My biggest weakest mushiest downfall in life is old dogs. In spite of the impending grief that I know damn well looms on the horizon, I just cannot manage to say no to an old dog who has suddenly found herself abandoned, homeless, lost, and unwanted. So whenever the local canine rescue organization has a surplus of 22-year-old blind, deaf, three-legged, senile, ugly, incontinent orphans with tapeworms and histrionic personality disorders, guess which sucker they call.
And I always say yes. Then I always fall madly in love with the old dog, and I always fall totally apart when the inevitable day arrives that I have to sign the euthanasia papers. But still: I cannot force my lips to form the damn N-O word.
At the moment, my oldest dog is a little five-pound Chinese Crested rescue named Dixie Rae. Some hell-bound asshole left her to die at the bottom of a dumpster when she was already pretty old, so we'll never know her exact age. But since she only has one tooth, her eyes were starting to cloud with cataracts, she's deaf as a doorknob, and she has arthritis in both hips, the vet guessed that she's probably around 13 years old. Which makes her what, 91 in dog years?
Up until a few months ago, Dixie Rae spent most of her life either eating or sleeping. She didn't have the energy or zest for anything else, but the vet couldn't find anything wrong with her other than arthritic hip pain. With the help of glucosamine and a veterinary NSAID, she was able to get around without hobbling, but she just didn't seem to have any place she wanted to go. She was content enough to eat her breakfast, then lounge around in bed all day napping and reading the Weekly World News.
Well, one day my dogs and I were over at a friend's house. My friend and I were sitting around gabbing when suddenly we heard a strange (yet oddly familiar) sound coming from the next room. It was a steady, rhythmic thump thump thump. "What the hell is that?" I said.
We crept in to investigate. And here's what we saw: My decrepit half-crippled little old Dixie Rae had found a big white stuffed bear named Mr. Bingles that once belonged to my friend's son. It was more than twice as big as she is, yet she had dragged it out into the middle of the room, and in the most unladylike manner imaginable, she was vigorously and enthusiastically humping its face. I mean, jeez, talk about your Granny Gets a Vibrator.
"Dixie Rae!" I gasped. "Where on earth did you ever learn such a thing?" At which point my poor friend immediately collapsed on the floor in a fit of unseemly snickering.
But we were wrong to laugh. This isn't just some red-hot one-night fling. Dixie Rae, it turns out, continues to be deeply and monogamously in love with Mr. Bingles. And the magical combination of true love and aerobic lust has given her a whole new lease on life. Now that she spends an average of six (yes, 6!!!!) hours every day humping the poor bear, her appetite has improved, she eats like a horse yet she's losing weight, and her arthritis has gone into complete remission. I've weaned her from all the pain meds, and she frolics happily around the house like an exuberant puppy when she's not busy servicing her bottom.
So now my dilemma is this: It's time to take Dixie Rae to the vet for her yearly physical. He's going to notice that she's lost weight, that she's a lot more fit and animated, that her arthritis has cleared up, and that she's totally pain-free without her prescription.
Should I tell him the truth, that this miraculous cure came about because she started routinely having vigorous kinky sex with the face of a large stuffed animal for six (6!!!) hours every day? And if so, could somebody please help me find a precise clinical term that means "compulsive face humping"? There must be a medical word, a sanitized Latin synonym, especially in veterinary circles. Because I'm just not sure I can possibly describe this delicate situation to my serious and rather stuffy Cajun veterinarian without one of us dissolving into uncontrollable disgusting nose-noise spasms while the other curls up and dies of embarrassment.
Maybe I should just tell him she spent the weekend at Lourdes and leave it at that. |
Vibrating Liz |
| About the author: |
| Vibrating Liz is an avid writer, dancer, gardener, weight lifter, and cancer survivor who firmly believes that 50 is the new 18. She lives in a small rural village in the quirkiest part of the deep south with an engaging assortment of flora and fauna |
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