"Charlotte's paralyzed." My mother's panic-stricken voice over the phone will forever ring through my mind. As I rushed from work to get to the vet's office all I could think was, would this be the day I would have to decide to put my beloved 6-year old dachshund down? I knew that ultimately the decision was mine...

Before I continue further with the most horrible day of Charlotte's life, let me give you a little background. I finally convinced my dad to let me have a dog. It took me 18 years, but I did it. His only requirements: it had to be a small dog. So, after extensive research, we settled on a miniature dachshund, and we went through the ads in the paper. We called, and the breeder said that she had three females left. So, off my mom and I took, driving thirty minutes to pick out my first dog. The last thing I expected was that she would pick me. The breeder opened the door to the "doggie room" and out bound three of the smallest butterballs I have ever seen. Two of them ran right past me as if to say, "eh" and boy were they all over the place. I watched them for a second, then turned my head to my feet and there she sat...sniffing and licking my toes. She then looked up at me as if to say, "well here I am. Aren't you going to pick me up so we can go home?'

I obliged. Picked her up, sniffed her puppy breath and said, "I'll take this one." As we paid, the breeder made it a point to emphasize how none of her dogs had ever had any back problems. Boy, were we relieved of that as we set along our merry way.