Reprieved!

My little girl is still virgo intacta –  being only eighteen months old, like any adolescent male Toby was enthusiastic but clueless.  He apparently kept looking to the Hub for help but, even when the Hub lifted him on top of Molly, he couldn’t make the bat hit the ball.  He gave up in the end but she came back exhausted anyway because they spent an hour running around the garden instead.

She’s been invited back next season, when it is hoped he’ll have done some studying into the matter.

My Dog Is In Season And I Am In Distress

It’s that time of year: Molly is on heat and we have covered all seats and ourselves with old throws.  She spends her time licking her bottom and ignoring my reproachful and repellant looks.

I have never been around a dog in season before.  I can’t say I’m in favour of it.  I don’t think she is either: she appears confused and doesn’t know what to do with herself when her tongue is at rest.  Nature is disgusting.

The Hub has taken charge, having grown up around breeding dogs and cats.  He is a great believer in female domestic animals having a litter before sterilisation particularly when, like Molly, they have had a phantom pregnancy, so he has found a mate for her in Bolton.  He and Spud are on their way there now, with Molly primped and perfumed to look her best for the great ugly brute about to violate her.  He is another Yorkshire Terrier called Toby.  Our own Toby is de-testicled and hasn’t paid her any attention at all.  I guess, if you can’t find love at home you will play away….

I couldn’t go with them.  My excuse is that I’m taking down the tree, but really it’s because I feel like a mother pimping out a beloved child and I can’t bear to watch her deflowering.  The Hub, of course, has taken a camera – for a picture of the father, I hasten to add.  He’s going to document the process, from innocent little girl to being loaned out as a baby factory to motherhood to having her beautiful babies snatched from her bosom…my dog, the pawn star.