At first, I thought that the little black dog was just fond of the big fat brown dog. But no, it turns out that the big fat brown dog is in heat. I was surprised, because I thought she was too old for that. In fact, in her own opinion on the matter, she is too old and definitely doesn't want to be bothered with the overactive libido of the male dogs that have begun to hang around the house day and night. The little black dog has simply been more polite than most. Moreover, given that he is still just a very young dog, he has not been quite sure what to do with his intense feelings. Is this thing supposed to go in the ear, or the shoulder, or the neck, or just where? These are the exasperating doubts by which the little black dog has been assailed over the past few days. Nonetheless, he continues to pursue his efforts whenever they seem relatively safe. For instance, when the big fat brown dog is asleep. But then occasionally even he himself tires of relentless carnality and contents himself with tenderly licking her feet or nose. Which, again, is best done whilst she is asleep.
In the meantime, a ragged crew of less gentlemanly sorts have staked themselves out on the porch and in the yard--rude, ragged, inappropriate fellows who are given to barking vicious insults at each other, at the little black dog, at the big fat brown dog, at the door, the bush, the chair, the motorbike tire--you name it. It presses the patience even of someone who is as fond of dogs as I. I doubt whether even their own mothers can stand them.
Where to put it, therefore, becomes in a very real way least among the challenges faced by the little black dog--for he has taken for himself the mantle of Lancelot, sworn to serve and protect his damsel (and possibly mate with her, if certain body positioning puzzles can be overcome). All this chivalry ended in a hell of a ruckus yesterday evening when the big fat brown dog decided to go home, an act which required from the little black dog the proposition of a running battle against outrageous odds. Rather, the ruckus did not end. It merely moved, like a riot, to another locale.
I will be glad when this period of fertility comes to an end. The neighbors will be glad. There is no doubt that the big fat brown dog will be glad. And I think the little black dog will be glad as well. Either glad or dead.
In the meantime, a ragged crew of less gentlemanly sorts have staked themselves out on the porch and in the yard--rude, ragged, inappropriate fellows who are given to barking vicious insults at each other, at the little black dog, at the big fat brown dog, at the door, the bush, the chair, the motorbike tire--you name it. It presses the patience even of someone who is as fond of dogs as I. I doubt whether even their own mothers can stand them.
Where to put it, therefore, becomes in a very real way least among the challenges faced by the little black dog--for he has taken for himself the mantle of Lancelot, sworn to serve and protect his damsel (and possibly mate with her, if certain body positioning puzzles can be overcome). All this chivalry ended in a hell of a ruckus yesterday evening when the big fat brown dog decided to go home, an act which required from the little black dog the proposition of a running battle against outrageous odds. Rather, the ruckus did not end. It merely moved, like a riot, to another locale.
I will be glad when this period of fertility comes to an end. The neighbors will be glad. There is no doubt that the big fat brown dog will be glad. And I think the little black dog will be glad as well. Either glad or dead.
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