Lisa Carnley is managing editor of the Lampasas Dispatch Record. Anyone who knows her well knows that dachshunds are an important part of her life and are just like children to her -- and that's exactly how she treats them. Kids are expensive. I know; I have two. And they never really have all they need (or want) and as a parent, I never stop giving them what I think they need (or want).

When my kids moved out, I figured I would save some money for a fabulous vacation. I could see it all: getting on an airplane and getting off in some exotic foreign country to while away the hours on a sandy-white beach drinking unusual concoctions of fruit juice with paper umbrellas.

But that was not to be.

I still have two "kids" at home, though they are of the fuzzy, four-legged variety. And boy, are they expensive.

Between doggy wheelchairs (yes, you read that right) and medicine for lazy-eye (I know ... I know), I need some type of family insurance plan that will include my pets -- and won't cost me a paw or a tail.

But I digress. Let me start at the beginning.

About five years ago, I adopted two dachshunds from Central Texas Dachshund Rescue in Austin. They were abused and neglected and needed homes. I have had doxies before, and they are wonderful protectors and companions. They also are profuse barkers and possess a "Napoleon complex" where they think they are big enough to take on the world.

I brought one doxie home (Gulliver), and he was "lonely." Well, you can guess what happened next. I got him a pal, his brother, Otto.

Without thinking, I set myself on the path of twice as much work, twice as much cost and twice as many medical bills.

About two years ago, Otto hurt his back. Anyone with dachshunds knows that is never a good thing, and it happens quite frequently. This was my second bout with this same dog, though this time it was much more severe.

Several thousand dollars worth of surgery (I know ... I know) later, and he is a miracle dog, doing what they said he never would -- walking (or, more specifically, staggering) around. In the mornings, especially, he walks like a drunken sailor.

He stayed in the vet clinic for several weeks, had a back full of stitches, couldn't walk for a while -- thus, the doggy wheelchair -- needed hordes of medication, whirlpool treatments (I know ... I know) and continued vet visits to recover. He is doing well.

Now, it's his brother's turn to wrack up the bills. Recently, Gulliver's little face swelled up, and he resembled a squirrel storing nuts in his cheek for the winter. I knew that couldn't be good.

It turned out his teeth were infected, and the infection had spread behind one of his eyes. Well, two tooth extractions and much medicine, eye drops, etc. later, and he has ended up with lazy-eye. I have taken to calling him Popeye. He doesn't seem too amused.

Well, that makes two of us. The bills are astronomical, and I don't think there will ever be an end to it.

Why do I do it, you ask? (I know you are asking.) Because they are mine. And when I agreed to take them, I did so in good faith, knowing full well they didn't come to me under the best of circumstances nor with any type of guarantee (or warranty).

Instances of abuse, neglect and just plain meanness could have turned them into biting, snarling animals.

But instead, they are loving, wonderful boys who greet me excitedly when I get home. They sleep with me at night under the covers, snuggle up to me when I watch television, and look at me with complete understanding when I am sad or lonely.

All they ask in return is an occasional belly rub, a little bit of head scratching, a bowl full of food, some clean water, and a kiss every now and then.

That seems like a fair trade. What more could anyone ask for?