Happy humping grounds

First thing in the morning he’s hyper vigilant. Every movement, snort, and snuffle puts him on alert, feeling for the pulses that signal awakening, inhaling the pheromonal activity that tells him what’s coming next. Will there be coupling or will another thrusting imperative lead?

A fart usually means a trip to the bathroom and sometimes she’ll stay up after that. If she chooses the bathrobe, he’ll have to wait some more. Inside he’s jittery and tries to tamp down a need so strong he paces, comes to the bed, stares at her, willing her to wake. Sometimes he’ll nudge her and she’ll pull her hand away so he can’t reach it, but he refuses to beg. He has his dignity.

The worst is when she sleeps in. He mimics her paralysis, forcing his peristalsis to a halt. Sometimes, though very seldom, he loses control and breaks down; sometimes he can’t wait and he loses his shit and it comes like a log boom shooting through river rapids, unstoppable. He’s humiliated when this happens, slinking back to bed, eyes open, staring, waiting to be discovered, dreading the deep sigh and the nose searing stench of bleach that will follow.

When the bleach comes out he goes to the basement where he’s enveloped in the warm, fetid aroma of compost cooking in the garage. He can almost hear the maggots growing faster than dandelions in spring and remembers the time she threw venison into the mix. He felt rabid scratching at the door, nosing the crack, snuffling like a truffle pig. Days like that he wishes he were a Rottweiler  throwing his heft against the door to get in there and rut with the trash.

Today she goes out and forgets to lock the kitchen garbage. He listens for the snap of the lock that dictates his next move.  He loves the smell of garbage on the floor in the morning. What comes next is as inevitable as her Friday afternoon beer. The slow-motion tip and the spilling, oh, yes, yes, yes the spilling, the rush to the bloodstream of pent up desire. It is good, soooo good. But still not the best. The best is when the females are in heat and the bathroom garbage bins are forgotten on the floor. He pulls out the sticky strips and chomps on them like a cowboy in a casino sucking on chewing tobacco. In these moments he knows nirvana.

He lives for these spots of happiness, but mostly he is good, a”good boy” with human like decorum. He doesn’t blame them for their insensitivity to his needs although it pissed him off when they stopped him from humping his sleeping pillow. She has her mate. They do it on their big sleeping pillow. He wonders what takes them so long. He finishes in under 20 seconds.

Humans are slow in so many ways, like walking for instance. He wants to run, but they keep him on a tight leash.

Third dog, limited perspective