live in a dog house. I say that not because I'm in trouble with [My Attorney], and not because we're merely dog lovers. I say that because my dogs rule the joint with a smelly, farty, drooly, peeful ruthlessness. We don't own
them. They own
us.We were a one dog household for several years. Our dog, Tyrone, came to us via the internet, from a Border Collie rescue squad in Minnesota who drove all the way here and wouldn't even take a solitary dime for their troubles. Ty was clearly a troubled animal, having been raised by cats, without a father, away from his litter. He came out to us not long after we took him in and we embraced his sexuality with all the love and support we had. He lives now in our household as a very healthy, very happy, openly gay dog.
But it was pretty clear Ty was lonely, and not for doggy peen, but for a four legged friend to prance around with. This became distressingly clear when we sat someone's dog, an unfixed Golden Retriever with all the brains of a cup of coffee. She and Ty chased each other with such unbridled joy they wore a trench into the ground. They fell asleep in heap and for the first time in many months, I saw a smile on Ty's snout.
My family took it as a sign we needed another dog—but I put my foot down. Our house is not much bigger than a walk-in closet. One dog is already too much. But two? Forget it. I'm proud to say I managed to fight them off for a full year but eventually, their ongoing education and massive genetic intellectual gifts delivered to them an argument I could not put down. One of them says to me: Dad, you work at home, we have a fenced in yard, and it would make us all happy—especially Ty.
I realized I did not have a valid reason to say no. I just didn't want to deal with more dog. I told them all over dinner, my eyes closed in rueful concurrence, that I couldn't say no to them anymore and they were welcome to get another dog. When I opened my eyes, expecting a table full of teary-eyed appreciation, I was alone, the salad bowl still spinning in the middle of the table from the backdraft of their speedy exit. I found them huddled on the couch picking puppies off of Google.
I assumed the new dog would make Ty happy in the same way the retarded Golden Retriever had, and they did play together a little. But Ty was too old for Whiskey and spent more of his time rolling his eyes and calling attention to just what a
titanic dork this little puppy was. And there was the humping. Massive, ceaseless, egregious, perverted puppy pumping, everywhere, all the time. [pullquote]Dog anuses are complex narrative devices, like audio books for barkers. They are the iPads of ass dogs.[/pullquote]It was an astounding display of perversion, which, yeah I know, is some kind of powerplay for dogs and, yeah, I know, it's not actually sexual, but, gentle reader, brave canine apostate, trust me:
it was a degenerated, vile, abrogation of decency. Ty didn't merely hump his new protegee in the typical manner of their species, no: he side humped him, bottom humped him, snout humped him; he rolled Whiskey over and belly pumped. It was torpid, shameless, and against God.
And hilarious. Seriously, I was tempted to put it all on YouTube but I was afraid it was too close to actual animal porn and PETA would show up in the front yard.
Then the hippy showed up. Just as nature abhors a vacuum, distant, nomadic relatives abhor a newly constructed empty basement apartment. My Hippy arrived with a 90 pound Malamute puppy born the same day as Whiskey. We introduced the dogs in the back yard and in true generosity, Tyrone looked at this new musclebound arctic lumberjack of a dog and
gave him Whiskey whom Odin promptly mounted with his tongue hanging out and his eyes rolled back in his head.
Then in an astonishing, unforeseen, and truly bizarre turn, Whiskey slipped out from under the lumberjack, whirled around, and jumped up on his furry arse to return the favor. It was like watching an outhouse dry-hump a skyscraper. Odin took it in stride. Then Tyrone cocked his wrist and said,
you think that's something? Try it this way, and proceeded to hump Whiskey face first, with a flailing, hideous, clockwork ferocity and a sideways grin on his snoot like some dirty canine uncle. Then Whiskey whipped around to face hump Ty, then Odin face humped Whiskey . . . this went on for hours. They came prancing back into the house and fell asleep in a slump in front of the TV.
Now I know there's some serious canine communication and pecking ordering going on here. I know, somehow, this constant humpfest is a negotiation among the pack. But it looks entirely, and completely,
gay. It looks like I am now the proud parent of three ass-centric queerhounds. Sure, I know I'm being given a rare opportunity to witness true pack politics and maybe learn something about dog language—but I'm telling you: they're gay dogs. They bark with a lisp.
Still, I am trying to learn something. Here's what I know so far:
Dogs Have No Loyalty
Odin and Whiskey are escape artists, patrolling our fences with a constant eye for a hole big enough to wedge their head through so they can go poop on the neighbor's driveway. This is the apex of accomplishment for them and they would get away with it if it weren't for Tyrone who WILL NOT LEAVE THE YARD even when the gate is wide open and a raw steak is lying on the sidewalk. He will, instead, stand there and bark a strange slightly strangled yodel which we have come to understand as "The stupid ones are out again!" But it's not just Ty. Odin has learned that I am a lazy slob and frequently leave the butter out which he will promptly eat, resting his gargantuan paws on the granite edge of the counter to lean all the way back to the wall and slurp butter (pizza, bacon grease, guacamole) as Whiskey stands there barking at him in his distinctive "I'm telling," staccato.
Dogs have a complex language
I thought, back when I was a one-dog-man, based entirely on brief encounters on city sidewalks walking my dog, that they merely sniffed each others anuses as a kind of truncated hello. Like handing someone a business card. I was wrong. Dog anuses are complex narrative devices, like audio books for barkers. They are the iPads of ass dogs. This has been driven home to me by the Three Asskateers's insalubrious habit of ramming their snouts deep into each others holes while I'm trying to watch the Food Network and leaving them there, tails twitching, like the sniffee is actually
telling a story out of his butt. Once, all three of them stood with their noses up each others ass in a salacious simulacrum of the circle of life, for five full minutes. I couldn't pry them apart. I don't know what they were saying, out of their omega orifice, but for them, it was damned interesting. It was their assward
Avatar.All dogs are gay
It's not a criticism, just an observation. When my dogs aren't sleeping, face humping, or cramming their cranium up each others crack, they're licking each other. You know,
down there. And I don't mean a cursory, tentative lap. I mean deeply committed, thorough, patient osculation; I mean a wang washing. I know they do that
to themselves, and
loudly, and
during dinner—but do they have to take care of their friends too? And so often? I mean, we're talking a parade of perverse peen purification.
I've picked up a few books about the language of dogs and pack mentality but I'm less inclined to learn their idiom because the more we communicate, the more likely it is they will begin to think of me less as a biped and more as a dog to the point that they'll start face humping me in my sleep.
Or worse.
