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Happiness is a warm dachshund

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You couldn't keep a dog in central London, John reckoned, it wouldn't be happy. And a dog would be extra unhappy living at 221B, with no routine and exciting bits of flesh it wasn't allowed to eat. But if Sherlock and he lived long enough to retire and leave London, they would have a dog, John had decided.

He hadn't told anyone what breed he wanted, though Sherlock had doubtless deduced it from the photos of the nine-year old John playing with his dog, Sparky. He could already hear the comments from other people if he said he wanted a long-haired dachshund: jokes about short legs, and cuteness, and owners who looked like their dogs. Molly had a picture of two dachshunds up in her office; he wondered if she just thought they looked sweet, or if she understood there was more to them that that.

They'd bred dachshunds, first of all, to hunt badgers, and it took a hell of a lot of courage to go into a strange underground hole and maybe come face to face with a much large, enraged animal. Dachshunds were brave, and loyal and stubborn; he still remembered Sparky's determination, chasing after next-door's collie Bess, paws scrabbling, ridiculous ears flying. One of these days, I'll get one, he thought. Much more fun than a bulldog.