The puppy place was at the end of a long gravel drive in the middle of North Carolina farm country.  The roads were unmarked, so we ended up at the wrong house.  The woman who answered her door didn’t even pause – she said “If you’re lookin’ fer dawgs, therr jes’ back out th’ road and hang a left at the fawerk.” (“fork” for those who don’t speak North Carolina Farm Country.)  We hung a left at the fawerk and drove slowly up to an absolutely enormous pen, inside of which were hundreds of yipping dachshunds.  Hundreds of hundreds.  An old woman, moving so slow she was almost going backwards, waded…