Bad Love

The first time we knew for certain that he loved us, we could see it in his eyes.  From that point on, things moved slowly…a warm greeting here, a tender embrace there.  Then, rather abruptly, things turned physical, as passion overtook him.  And love, it turns out, is an enormous pain in the ass.

My dog, you see, is a humper.  A proud and energetic one.  And while we appreciate his dedication, we’d much prefer he take his cues from the romantics and express his love with a bit more subtlety.  And now, with his heart recently broken, we fear the worst is yet to come.

For those who’ve yet to encounter his love and affection, Chauncey is a very large 80 pound Goldendoodle with long skinny legs that cling to objects tighter than Saran Wrap. He is also friendly, energetic, and a little demanding, which means that once you’ve become the apple of Chauncey’s eye, his love is more than expressed.  It is felt, usually on your leg or around your torso.

This has come as something of a surprise to us in Chauncey’s extended family.  After consulting with his breeder and other dog owners, we had Chauncey neutered at a relatively early age.   The morning of the procedure, he left our home walking with the swagger and virility of a young Travolta on the streets of Brooklyn.  He arrived home two hours later “fixed”, the strut in his step slightened, his body shrug shouldered and testosterone-free.  He looked at me with sad eyes that read “YOU DID THIS TO ME”, and quickly urinated on our family room carpet.  Dog spite.

But alas, after a brief period of chastity, Chauncey quickly resumed his amorous affectations.  Sure, his guns may not have been loaded anymore, but he still could play sheriff.  It turns out that the quest for love is innate, whether the equipment is functioning or not.  He’s been humping away now for years.

This makes having company over a bit challenging, as it’s hard to be sociable when a beast the size of a small pony is writhing on your back.  He can usually be placated by being pat softly and steadily on the head or chest.  But ignore him at your own peril.  Turn your back on him for too long and eventually you’ll be dancing with the Doggie Devil, his hips grinding like Elvis on a techno beat.

We all have our lustful preferences, so over time we’ve tried to pinpoint Chauncey’s “type” to see what sets his pheromones flowing and girds his canine loins.  When it comes to human beings, it appears that Chauncey is an equal opportunity humper.  Blonde or brunette, tall or short, petite or portly, there seems to be no rhyme of reason to his desires.  The Big Dog Instruction Manual tells us that humping is a dog’s way of expressing dominance over the pack, especially those that he perceives as weak.  But Chauncey is just as likely to move on the 250 pound UPS Delivery Guy as he is to fancy one of our children’s friends.  And he’s consistent:  once you’re identified as a hump-ee, you’re pretty much certain to get a repeat visit from Chauncey’s loving legs.

But one day, Chauncey’s bachelor days came to an abrupt halt.

Our daughter, rapidly growing as a teenager and with her tastes in decor moving from the terminally cute to the parentally terrifying, decided to move some of her old furniture down to our finished basement, where her friends often gathered to play video games and generally hide from the embarrassing parents on the floors above.  This furniture included a large pink beanbag chair, soft and fluffy and malleable as only the best in beanbag couture can provide.

Chauncey took one look at this bright pink snowball, and was smitten.  Lightning struck, the angels sang in his eyes, and he quickly grabbed the chair with the strength of chariot horses and humped that beanbag with everything he had.  His face contorted into a look of confusion, wondering why his body was reacting the way it was.  We tried pulling it away from him, but the forces of attraction were too much to overcome.  He had found love, and was lost to its clutches.  And the beanbag, almost instantly, was lost to us, at least as furniture.

As the weeks moved on, and Chauncey conducted regular conjugal visits to his new pink concubine, we noticed a distinct drop in the number of Hump Attacks of our family and friends.  To be sure, he was still a presence, nudging his nose into people’s crotches and begging constantly to be pet or fed treats, But the mounting and hip grinding had dropped to almost nil, his energies and affections transferred onto his girlfriend without complaint.  Eureka!  And all it took was the sacrifice of one of our children’s discarded cushions.  Our friends silently rejoiced in the freedom of their respective torsos.  And to be true, we almost admired the simplicity of the story:  dog meets beanbag, falls in forbidden love, they live happily ever after.

Only they didn’t.  Like love itself, it turns out that the beanbag was more fragile than we expected.  We returned home one day to find Chauncey laying spent next to his lover, a forlorn look on his face.  A huge gash had opened on one side of the chair, and the filling had leaked out onto the floor (and partly onto Chauncey, who seemed disappointed to learn of the fallibility of his affection,).  It seems that Chauncey, in the throes of passion, brought a little too much heat into his basement boudoir, and the bag, literally, had spilled its beans.  There was no going back.

You can imagine the pain.  Who hasn’t experienced that first jolt of love in all its glory and splendor, only to lose it when putting our affections out there too aggressively?  Sure, most of our high school romances didn’t end over the overbearing use of our teeth (save for the occasional braces-on-bottom-lip disaster), but Chauncey’s heart broke just like the rest of us.  And I can’t take him out for a milkshake to make it feel better.

So now we fear the rebound.  You know that period, when a relationship ends and you are tempted to validate your worthiness through a series of meaningless one-night stands and social disasters.  It’s only a matter of time before our friends are back in Chauncey’s grasp, their legs providing short-term solace but no real hope for love.

Then again, Chauncey has been eyeing this soft brown cotton blanket that sits in our family room.  He’s wary right now, maybe a little afraid to put himself out there again after what he’s been through.  But maybe this blanket could be “the one”.  It’s one of my wife’s favorites, but I think it’s worth the sacrifice.  Wouldn’t you give up a little creature comfort to comfort your favorite creature?  And maybe love, like happiness, is a warm blanket after all.