Pimp My Dog

My Dog Was In Season And I Was In Distress

It was that time of year: Molly was in heat and we had covered all seats and ourselves with old throws.  She spent her time licking her bottom and ignoring my reproachful and repelling looks.

I had never been around a dog in season before.  I can’t say I was in favour of it.  I don’t think she was either: she was confused and didn’t know what to do with herself when her tongue was at rest.

The Hub took 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.  He found a mate for her in Bolton. 

Hub and Spud took Molly, primped and perfumed to look her best for the great ugly brute about to violate her.  The Brute was another Yorkshire Terrier called Toby.  Our own Toby is de-testicled and has never 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.  I felt like a mother pimping out a beloved child and I couldn’t bear to watch her deflowering.  The Hub, of course, took a camera – for a picture of the babydaddy, I hasten to add.  He intended 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.

Reprieved

My little girl is still virgo intacta –  being only eighteen months old, like any adolescent male Toby was enthusiastic but clueless.  He 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, if you get my meaning.

Toby finally gave up but she came back exhausted anyway, because they spent an hour running and playing in the garden instead.

She was invited back next season, when it was hoped he’d have done some studying into the matter.

This post first appeared as two posts in January 2011.  

Still no puppies.  Toby never got the hang of it.

Rain, Rain, Nothing But Rain

The dog is going stir crazy.

Just the one dog: Toby loves his walks but not in the rain.  He’s a Yorkshire Terrier and terriers believe in sniffing their way around a walk.  You can’t sniff anything in a puddle so what’s the point in going?  If it’s raining, he won’t go out and that’s that.

Unfortunately, it has done nothing but rain for a week.  There were at least two days when we didn’t get out, and on other days we managed ten-minute walks in the hiatus between one lot of clouds moving on and the next lot of clouds rolling in, but it’s not enough for a Squirrel Chaser (First Class) such as Toby.  

He’s driving me mad with his incessant nagging.  I have to open the front door every time he starts, letting the rain soak the carpet because the wind is always blowing in this direction.  

The problem is, dogs don’t think in the abstract; they live in the now as in:

I want a walk now, I want a walk now, I want a walk now!  Good, she’s putting on my coat, my harness, my lead, her coat, her scarf, her gloves, her shoes, what’s that big stick that opens up?  At last, I’m having my walk at last, at last – I’m not going out in that!  It’s filthy and I can’t smell anything.  Heels in; I like a good tug of war.  Let her get wet if she likes; I’m not that daft.

And then we have to take off the coat, the harness, the lead, the coat, the scarf, the gloves, the shoes.  I’m never sure which one of us is most disgruntled but I know who sulks the most.

Molly is a different kettle of dog:

It’s past September?  No thanks; I’ll walk in April.  

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Our Little Girl Is Four Today

Molly and Toby came to us at different times from different homes, but they are the same age; there are five days between them.  Here’s Molly:

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Molly has just come out of season; the third time since we got her.  It reminds me of the first time it happened [shudder]: I dug out the old post I wrote in my distress, and edited it.

It’s that time of year: Molly is in season 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.  He found a mate for her in Bolton.  He and Spud took her, 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 of that sort of attention at all.  I guess, if you can’t find love at home you will play away….

I couldn’t go with them.  I felt like a mother pimping out a beloved child and I couldn’t bear to watch her deflowering.  The Hub, of course, took a camera – for a picture of the father, I hasten to add.  He wanted to document the process which never happened: 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.

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The Head At The End Of The Bed

Thank you for your concern for the bruised Spud.  His bump has gone down, though he tells me it is sore to touch (Mother’s advice: Stop touching it, then!).  I knew he was going to survive by bedtime, so I went up, leaving him watching tv with his Dad, and the instruction to add another blanket to his bed because it was going to turn cold in the night according to the weather report (it did; that’s twice they’ve been right this year.  They’re on a roll).

I was asleep by eleven, little Molly Moo, one of our Yorkshire Terriers, snuggled beside me, wrapped in her blanket – she feels the cold from August onwards and, in spite of the unseasonably warm autumn, wears a hoody on her daily walk.

We were both snoring happily, when I suddenly woke up.  Someone had pulled the bedroom door to.  Molly never moved so, as she is the barkingest dog in Britain, I knew it was nothing to worry about, and went back to sleep.

I woke up.  Someone had opened the bedroom door.  Nothing from Molly except the whimpering noises which means she’s chasing after a giant fur coat in her dreams.  Back to sleep.

Awake.  The door had been pulled to again.  I began to wonder if I was dreaming.  Molly was.  Sleep.

WIDE awake now…the door was definitely open.  I lay quiet, listening.  Then I noticed Molly was wriggling excitedly under her blanket.  Still not barking.  She squirmed along, tail wagging.  I sat up slightly…and saw a disembodied head floating at the end of the bed. 

Then I realised it was Spud.

He was the one who had been opening and closing the door – he opened it to ask me for a blanket, then closed it when he saw I was asleep, which is when I woke up.  Open again, when he realised he had locked Molly in; closed over when he went into the landing cupboard to find a blanket.  Open for the last time when he couldn’t find a blanket in the cupboard, and crawled around my bed so as not to wake me, to the drawer under the bed where, he had remembered, I kept spare blankets.  Molly thought he was playing a game and wanted to join in, and it was at that moment I sat up.

I couldn’t accept his apology because I was laughing so hard: partly because it was funny, but mostly in relief that I wasn’t going crazy.  Or about to be eaten by ghost.

Job for today: relocate spare bedding to accessible storage point.

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Related articles

• Day One Hundred and Twenty-three: Awake (yearofstories.wordpress.com)
• Mirror, Mirror Off The Wall (thelaughinghousewife.wordpress.com)
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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.