe the guy shorted me on some of the meat. But no, I stood there and watched him make the sandwich. There was plenty of meat on it. Then I open the sandwich and realize that the meat is gone. No sign that it ever existed.

What the hell happened?! I know there was meat on there when I left the sandwich shop. Then it hits me. Oscar. I look down and there he is, staring up at me with that sardonic look on his face that he always has when I have food and he wants some. Sure, I say, you couldn't have eaten HER sandwich, referring to my wife. His only reply is the perking up of his ears and the incessant wagging of his tail.

But how? How did he do it? It's like he sucked all the meat out of sandwich without even touching the rest of it. He barely even disturbed the lettuce, tomato and other veggies, not to mention the wrapping. And he did it all in under 3 minutes. I just don't believe it. He had to open the outside sack, get into the plastic sleeve, then through the wrapping paper and pull the meat out without noticeably messing anything up or getting any food outside the bag. And be finished and up in his usual spot watching for me, looking totally innocent, before I exited the store.

It is still hard for me to imagine that it was possible. He was a remarkable dog, but come on. I doubt a master thief could have pulled this job. He's just a sweet little 12 pound dog with short legs and a long, barrel shaped, body. It still makes me chuckle every time I think about it.

As you can probably guess, I ate rather light that evening.