Runt of the Litter

by Sara Etgen-Baker

I stepped off the back porch and approached Fritz’ house which was nestled beneath his favorite spot under the shade of my family’s sprawling pecan tree. Using our shared German language, I commanded Fritz to dinner: “Fritz! Kommen Sie hier—Abendessen!”

Yet, Fritz didn’t come when called to dinner. I knelt down; peered inside his doghouse; caught a glimpse of his shiny dark little nose; and found him snuggled in the back corner of his doghouse, shivering and whining. He tried to stand up but whimpered then immediately collapsed.

“What’s the matter old boy? Why are you shaking?” I reached inside, hoping to pull him into my arms; but he yelped even louder. His doghouse had no floor, so I lifted up Fritz’ house; placed him in my arms; and wrapped him in the softest blanket I could find. I rocked him back and forth, gently stroking his back. “Just go to sleep. When you wake up, you’ll be okay.” As I waited for him to drift off to sleep, I remembered the day Fritz came into my life.

I was just six years old that hot August afternoon when I heard ol’ man Davis proclaim, “Hilda’s gone into labor!” I leapt down the back porch steps; ran next door; and watched Hilda strain as each one of her five pups slowly wriggled its way from her belly. Fritz was a runt and the first of Hilda’s litter of five milk-chocolate colored dachshunds.

I giggled as I watched five bundles of energy squirming beneath their mother’s tummy, all begging for lunch at the same time. But the magical moment abruptly ended when Hilda nudged her runt puppy away from her. Although the runt inched its way back to Hilda’s stomach, she shoved the runt away; growled at it; then pounced on its tiny back and tail. The runt yelped; I screeched in horror as ol’ man Davis—the neighborhood dachshund aficionado—ran to my side.

“She’s hurting him. . . make her stop!” I waved my hands in front of Hilda’s growling face.

Ol’ man Davis scooped up the injured pup and placed it in my hands. “Run, kiddo. Find a shoe box and put that pup in it! Hurry back!”

I darted for the Davis’ house, gingerly holding the wounded pup in my hands. I found a shoe box; placed the pup in it; then watched it stretch and twist its tiny body ever so slightly. Relieved, I returned to ol’ man Davis’ side.

“Hilda’s a mean dog. . . I don’t like her!” My voice trembled. “Why would a mama dog kill its own puppy?”

 “Kiddo, ya gotta understand that Hilda’s not mean; she loves her runt. But her instinct tells her that her puppy is too weak to survive, and she believes that killing it is the strong and merciful thing to do.” Ol’ man Davis patted me on the back. “Hey, kiddo, if ya have a doll blanket and baby bottle back home, go get ‘em. I believe we can save this pup. Whatcha think about that?”

 I dashed home, found the two items, and returned to ol’ man Davis’ side. We put the blanket in the box and placed the runt on it; heated some milk; added Karo syrup to it; and poured the mixture into the baby bottle. The runt sucked on it and wiggled contentedly. While I caressed its tiny body with my fingers, the runt fell asleep—serene and out of harm’s way.

“Ya know, kiddo, many runts die before they ever open their eyes. But if we can keep this runt alive ‘til its eyes open, it’ll prob’ly survive. Supposin’ it pulls through, you can have this pup. I bet it’ll be the most loving and energetic pup of the litter.”

So for 14 days we hand-fed the runt and waited for its eyes to open; over the next few weeks we watched the runt develop into a high-spirited, mischievous but loving, satiny dachshund puppy with a slightly broken tail.

“Hey, kiddo, at some point ya gotta give your puppy a proper German name,” suggested ol’ man Davis.

“Well, for some reason I like the name Fritz. It suits him!”

“Fritz is a right and proper name. I kinda like it. So Fritz it is.”

Fritz quickly became part of our German family; and for the next 12 years, we were inseparable except when I was in school. But immediately after school, I’d run home; throw open the backyard gate; and plop on the back porch steps. Fritz would dart up the steps; jump into my lap; and shower me with love and doxie kisses. After kissing me and licking my face, he’d turn his head from side to side as if to ask me, “How was your day at school?”

I always obliged him with some school story. “Today I learned how to write in cursive. I’m not very good at it yet. But do you want to see?” I opened my satchel and pulled out my writing tablet.

