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Obviously thrilled with the
example I had set, my wife decided that our 2-year old dog, 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 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 hasn’t been
neutered!" cried my wife when we 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."
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
I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be the longest week of Lucy’s
life."
I decided to try a different tact.
"What makes all of us think that Lucy won’t like what Rocko has in
mind for her. She can’t get pregnant. Maybe she’ll 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 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 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 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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