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BOY DOGS WILL
BE BOY DOGS
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Columnist's Note: I wrote this many, many years ago when my
kids were young. It's about dogs, not people. Needless to say, there's
a huge difference. The kingdom of dogs has their own issues. Anyway, it was
never published, so I'm running it now.
Obviously thrilled with the example I had set, my wife decided
that our 2-year old black pug, Lucy, needed a husband as well.
"I'm 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 he's
neutered."
So off we went, my sons and I, searching long and far for a
young but mature (no way we were getting another puppy) male fawn pug with
no testicles.
We finally found one that met almost all our requirements. He
was a year and half old, he was a fawn pug, and 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 hasn't been neutered!" cried my wife when I
surprised her with the new addition to the family. "I'm calling the vet
right now."
"What's the hurry?" I replied, crossing my legs as
she excitedly dialed. "Lucy's been spayed. She can't 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 don't even know her!"
My sons 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 I've got a feeling it's going
to be the longest week of Lucy's life."
We glanced at the coffee table that Lucy was hiding under as
Rocko patrolled the perimeter, snorting. "Perhaps," my wife
noted, "Rocko should try a little tenderness."
I said I'd 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 Rocko's testicles was a notion my sons 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 the 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
Rocko's 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 wasn't 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 wasn't 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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