Playful, elegant, and not above the judicious use of the word “shit."

I Am So Not Kidding About This

(While I’m out of the country, I’m reposting some content from my archives. This one was originally published in the fall of 2002 when we were living in Los Angeles.)

So there’s a certain adult dog in the neighborhood, a pure bred 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, that’s what we’re gonna do. Beaver Cleaver.

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

As I mentioned above, Beaver Cleaver still owns his reproductive organs and has consequently 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 humping my dog, Beaver Cleaver’s owner laughed 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 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 while pointing at Chuck he explained to me and to Beaver Cleaver’s owner (the one who snorted), “Snort snort snort. He’s snorting!”

Hey, innocent mistake, right? Perhaps Beaver Cleaver’s owner sounded like my dog. And trust me, he did. The man snorted like a mud-coated pig at the trough. But a few minutes later while Beaver Cleaver was approaching climax somewhere over Chuck’s face, Beaver Cleaver’s owner gave out another laughing snort, again wondering aloud, “I don’t know why he does that.”

You guys, I wish I didn’t have to write this paragraph BUT IT HAPPENED: right then my clueless husband wrinkled up his nose, contorted 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-shaking snort that my husband realized, OH MY GOD, the man made that noise, not our dog.

Yes! Yes! Welcome to my hell, honey! Did you sleep well?

And then, well, then… it all happened in slow motion. It was like that part in “Making the Video” where they’re filming the club scene, and the colors are super-saturated, all yellow and orange and burning gold, and in what seems like four minutes of film the camera 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.

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