Irish Dogging Habits

Sweary

I have a couple of dogs, the main reason being that I can’t stand cats and goldfish are not at all malleable. Personality-wise. They’re perfectly malleable in a physical sense, but anyone who’d have a pet goldfish for that reason is a very sick koi carp indeed.

Anyway, one of the dogs is a neutered bitch… and the other is a female. Only joking. The one on the right is a neutered bitch (aren’t they always?) and the one on the left is a “complete” male, which I find an insulting insult, as neutered dogs are but giving up their goolies for the good of society, and who are we to call them lesser dogs because of it? If anything, it’s even MORE complete the neutered dog is, for he has bigger interests than chasing young wans and postmen’s legs around the wider community, and he is more devoted to his pack. Truly, a dog with no bollocks is the dog’s bollocks. Not that that applies in the slightest, as our male dog is entirely intact.

Much to the bitch’s chagrin. He worries and bothers her day in, day out.

“Giz a shag,” says he, with his chin on her back.

“I haven’t the slightest interest,” says she. “I don’t feel the need. I am mutilated… but strangely empowered. No puppies will ever drag me down.”

“Ah, go on,” says he.

“Absolutely not,” says she. “Take your gonads out of my face. No dawg’s bitch, me.”

“Giz a shag.”

“No, no and no again! No means no!”

“Shag, shag, shag.”

“Now listen here, boyo. Just because I’ve got hollows where you’ve got peaks doesn’t mean I’m happy to let you blanket bog me. Get off!”

“Shag!” says he, mounting.

“No!” says she, sitting down.

“SHAGGERTY SHAGADOODLE SHAGTOWN!” he howls.

“GET FUCKING OFF ME!” This is the point where she snaps at him, and he retreats to a safe place to lick his… er… ego until it subsides a bit. And at this point he bounds over again, ready for round #14,760 in the great Determined Doggy Dance of Deluded Desperation.

(Here I would ask my ISPCA-attuned readers to get a dictionary and look up the term “hyperbole”, lest they feel the need to furrow brows).

And this goes on, and on, and it certainly provides a lot of amusement for my cruel and unusual dinner guests who crowd inside our patio doors like the cast of Salo at the zoo. “I think there’s more to this than meets the eye,” I point out, frowning at their whoops and hollers. “It’s gender politics, boiled down to its bare skeleton by the carnivorous, cruel animal kingdom. It’s oppression in its most basic, savage form. How far we’ve come… or have we?” And at this point I scowl at the gentlemen in the group, who have the good grace to de-fog their monocles and re-swill their port glasses.

However…

The other day, I happened to look out on the patio, and there I saw that the dog’s advances had taken a disturbing turn. He had finally succeeded in getting the bitch to stand placidly as he thrusted pointlessly… how, you may ask? Why would a bitch with nothing in the lines of a ticking biological clock stand there and be degraded by a slavering male?

It was because she was buried up to the eyes in his dinner bowl, and was taking advantage of the alpha dog dinner while the alpha dog alpha-dogged his way to distraction.

Le sigh. Such a damning allegory for a Saturday night on the tear in Lillie’s, don’t you think?