‘Sausage’ dogs are not worthy of a ban

Shut the assembly line! Our normally sensible Teutonic neighbours, after hundreds of years of uncharacteristically poor engineering, are toying with the idea of taking the dachshund out of production.

Proposed German legislation would ban breeds that are deemed to have skeletal abnormalities; only dogs that conform to a wolf-like appearance will cut the mustard with authorities. A petition to save the noble dachshund from planned extinction is circulating in response.

Ostensibly, the proposed breeding ban in Germany is related to the risk of IVDD – a form of paralysis most often seen in longer-backed breeds. If you’ve ever seen a dachshund strapped to a wheelie contraption, that’s why. But responsible breeding can cut the risk significantly.

My two dachshunds were not responsibly bred. They are rescue dogs from an illegal puppy farm that took advantage of Covid and the attention-seeking WFHers who thought it might be a laugh to have people point and shout “sausage” in the park.

After two years of sharing my home and bank balance with them, I cannot fathom why aesthetics or manageable health risks should attract any sort of ban when there are far better rationales.

Unless you have a serious badger problem, a dachshund will be unemployed in your home. Being industrious types, they will compensate for the lack of quarry by digging holes in your garden. Mine have created a Somme-like landscape which I enhanced for them with rolled chicken wire under the fences for escape-proofing. It did not work. I did enjoy the irony.

Dachshunds are described as very sociable. By sociable, read: require a companion, or your neighbours will enjoy the howling every time you leave the house. If you ever wondered why you rarely see a singleton, it’s because they are social with their own; all other dog breeds are just cosplay badgers.

I have been told it’s the charming stubborn streak that makes them tough to house-train. After two years of using all the techniques that had my retrievers reliable by their first birthdays, I am at the point of acceptance and wet vac shopping. I work from home. My desk is 10ft from the garden door. They will, reliably and silently, pee under my desk chair. While I’m sitting in it.

For all their faults and the letters from my neighbours, I wouldn’t trade them for any other breed. They might require sofa ramps and bed stairs in the future but, for now, I’ll take that limpid gaze of unconditional love as thanks enough for the carpet scrubbing.