Marko Polo

Ever since forever, I've loved dogs.  My mom and sister were allergic when I was a little kid, so we could never have one, despite the incessant requests of my siblings and moi.  Finally, in 8th grade, my parents said yes!  After much research, we decided on a dachshund.  It's funny how much research went into this decision, as dachshunds have been a strong family tradition for at least four generations now.  So, in February of 1998, we drove 1.5 hours to rural Pennsylvania pick up Wilson Friedrich from the Mennonite doxie breeder.

Fast forward several years to me entering the Real World (dun dun dun).  There was a lot I had no clue about regarding my new, adult life, but one thing I couldn't wait for was a pooch to call my own.  I didn't, as I realized how large of a responsibility pet ownership is, but once Brooks and I got hitched and owned our own home with a fenced in yard, it was time.  Brooks was not a canine person (keyword: was)...frankly, it took all he had to get over his childhood fear of small dogs.  But, out of love, he agreed to suck it up and take the puppy plunge...as long as it was a male dog that he could boss around.  I researched, and researched...first, the adoption avenue, until our set of criteria just wasn't working with this route.  Then, I found the perfect situation...a reputable breeder, not super far away, not super expensive, with a male short-haired dachshund ready to go home during the summer, when, being a teacher, I had the time off to train him.

We visited the puppy and decided to name him Marko Polo - we love traveling, so we thought this was an appropriate namesake, and Marko (instead of Marco) because dachshunds are German and we wanted to reflect that in his name.  He was so stinkin cute and had Brooks wrapped around his little paw at first sniff.  My parents were also rather hooked, and though Wilson is still alive and kickin (at 13 years old), they decided they needed one of Marko's siblings (a short-haired female, to be exact).  Well, Marko didn't have any short-haired sisters, so my parents settled on a brother, whom they named Toblerone, or Toby, for short.  I do need to point out that Toby was and is to this day, MUCH larger than our pup...perhaps that should have been a clue...

Marko at about 5 days old

So, I am super excited about the soon to be doggy I'll have to call my own.  I paint a water bowl with "Marko," we have a dog tag engraved with his name and our phone number, and do other things to prepare for his arrival.  We go on vacation out west, return to the east coast and are super amped up to retrieve Marko.  After we accomplish our mission, we drive back home (~4 hours) and Marko is, naturally, scared, sleepy, and refuses to go potty.  While we attempt to teach him his name, he just had an aura about him that told us he had problems with what we'd say.  You know how dogs have personalities...well, Marko's was very distinct...as though he needed an attitude adjustment.  The next day, we took him for a thorough check-up, where the vet looked him over and spoke to us in her thick Korean accent.  She stood him up on his hind legs, checks out his belly and declares "Oh!  You said this was boy...this girl!  See!  There...(she points) vulva."  To which Brooks and I replied...hmmm well, we didn't expect that!  To our credit, Marko's, who quickly became Ruby, ahem...body parts...were rather disproportionate.  

Brooks burrito-ing Ruby

After that, Marko became Ruby Tuesday and, yes, roll your eyes, it all just clicked - her aura dissipated and we noticed that duh, she is very clearly a lady through and through - dainty, clever, spunky, and (usually) well mannered.  Ruby is considered the brains, while Toby is the muscle...Rocky and Bullwinkle...Pinky and The Brain.  We find it funny that my parents wanted a girl and ended up with a boy...and all Brooks wanted was a boy but accidentally brought home a girl...a fact that he's 150% ok with these days :)

from left to right: Wilson (childhood pup, 14 years old), Lucy (my sister's pup, 3 years old), Toby, Ruby