One picture won’t due either.

I am Zoey, an amazingly, exceedingly, excessively cute miniature dachshund. I am so cute that people stop me, even in PetSmart where shoppers already have dogs, to ooh and ah.

They tell Shelley, my pet parent, that I am adorable, cute and beautiful, plus a whole bunch of other adjectives that make me want to lift my snout.

Though I could go on and on, I know that description should be concrete, concise and careful, while evoking the senses.

My favorite sense is smell, especially when snow blankets the ground. I like lifting my face when it falls, letting it wet my whiskers and clump to my fur as I begin to climb.

At nine pounds, I can stand on top of snow once the wind blows it into piles, using my snout to push it over the edge. I like watching it fall like shavings from a white crayon, sticking to the white already there.

In the summer, the grass is like little fans that wave, lifting the sweat of the heat into a sweet smell, edged with bitter lemon.

Best of all is running when all these smells come at me, the grass, a neighbor’s grill, human sweat, the markings of other dogs on the fence and my own panting breath.

I stop.

I could have been describing myself, but instead I described my surroundings. I guess I’ll have to let my picture speak for itself. Aren’t I cute? How cute? Cute to the 100^th power, times Pi, or 3.14, divided by one.

That would be me, the number one cute dog in the world.

Though smaller, Zoey the Super Dog has a big bark.

A dog’s voice is, at the surface, a matter of his or her bark.

But it’s more than that.

The quality of the bark – shrill and yippy, low and rumbling, or quick repetitive snaps like clapping – is based, in part, on breed. But how that bark is executed differs according to the individual dog.

Take me, a nine-pound miniature dachshund. Looking at my cute face, you would think my bark would be kind of small and quiet, but it’s big and deep and has a lot of growl – at least at times when I need to show you who’s the big dog of us two.

Voice is how I tell my story.

I have a certain bark for treats.

And one for the noises I don’t like.

And a bark for the trains.

If I am outside, I howl at their rumble on tracks and the scream of the whistle, long, short, short, repeating as if we don’t know there’s something speeding through town.

I bark from the patio to tell the world here I am.

Zoey, super dog.

I bark, therefore I am.

This is how it should be, Shelley and I together, not separated by 100 miles!

Animal communication doesn’t require dialogue, as such, but it does take being able to communicate through the heart, the eyes and the mind.

Shelley, my pet parent, dropped me off at her dad’s house for three weeks, though I don’t know what three weeks is or three hours either. I just know she’s gone, gone, gone, and I want her back.

I am sending her a message to come get me.

Right now, her dad is seeing me pout, only perking up to go outside and run around the back yard. I like barking at the noises from other dogs and the trucks driving by on to the next town.

I get left here twice a year, once during winter so Shelley can work on her writing, and once in the summer during her vacation.

Shelley’s dad likes that I come, so he can spend lots of time with me, playing our games of chase, tug-of-war and keep away. He likes letting me sit on his lap when he works at the computer or when I cuddle next to him when he reads or does puzzles.

Sure, I think he’s a great guy and all, but he’s not my person.

I snuggled tight smack against Shelley when we visited her dad last weekend before she abandoned me. I kept track of her, continually on the lookout for any signs of packing.

On the third day of the visit, her stuff got put in its bags.

Mine didn’t.

No-o-o!!!!

After she left, Shelley made it clear that she’s missing me. I can feel it in my heart, a message from hers that she doesn’t like coming home without my tail-thumping greeting. She doesn’t like leaving for work in the morning, when she gives me treats and says, “I’m going to work. Be a good girl.”

She doesn’t like the quiet.

Oh wait, I hear a noise. I start barking and scratch at the door. I gotta go. There’s sounds for me to investigate, I realize as I take off running around and around the back yard. I’m barking as I forget, at least for a few minutes, that I’m missing Mom.

I am not sure about changing my exterior world, though there are a few advantages to being here.

I love the big backyard and chasing after feral cats and wild birds that, I believe, should want to be my friends.

I love running along the fence and barking up a storm, rabble rousing the neighborhood into making noise alongside me.

And I love getting attention from a whole new set up people.

Plus, Shelley’s dad is a good play buddy who wrestles with me on the floor, plays chase and tosses the ball in the air for me to catch, which I can do two out of three times (if I’m trying).

The disadvantages are:

• I miss Shelley.
• I am attached to Shelley.
• I want Shelley to come back.
• This is not my home.

To demonstrate my sadness, here is a photo from a previous time when Shelley left me at her dad’s. As you can see, I look quite sad.

Zoey is anxious about her toys packed up in bags.

I am sad.

Bark! I just heard a noise. I’m off to run around the backyard, come inside for a treat and play off my cuteness to engage Shelley’s dad in play.

I play, therefore I am.

I'm pretty as a picture.

