Schatzi, my Chaperone

Schatzi was the tiniest dachshund I’d ever seen, with beautiful long curly hair, but he was sharp as a razor blade. He felt it was his mission in life to protect me. I was barely thirty then with two little daughters. My husband had left us, and since this was the swinging seventies when a single woman was considered free game, protection was a good thing to have.

I was the editor of a small German newspaper then and well aware that our advertisers were our most important asset. Our biggest client was Mr. Holze who imported alcoholic beverages from Germany. Mr. Holze was in his sixties, stately and of the old school. He had lost his wife a year or two earlier, but he continued buying the same two season tickets for the San Francisco Opera as he had done for years—the Opera needed to be supported he felt. 

One day he invited me to see La Boheme. Somewhat reluctantly I accepted his invitation—there was just too much work to do and not enough time for my children.  But La Boheme is one of my favorite operas, and I invited him to have a home-cooked dinner beforehand. 

We placed him at the head of the table, my two little daughters to his left, I to his right, and Schatzi, our dachshund, positioned himself strategically between the two of us, keeping a sharp eye on Mr. Holze. 

Mr. Holze, aware of his vast store of knowledge and experience, and my lack of it, proudly held forth with good advice. All very good counsel of course, and most likely I needed it.

Once in a while, and for greater emphasis when he’d explain that I must always do so and so or must never do this or that, he would pat my arm. 

The wrong thing to do—Schatzi did not approve of touching. He uttered a sharp, prohibiting yelp! Dear Mr. Holze quickly retracted his hand, while I could barely keep from bursting out laughing.