He’d tug on my school satchel; wag that broken tail of his; and bark as if to say, “Where’s my treat?” I’d offer him a cookie or other snack that I’d saved from lunch; and while he munched on his treat, I’d pet his elongated back and belly.

As I grew up, I often shared my deepest thoughts, secrets, and fears with Fritz. “Today I met the cutest boy in my Algebra class! Do you think he’ll ask me to the dance? I want to go to the dance, but what if he doesn’t ask me? You know, Fritz, I’m not very pretty; and I’m not a popular girl. Maybe I should just go by myself.” He’d tilt his head side-to-side as if to nod affirmatively and look at me with those encouraging doe-like eyes. “What if my acne flairs up the day before the dance? What then? Should I go?” He’d lick my face, wag his tail, and bark leaving me to interpret his doxie advice.

As Fritz matured, he embraced his German heritage, for he loved sausage, sauerkraut, pretzels, and even an occasional beer. At some point, Fritz even acquired a bit of the German wanderlust—escaping from our yard and roaming the neighborhood. I always found Fritz, for he was the only neighborhood dachshund with a broken tail. As soon as I spotted him, I’d yell in German, “Fritz, kommen Sie hier. Schlechter Hund!” As commanded, Fritz came to my side with his head down and his broken tail between his legs, pretending to be my bad dog.

I suppose his mother’s early rejection made Fritz a bit arrogant, which was all too evident when he haughtily turned his head toward me and trotted home. Once inside the house, Fritz sounded like Fred Astaire tap dancing—his tiny little toenails clickedy-clicked on mother’s linoleum floor. Fritz was half-a-dog high and a dog-and-a-half long with short stubby legs and tiny feet. As you can imagine, he lacked Astaire’s coordination and grace. So, he often ran down the hallway and slide out of control with the back of him always going in front of him.

Today, though, Fritz looked listless, fragile, and feeble. “What do you need, old boy?” I stroked his head. “Please tell me. I’ll get you whatever you need.”

Ol’ man Davis must’ve seen us on the back porch. “Hey, kiddo. Looks as if old Fritz is in some pain. Let’s take him to the vet. How does that sound?”

I silently boarded ol’ man Davis’ truck, resting Fritz comfortably in my lap. When we arrived at the vet’s office, the vet immediately took Fritz from me and disappeared from view. When he reappeared the vet said, “Fritz has arthritis, and he’s also had a severe heart attack. He’s an old dog and too weak to survive.” He took my hand in his. “The strong and merciful thing to do would be to put Fritz to sleep.”

“Are you sure? Maybe all Fritz needs is some rest.”

“Yes, I’m sure. I know you love Fritz and letting him go is a hard decision, but…..” the vet’s voice trailed off.

I gulped hard and nodded “Okay.”

“Would you like to see him one last time?” The vet patted my shoulder.

“Go ahead, kiddo.” Ol’ man Davis squeezed my hand. “I’ll wait for ya right here.”

I entered the back room and approached the examination table. Fritz lifted his head; licked my face; and wagged his broken tail. I stroked Fritz’ belly and patted his head, choking back the tears. “Fritz, you’re weak and sick, old boy, and not going to get any better. I don’t want to see you suffer. So I’m…I’m… putting you to sleep.” I hugged Fritz one last time. “I’m going to miss you, old boy!”

Fritz looked at me with those familiar doe-like, understanding eyes then nodded his head as if to say, “I’ll be okay. Thanks for being strong and merciful.”

The vet handed me a box of tissues. “Putting Fritz to sleep is safe and harmless. Fritz will receive two shots. The first will render him unconscious. The second will painlessly put him to sleep, usually within about 30 seconds.”

After Fritz received the first shot, I waited until unconsciousness washed over him like a soothing rain. Then, with the second shot, Fritz peacefully slipped away. I lingered by Fritz’ side for quite some time and remembered what Fritz taught me about tenacity, love, encouragement, and now death.

The next day ol’ man Davis and I buried Fritz in his favorite spot—beneath the cool shade of the pecan tree. Afterwards, I stood in silence and found myself thinking back to the day

Hilda tried to kill her runt puppy. As I did, my perspective shifted, for I now better understood and even respected Hilda’s instinct to be strong and merciful.