Something I've just discovered, well, I already knew Hockney had dachshunds, and I knew Thurber had one, I knew Napoleon had one hidden in his vest (that's why he was always sticking his hand in there--to give it kibble), but I had no idea Picasso had one. And let me just say that no one ever has just one dachshund. If they have one in their arms, then it's a high probability more are around, or they've had a few in the past, and they will have more in the future. I suppose it's because dachshunds are so full of personality that they are like little humans without the petty hang-ups. Fiercely loyal, soulful, protective, loving, funny. Love matches for love with a dachshund. There is no lack, no limit to their love. If you look awful, feel sick, have had a bad day, grumble, complain, they will still love you. They seem to understand the reasons for our frail psyche, and respond to it with their own problems of lost toys, hunger and sadness of departure. Yet they erase all of it with their joy.