As a dang cute mini-dachshund, I have quite the character. I love getting pets and treats, and I like to play tug-of-war, chase and keep away.

But that’s what I like to do.

Who I am is a different matter.

I am a 9.5-pound bundle of cute. In fact, I am the CEO of cuteness.

As the main character of cute, I am supposed to have a minor flaw. Hah! Me?

Shelley, my pet parent, would say I bark too much. Dogs are supposed to bark. Small dogs like me also should bark at big dogs to let them know who is the boss, or the CEO.

To describe how cute I am (though my picture tells a million words), I have black tipped ears, eyeliner-like lined brown eyes and a long, lean body (think wiener dog).

I am playful. I love to run. I love to chase and be chased. I am on the constant lookout for friends, human and animal alike (well, except for cats).

I am very nice.

I am cuddly.

And I am 100 percent lovable. Can’t you tell from my photo?

See for yourself:

Aren't I cute as heck?

I'm all decked out in my winter jacket, plus I'm irresistible for petting.

As you can see, I'm so lovable, especially with Grandpop.

As Shelley blogs about writing, I am chewing my blue plastic Frisbee to pieces. I know that it’s for throwing, but I prefer to bite off the edges or, in the case of balls, pull off the strings, erasing the toys’ effectiveness as objects to be thrown.

I’m kind of smart that way. If I chew away at something, then I don’t have to chase it.

Even though as a dachshund, I like to chase things, preferably balls and my teddy bears, I get tired of doing the same old thing over and over again.

Plus, when it comes time to reflect, I do my thinking with my teeth in motion.

It’s a contradiction that boils down to my liking to chase things – but only once. If Shelley throws a ball, I’ll eagerly go get it and bring it back, well not to her exactly but within her vicinity. That way, she has to work to throw it again.

I’m trying to let her know that I’m not interested in do-overs.

As I chew on this idea, Shelley is blogging about plot, or the structure of a story from beginning to the middle and the end.

My days have no plot, but they do have a beginning with me waking up and wanting some of Shelley’s breakfast, a middle with her going off to work and leaving me all alone, and an end with Shelley coming back and playing with me.

My life is like a Frisbee that gets thrown and I bring back, just as I wait for Shelley to return from work. It’s an endless circle, but by chewing on the outer edges of that circle, I create something that won’t fly through the air.

In other words, I’m retelling the plot of a dog’s life through the action of my teeth.

So, chew on that.

The end of the year offers a time for reflection, but being a dog, I don’t focus too much on the past. I’m all about the present.

I’m also about presents, as you can see in this photo of my opening my presents on Christmas Day.

Zoey opens her presents one after another on Christmas Day.

I’ve learned a few things this year:

* I’m not supposed to bark at big dogs.

* I’m not supposed to bark at noises in the middle of the night and wake up Shelley.

The problem is I like to bark.

* I’m not supposed to be selfish with my toys when I play with other dogs. In other words, I’m supposed to share.

* I’m supposed to sit when I want to beg for treats.

* If I sit beside my toys, Shelley will get the hint and play with them and me.

* I can catch balls.

* I can carry doggie teddy bears that are larger than me.

* I can stand on my hind legs.

And I can be ultra, extra, exceptionally cute.

In 2012, I will be blogging about the life of a dog, what I learn and what I like about being furry and fou-legged. I’ll continue with my canine poetry and try my paw at writing a dog story or two.

Hence, Zoey’s Paw.

Zoey hangs out with some of her toys, but would like more!

I turned three on December 20, five days before Christmas.

Shelley, my pet parent, threw a birthday party for me at her favorite coffee shop, the Mandolin Café. She made a cake, and I got to eat some, plus get toys and treats.

But really, it’s not enough.

Christmas is coming up, and as a very cute dachshund, I should get presents.

PRESENTS!

This is what I want for Christmas:

* More toys, like big stuffed animals that are larger than me.

I have a few, including Duckie, Big Dog, Doggie and a new unnamed bear that was supposed to be for Christmas, but I claimed it by ripping off the tag and running off with it for some play time.

But I could use more friends to add to my lair.

* More balls, though I have small, medium and tennis-ball size balls already.

* Treats, particularly Pupperoni, anything with chicken or steak and rawhide.

* Love, lots of it.

And attention.

And people telling me I’m cute.
And getting pets.

And, and …

I’ll stop now, a dog can’t be too greedy, given that there are other dogs on the planet who have needs, too.

Right?

Yeah, I guess so.

Merry Christmas!!!

I am so cute that if I were a book, you wouldn’t be able to put it, or me, down. My cuteness …

Okay, you get the point.

I am Zoey the Cute Dachshund.

See for yourself:

Zoey is dressed up for a night on the town.

Zoey seeks some sun while hanging out on her window ledge.

Zoey enjoys the sun in a summer past.