I have only two legs, which makes it difficult to compete with those with four. I have straight teeth, all my hair and can bench press a case of Pepsi. I shower daily and throw on some extra man-eau when an intimate evening seems in the offing.
Alas, I am neither fluffy nor fuzzy, nor small nor compact, and I don't have soft ears; I don’t make cute squeaky noises and I don’t have droopy come-hither eyes.
That’s why, when my girlfriend brought home a puppy, I knew I was in for some stiff competition. As the little butterball bounced through the front door I waved my social life goodbye.
Yes, he was cute; yes, he was cuddly. But he quickly became a nuisance when I was told we couldn’t leave the condo for a night on the town because there was no one to watch him ... this after he’d piddled on my boots that were waiting somewhat impatiently to be filled (with feet, of course) near the front door.
What I wanted to know was, watch him do what? Pass gas? Chew his nails? Chase his tail? Crap on my boots? When did canines become attention-deficit, untrustworthy mongrels that can't be left alone for a few hours? Was my GF afraid the pooch was going to wet the sheets or eat the sofa? Had she never heard of puppy pads or a chew toy? What happened to crates, leashes and baby gates? And for goodness sake, why didn’t Doggy-Day-Care have evening services!
If I wanted to get lucky before the next lunar eclipse (and I did), I was going to have to prove I was a sensitive animal-loving fellow. Since we couldn’t go out I thought the fun could come to us -- a candle-lit dinner with wine was a scenario with some serious potential. I’d take a page out of the mutt’s playbook: we could take turns rubbing each others tummies on the alpaca rug in front of the fireplace; we could fall asleep in each others arms after hours of licking each others faces. She could hump my leg while begging for treats.
Then it dawned on me ... the dog required exercise. A romantic stroll in the park would be a fantastic way to wear him out for the evening, granting my girlfriend and I some alone time. But it wasn’t the dog that got worn out -- it was me, getting the dog ready for said stroll. (Apparently, dogs nowadays are quite the fashionistas, unwilling to be seen in public without their V-neck sweaters or Harley Davidson leathers. I'd long thought the little pads on the bottom of their paws -- the ones they were born with -- were supposed to protect them from the elements … but evidently it’s the matching polyester and Velcro booties that do the job. Oh, and I nearly forgot the Harley visor and shades.) I didn’t have brand name clothing until I was 30 but that is irrelevant here; our four-legged friends deserve only the best.
So, I'm playing second fiddle in what has quickly become a three-way relationship and will have to learn to adapt, I suppose. I will state, however, that although we may not be as cute and friendly, not as willing to obey and as easy to please, at least women don’t have to carry our shit around in a little baggie everywhere they go. Or do they?