You Dawg

Oh my heavens. I am 48 years old and I just realized what the term "dawg" really means. And worse than that, it took the visual aid of my friend's dog to bring the concept into full focus earlier today.

I can't name the dog because it would comprise innocent bystanders.

At around 5:00 p.m. I realized that I had some packages to pick up from my friend's house. And since she only lives a few blocks away I decided to take Pepper along for the walk. I knew she had a dog so I also knew she wouldn't be upset if I brought along my own furry companion.

We arrived at her house and her son let us in. Yes, both of us. You can do that when the homeowners are dog people. Once we were in the house it seemed like a perfectly good idea to let the two dogs play and after a bit of sniffing, off they want to run around her yard.

In a moment of naivety, I started talking to my friend and stopped watching what I thought was the innocent dog play. Well, next thing you know her dog was humping the bejeebers out of my sweet little virgin puppy. At first I couldn't help but laugh. It was just so ... doggy-in-nature like.

We pulled them apart and went back to talking. But this is where the dawg side comes into the picture. I remember guys in university who were totally single minded about girls. I doubt that any of them finished university because that would have required them to focus on their studies now and then, and not solely their little brains. I doubt they could do that. These guys were called dawgs. And they lived to get laid. There was really no other dimension to their personalities. Getting laid wasn't a hobby or sideline -- it was their reason for getting up in the morning.

(I know someone is going to write me to explain that all guys are like that but I just don't believe it, so don't waste your typing. I knew lots of guys who managed to collect a few degrees so they obviously could compartmentalize better than the dawgs.)

Which brings me to my friend's dog -- let's call him The Boffer for simplicity's sake. God love that dog, he's from such a nice family, but I have to tell you that he loses his mind completely when he sees a female dog butt. He spent the next 15 minutes just following Pepper around ready to give her a good 1-2 if she would just comply. And since she is my dog -- she was totally uncooperative. I really don't think she knew what hit her so to speak.

In a fit of chick-like revenge she ate all his dinner, but that did not deter The Boffer -- he just jumped up on her butt and started at her again while she ate his chow. That is the true sign of a sex-obsessed male: he wasn't even upset that she ate his food; he just wanted her to stay still eating it long enough for him to mount her.

Needless to say, my friend was mortified. I thought it was hysterical but just in case Puppy Aid (the dog version of Children's Aid) doesn't agree with my sense of humour, I did the honourable thing and I picked up my dog to get her out of the way of The Boffer's boffer.

As I was leaving, my friend looked at me sort of resigned to the reality that was dawning on her: "You're going to put this on your blog aren't you," she asked. I was going to say no, but then I realized that it was the best story of the day and I just couldn't lie. "Yeah," I said, "but I'll change the names to protect the innocent."