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Authors: Jennifer Basye Sander
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observed that “a dog teaches a boy fidelity, perseverance, and to turn around three times before lying down.” For pure amusement, then, this was a value-added service.) To this day, when one of us has difficulty getting settled, the other will bark out that command of yore, “Lie down and go to sleep, Frank!”
Befitting his species-neutral given name, Frank established himself quickly with the boys as “the other brother.” He was always available to them without condition or stint for real, adolescent play. To be sure, he enjoyed “fetch the ball” in that maddening, “I’ve got it now. Come get it, sucker!” dachshund way, but right from the start he was always “we,” not “they.” While he acquiesced to being a love object for us adults and extended family, including my “Auntie Mame” mother-in-law, Ginny, he was all about Trevor and Bevan to the end of his life.In combat, they both did him the favor of shrieking and flopping around on the floor while he vanquished them at the wrist with his mouth.
Frank adapted himself to their disparate personalities. Trevor was his favorite family-room snuggle buddy because, unlike Bevan, he didn’t become so absorbed in MTV’s The Real World that he neglected his petting and treat obligations. Because he was generally more aggressive, Bevan had to be reminded on occasion of his size-ratio boundaries with a growl or nip. When they were out, Frank waited vigilantly at the front window for them to return. The boys took to calling him Ma Bell because from the shoulders up, with ears elevated, he looked like an antiquated telephone set.
Almost Zen-like in disposition, Frank was made anxious by only three things: going to the vet; fireworks; and water, whatever evil form it took. He handled doctor visits with Gandhi-like civil disobedience, having to be carried and manipulated by hand. We learned to avoid fireworks altogether after taking him with us to watch the legendary National Mall Independence Day celebration from across the Potomac, at the Pentagon, when he was just a year old. He was content in Geri’s lap until the first flash bang; then he disappeared—under her blouse. I remember her saying, “I think he’s trying to mate with my spine!” From then on, he stayed home. And water? Total freak-out. When the boys were sledding or tubing, he’d run alongside in full cry, biting at the carriage. If the boys were swimming, he’d circle the pool, shrieking and biting the water. The first and only time he encountered the Pacific Ocean, he alternated betweenrunning away from the incoming surf and snapping at it on its way back. It was clear to him, and not lost on us, that we were being protected.
Frank never met a guest or a lap he couldn’t conquer, without so much as a bark or a whine—in large part because he could stare down the Sphinx without blinking. He’d confront his intended victim and, if not invited aboard immediately, settle in and engage for as long as it took. At their first encounter, my baby sister, Carol, was wary of Frank meeting her husband, Don. She revealed, “He doesn’t like whiny, yappy little dogs.” It was less than fifteen minutes, door to sofa, before Frank was inside his very happy new friend’s shirt.
In short, Frank was not just ours, he was us, in whatever incarnation required. He was embarrassed by the whole dog butt-sniffing ritual and considered other canines’ loud, energetic curiosity about him undignified. In fact, his only acknowledgment of another’s very existence was a cursory woof, uttered after that other creature was safely out of range. For fifteen years, until his brothers had graduated from college and it was the late summer of 2000, he was the perfect relative and ever-accommodating host. Bevan was competing in the Olympic trials, trying to win a spot in the sport he’d excelled in at college—decathlon. Dozens of family and friends passed through our house to offer encouragement. Frank was
Befitting his species-neutral given name, Frank established himself quickly with the boys as “the other brother.” He was always available to them without condition or stint for real, adolescent play. To be sure, he enjoyed “fetch the ball” in that maddening, “I’ve got it now. Come get it, sucker!” dachshund way, but right from the start he was always “we,” not “they.” While he acquiesced to being a love object for us adults and extended family, including my “Auntie Mame” mother-in-law, Ginny, he was all about Trevor and Bevan to the end of his life.In combat, they both did him the favor of shrieking and flopping around on the floor while he vanquished them at the wrist with his mouth.
Frank adapted himself to their disparate personalities. Trevor was his favorite family-room snuggle buddy because, unlike Bevan, he didn’t become so absorbed in MTV’s The Real World that he neglected his petting and treat obligations. Because he was generally more aggressive, Bevan had to be reminded on occasion of his size-ratio boundaries with a growl or nip. When they were out, Frank waited vigilantly at the front window for them to return. The boys took to calling him Ma Bell because from the shoulders up, with ears elevated, he looked like an antiquated telephone set.
Almost Zen-like in disposition, Frank was made anxious by only three things: going to the vet; fireworks; and water, whatever evil form it took. He handled doctor visits with Gandhi-like civil disobedience, having to be carried and manipulated by hand. We learned to avoid fireworks altogether after taking him with us to watch the legendary National Mall Independence Day celebration from across the Potomac, at the Pentagon, when he was just a year old. He was content in Geri’s lap until the first flash bang; then he disappeared—under her blouse. I remember her saying, “I think he’s trying to mate with my spine!” From then on, he stayed home. And water? Total freak-out. When the boys were sledding or tubing, he’d run alongside in full cry, biting at the carriage. If the boys were swimming, he’d circle the pool, shrieking and biting the water. The first and only time he encountered the Pacific Ocean, he alternated betweenrunning away from the incoming surf and snapping at it on its way back. It was clear to him, and not lost on us, that we were being protected.
Frank never met a guest or a lap he couldn’t conquer, without so much as a bark or a whine—in large part because he could stare down the Sphinx without blinking. He’d confront his intended victim and, if not invited aboard immediately, settle in and engage for as long as it took. At their first encounter, my baby sister, Carol, was wary of Frank meeting her husband, Don. She revealed, “He doesn’t like whiny, yappy little dogs.” It was less than fifteen minutes, door to sofa, before Frank was inside his very happy new friend’s shirt.
In short, Frank was not just ours, he was us, in whatever incarnation required. He was embarrassed by the whole dog butt-sniffing ritual and considered other canines’ loud, energetic curiosity about him undignified. In fact, his only acknowledgment of another’s very existence was a cursory woof, uttered after that other creature was safely out of range. For fifteen years, until his brothers had graduated from college and it was the late summer of 2000, he was the perfect relative and ever-accommodating host. Bevan was competing in the Olympic trials, trying to win a spot in the sport he’d excelled in at college—decathlon. Dozens of family and friends passed through our house to offer encouragement. Frank was
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