Michele Herman tells her wiener dog story in the Villager:
Everything was fine one minute. It was midday Wednesday, and my dachshund and I returned from a visit to his dachshund girlfriend down the hall, who was recuperating from a pinched nerve. We came back to our apartment and, being the healthy ones, went off to our respective work — I to the desk to write and he to the kitchen to sniff.
A second later I heard a big messy-sounding clatter in the kitchen, a mix of jingling tags, puppy toenails slipping on the floor and a crablike scrabbling. I sat there for a minute, stupid with warring hypotheses.