BOY DOGS WILL 
BE BOY DOGS

 

Obviously thrilled with the example I had set, my wife decided that our 2-year old dog, Lucy, needed a husband as well.
     "Iím honored that you appreciate the contributions we husbands make to the quality of life," I responded. "I will find Lucy a companion that she will cherish as much as you cherish me."
     My wife was unimpressed. "Just make sure heís neutered."
     So off we went, my sons and I, searching long and far for a mature (no way we were getting another puppy) male, relatively young fawn pug with no testicles.
     We finally found one in Modesto that met almost all our requirements. He was a year and a half old, he was a fawn pug, and he was, without a doubt, as male as a male could be. A snip here, a snip there, and he would be perfect. So we took him, named him Rocko, and brought him home to meet his bride.
     "He hasnít been neutered!" cried my wife when we surprised her with the new addition to the family. "Iím calling the vet right now."
      "Whatís the hurry?" I replied, crossing my legs as she excitedly dialed. "Lucyís been spayed. She canít have puppies."
      My wife directed my attention to the initial meeting taking place between Lucy and Rocko, future lifelong companions. Rocko had completed the compulsory sniffing and, apparently satisfied that Lucy was indeed a female, begun his assault.
      Lucy had the look of a deer in the headlights. She may have wanted a companion, but what she got was an attachment. From the moment he saw her, Rocko was insatiable.
      "Rocko!" I screamed, "at least buy her a drink or something. You donít even know her."
      The boys were laughing and shouting "Get a room!" My wife was talking to the vet. Lucy was running for her life. Rocko, his testosterone raging, was panting and snorting as he tried again and again to show Lucy how much he loved her.
      "The first appointment I can get is in one week," my wife said as she hung up the phone. "And Iíve got a feeling itís going to be the longest week of Lucyís life."
      I decided to try a different tact. "What makes all of us think that Lucy wonít like what Rocko has in mind for her. She canít get pregnant. Maybe sheíll like it."
      All of us glanced at the coffee table that Lucy was hiding under as Rocko patrolled the perimeter, snorting. "Perhaps," my wife replied, "Rocko should try a little tenderness."
     I said Iíd work on that with him during the course of the week, and with improvement we might be able to cancel his appointment for the neutering. Saving Rockoís testicles was a notion the boys and I found very comforting. It was a male bonding kind of thing.
      And so the week began. Rocko showed little improvement and our male bond began to break. In fact, by Day Two, I decided I was ready to perform the operation on Rocko all by myself.
      As for Lucy, she spent her day fending off advances, eagerly awaiting darkness, when we would put Rocko in his little kennel with some raw meat and Lucy would get a break.
      To her credit, by the end of the week Lucy was climbing onto Rockoís back and biting his neck. This generated elated cries from my wife and daughters of "You go, girl!" Rocko simply looked very confused.
      And while he did calm down, it wasnít nearly enough. Tired of spraying Rocko with the fine mist of a water bottle when he mounted Lucy in front of us, and tired of his snorting, the boys and I turned the other way when my wife loaded Rocko into the car for his trip to the vet.
      He came home that night a little lighter and a lot quieter. Lucy seemed happy to have a companion that wasnít permanently attached to her back and the household returned to relative peace.
      My only concern was my wife filling up the mist-spraying water bottle and placing it on the table next to her side of our bed.

 

 

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