More than just fleas come with new dog
By Mark W. Mayfield
If you're thinking about replacing your old, worn-out, obsolete dog, I strongly urge you to consider a sleek, modern, fuel-efficient mixed-breed.
According to recent studies, mixed-breeds consistently outperform purebreds in a variety of tasks, including fetching a newspaper, catching a Frisbee, and operating heavy farm equipment while intoxicated. But before you adopt any dog, thoroughly investigate its background. If you don't, you may be in for an unfortunate experience like mine.
My family's beloved mongrel, a German shepherd/Alaskan malamute, mysteriously appeared on our doorstep several years ago. She looked like the kind of dog that could heroically rescue the occupants of a burning orphanage, revive them with muzzle-to-mouth resuscitation, return to the inferno to save a blind, crippled kitten, and then use a complex sequence of Lassie-like barks to tell investigators how the fire started.
After an extensive search failed to locate the dog's owner, we decided to keep her. After all, our other dog, a dysfunctional miniature dachshund with disgusting tongue-related hygienic habits, desperately needed a positive role model.
(Amazing fact: Miniature dachshunds were invented by American geneticists who were attempting to create an animal that was lightweight, streamlined, stealthy and, above all, expendable. This top-secret project, commissioned by the U.S. Department of Energy's ominous "Nuclear Wiener Dog" division, was abruptly canceled when field-tests revealed miniature dachshunds are prone to sudden outbursts of loud yapping, thereby making them worthless during clandestine wartime operations. Faced with the perplexing question of what to do with thousands of unused dachshunds, the Pentagon embarked on an ambitious plan to distribute them to gullible American dog lovers.)
We soon noticed that our new dog--we named her Abby because fur growing from her ears resembled the hairstyle worn by a popular advice columnist--was undergoing an amazing metamorphosis. Her belly was expanding rapidly and her milk-release valves were becoming very conspicuous.
There was only one possible explanation for these anatomical changes: Before Abby arrived at our home, her body apparently emitted a lewd-proposition scent, which is nature's special way of telling nearby male dogs that there's a "fun date" in the neighborhood. Abby was quickly surrounded by dozens of lustful admirers, trying to woo her with candy, flowers, fine wine and rawhide chew toys.
Later that night, the chosen suitor, an unemployed golden retriever who had promised Abby a "long-term relationship," said he was going to the store for cigarettes but never returned. Depressed and dejected, Abby wandered aimlessly through the city, not knowing that the handsome stranger left her with much more than just a broken heart.
A thorough examination by a veterinarian confirmed my suspicions.
"Yep," he announced, "this bitch is pregnant."
"Doc," I replied, "I don't like this any more than you do, but using vile language won't accomplish anything."
After mumbling something about an ignorant moron, he gave me a booklet entitled Everything You Need to Know About Whelping. (I later determined that "whelping" is the shrill sound you make while watching a dog give birth.)
The Big Day finally arrived. We knew it was the Big Day because Abby was doing Big-Day things, including running in circles, shredding her blanket, growling, whimpering and howling in pain, all of which are the same things my wife did during her own Big Days. A quick look at the whelping guide told us that Abby, the canine landlady, was preparing to forcibly evict her little tenants--if you get my drift.
Abby soon began having automatic abdominal movements called contraptions, and as I frantically whelped, she methodically ejected nine slimy objects that resembled huge living lima beans.
"Gross!" screamed my daughter.
"Sick!" gagged my son.
"They're just puppies," said my wife, who should know about such things, because she spent many of her formative years in a farm-style environment where various fur-bearing creatures gave birth on a regular basis, sometimes in front of innocent children.
Several weeks later, the puppies looked less like legumes and more like actual dogs. They were running, romping, barking and forming their own little opinions on important global issues. Despite Abby's promiscuous past, we've offered her permanent asylum. In return, she has promised to voluntarily visit the vet, who will surgically remove her aroma gland and tie her internal puppy-producing organs into a large knot.
Mark W. Mayfield (himark@firstworld.net) will never eat another lima bean.
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Saratoga, California Since 1955
