So there's this dog in the neighborhood. And this dog is a pure bred adult male who still sports a rather large set of testicles.

This dog is named after the lead in a comedy series from the sixties, and I'd love tell you his name but the last time I talked about someone's dog on this website an anonymous person emailed the owner of that dog and told her that she should come to this website and see what an evil person I am.

So let's call this dog Beaver Cleaver. His name really isn't Beaver Cleaver, but for purposes of this story, we should all call him Beaver Cleaver.

It's important to note that we can't refer to him as just Beaver, because the dog's name is Beaver Cleaver. I have attempted to call the dog just Beaver on several occasions, and each time I was quickly scolded and corrected. The dog's name is Beaver Cleaver.

As I mentioned above, Beaver Cleaver still owns his reproductive organs and consequently has developed all the bad habits of a mature male dog, including but not limited to compulsively humping every dog it happens to pass on the sidewalk.

My dog recently happened to be one of those innocent and unsuspecting dogs, and while I'm fully aware that most dogs like to hump now and then, you have to understand that I once witnessed Beaver Cleaver humping air. Empty air.

So while Beaver Cleaver was recently humping my dog, Beaver Cleaver's owner sort of laughed, I think, with a snorting, pig-like grunt and said, "Beaver Cleaver, stop it. I don't understand why he does that," as if he were completely unaware of the gigantic sac dangling between Beaver Cleaver's legs.

And you know, that's fine, I don't mind that Beaver Cleaver and his owner are in complete psychopathic denial. But just then, just as Beaver Cleaver's owner gave that piggish snort, my husband mistakenly thought that our dog was making the noise, and explained to me, to Beaver Cleaver, to Beaver Cleaver's owner (the one who snorted), "Snort snort snort. He's snorting!"

Now, I know you're thinking, hey, innocent mistake. Perhaps Beaver Cleaver's owner sounded like my dog. And trust me, he did. The man snorted like a pig in heat. But a few minutes later while Beaver Cleaver was approaching climax somewhere over my dog's face, Beaver Cleaver's owner gave out another laughing snort, again wondering aloud, "I don't know why he does that."

And again, while I looked on in complete abject horror, my lovely, my wonderful, my extraordinarily dramatic husband wrinkled up his nose, made his body into an upright monster-pig, and snorted as if his life depended on creating the most life-like pig noise you've ever heard.

I think that it was during the fourth body-contorting snort that my husband realized, my God, the man made that noise, not our dog. The look I was giving him could only have confirmed his fears, because I was looking at him like, "Dude, I know I married you and all, but snort one more time and I think I might throw up."

And then, well, then... it all happened in slow motion, you know. Or it seemed like it happened in slow motion. It was like that part in Making the Video where they're filming the "club scene," and the colors are all super-saturated, all yellow and orange and burning gold, and in what seems like four minutes of film the camara pans across two glistening women, slithering in rhythm, popping out of their hot pants. Except in this instance the two glistening women are two panting dogs, one ejaculating hot canine semen in a rainbow arc above the other dog's head.