He wasn't supposed to be a member of the Dachshund Delights' Board of Directors. One of five puppies of Matti and Oliver's first litter (they had two before both were altered), the longhaired black and tan male was the last to go. We hadn't planned on keeping any out of the litter. After all, we had three dachshunds. He and his smooth haired black and tan brother were the last to go, and an older lady who had recently lost her dachshund had the choice of the two boys: one smooth, one longhaired. She chose the smooth.

He was "sold" twice. Once to a young couple in an apartment across the street from our pet gift and supply store in Burton, Ohio, who later decided they just weren't home enough to give a dog proper attention; and once to a young gal who was heading for college, who also decided college life would just not allow time to devote to his care.

He had no name. The closest thing to a name he had was "Mr. Who-Ha." Dubbed so by a friend with a silly sense of humor who thought he had just the cutest little — well, you know — who-ha. Everyone who came into the store doted on him (the dachshunds all came with me to the store every day) and thought he was just the cutest, most personable little dog they had seen in a long time, but no one wanted him.

By the time he was 12 weeks old and no one had taken him, I decided I wanted him. Being with me everyday at the shop, his sweet nature and loving personality (not to mention his handsome looks) were growing on me. He wasn't just growing on me … he had grabbed me. Once you get into the multiples of dachshund ownership, what difference would one more make?

Now that the "doggie in the window" was no longer for sale, he needed a proper name. I tossed several around in my head. I wanted something that was him. Being the son of a longhaired (Matti) and a smooth (Oliver), his hair was not quite that of a true longhaired. It was wavy. And although he had some "feathers," he didn't have the long, flowing locks of a true longhaired doxie. He was rather dapper looking with his wavy coat. And handsome … with very distinguishable tan markings that highlighted his features. He was a charmer. If his soft, brown eyes didn't melt you, then the tilt of his head, placed strategically on your shoulder would. He was suave and debonair with the ladies (both canine and human). There was only one name befitting such a lad: Rhett. As in Rhett Butler.

He has lived up to his name. For just as the Rhett of Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the Wind swept away Scarlett O'Hara, so has Mr. Rhett captured my heart. I have owned and been involved with dogs all my life. Never have I had or known a dog like Mr. Rhett. The people who passed up buying him have no idea what they missed out on. He is truly one of a kind. Well-behaved. Well-mannered. Good with other dogs (both young and old, male and female). Good with cats, birds and other household pets. Good with other people. Loving. Playful and animated. Obedient and tolerant. An excellent travel companion. And dare I say it when speaking of a dachshund: housebroken. The perfect houseguest. An absolute gentleman.

All doxies have their own unique qualities and are special in their individual ways. Mr. Rhett is not only a very special dog: he knows he's special. The dachshund total in our house is now eight (and we thought three was enough), but Mr. Rhett has his way of standing out among the crowd. The rules for the other seven don't apply to him. He is so special, he is exempt from most dog rules. But it's his behavior and personality that qualifies him for exemption.

Ask our webmaster, Jerry Stemnock. He has two longhaired dachshunds, Fred & Ginger. When Rhett and I visit him in Chicago, Fred & Ginger have to go in their "club houses" (crates) while Rhett gets the run of the house while we are out sightseeing. He even knows where to go to ask to go outside. "My dogs live here and they don't know that," Jerry once commented. Even at home he usually gets the run of the house while the others are cordoned off somewhere. And if we happen to put him with the others, he shows his contempt for the act by refusing to accept a treat. All the others gladly snatch their "good dog" treat for going in the confinement area, but not Mr. Rhett. His way of showing us that he doesn't belong with the other dogs is to snub our pathetic offer of a reward.

He is the perfect travel companion. He knows that his Sherpa Bag® means we are going on a trip and he gleefully jumps inside and curls up. The bag is black with black mesh. He is black. No one in the airport or on the plane even knows he is in there. He doesn't make a sound or a fuss even during take off and landing. He is better behaved than any child I have seen on a plane, yet there is one airline that allows children but no pets on board. I have sneaked him into places dogs aren't suppose to be because he is so good in his Sherpa Bag® .

He is known by another name (don't most doxies have two names or at least various forms of their names?). He is also known as The Dude. Sometimes as Dudey-Dude. And when he's trying to sneak upstairs before it's actually bedtime, called Tippy Toes. When he's invited to "let's go to bed, Dude," it's a full scamper up the steps. But if he wants to retire before it's time, he will literally tip-toe up the stairs so that his retreat to the bedroom is undetected by the others. But once he is by the bed, he will do his "I get to be in the bed!" dance of joy. Put him on the bed and he immediately dives under the covers (no matter the temperature of the season) and waits with anticipation for: Feet Licking. Yes, the Perfect Dog is obsessive-compulsive about bare feet. Jesus' disciples didn't wash feet so well. We have to warn anyone who visits us and chooses him as his or her "bed buddy" about what they are in for.

He is a tolerant lad. He puts up with The Doodles' (our 1-year-old doxie/poodle mixes) antics, but the thing he is most tolerant about is Harness Modeling. He has spent many an hour modeling our Hug-A-Dog Harness® at trade shows, lying nearly motionless on the display table. Some visitors would stop to see if he was real. And the thing is, he hates the harness. It's not that there is a problem with the harness. He just hates to wear anything. He would go without a collar if he had the choice. He runs and hides whenever he hears the r-r-r-i-p of the Velcro® opening.

He has served as a pet therapy dog at a local rehabilitation hospital and Alzheimer's facility. He patiently and lovingly tolerates all the pets, pats, sights and smells of the hospital experience.

He's quite the athlete as well. He and his sister (by a different litter) Stubby used to (before she died in an accident in the fall of 1999) chase each other in the yard so fast that it would make me tired to watch them. He was always faster than she was, due to her congenital deformity in her lower spine and hips. She would grow tired of chasing him without success of catching him and she would try to outsmart him by stopping and waiting for him to "come around" again. But he would call her bluff, head straight for her and then put moves on her that any football running back would admire. Their wrestling matches could have been a WWF highlight, except he almost always let her win. He's such a gentleman.

My handsome fellow celebrates his ninth birthday on June 9th. I was there when he was born. And he's been my pal ever since. All doxies are special. No doubt about it. But when it comes to Mr. Rhett, he's Special with a capital S.

Anyone who thinks differently,  well, frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.