Who's The Boss?

I've previously mentioned my Dalmatian, Caesar in the story "Hosed," but please indulge me for a moment and allow me to give you a little bit of background on that demon bastard of a dog,

Just before I married my ex-wife, Medusa, her aunt had purchased a Dalmatian puppy that Medusa fell in love with and she absolutely, positively had to have a Dalmatian puppy of her very own. I said no. She begged me. I said no again. She argued with me. I still said no. This went on for days. She broke down in tears, so I stuck to my guns; I don't negotiate with terrorists. That's all absolute bullshit, of course. Once Medusa turned on the water works, I completely folded and gave in. I surrendered so fucking fast that you'd think I was French. I promised her that she could have the puppy as my wedding gift to her and that when we came back from our honeymoon, we would go to the breeder and she could pick out the puppy that she wanted.

We went and got married and took off on a little whirlwind tour of the Mid-Atlantic coast; it was the honeymoon from hell. It was a honeymoon haunted by hurricanes, terrorized by demonic ponies and stricken with plagues of biblical proportions; a foreshadowing of the years to come. When we returned home, I took Medusa over to the breeder so that she could pick out her puppy, as promised. I suggested to her, over and over again, that it would be wise to pick out a female, as they are usually smarter, more docile and easier to train than males, but she had her heart set on a little boy and I do have to say that the little guy that she picked out was an amazing example of the breed, as far as coloring and spotting went.

We decided to let the puppy name himself, which is a tradition of mine and after a few days of strutting around the house as if it were his kingdom, with his head held high and an attitude of imperial disdain, we decided to name him Caesar.

Afer a few more days, I realized that Caesar was almost completely deaf and that he showed an extraordinary amount of aggression for a puppy. I wanted to take him back to the breeder and exchange him for a different puppy. Medusa disagreed, We fought about it. A lot. Eventually, I wore her down and I won; the puppy was going back.

We called the breeder, explained the situation and loaded Caesar into the car. Medusa held the puppy and whimpered the entire way there. When we arrived at the breeder's, she turned on the tears and refused to get out of the car, but after she calmed down a little, she relented and exited the vehicle.

Medusa reluctantly gave Caesar back to the breeder and we went to look at the other puppies that were still available. That was when Medusa decided to go for the gold and she turned the tears on again. It ws like a fucking faucet. She was so attached to that defective puppy that she just couldn't let him go. She looked at me as if I had just killed her best friend.

Without a word, I turned around, grabbed Caesar, put him in the car and we took him back home.

In time, our defective little puppy turned into a defective dog, a terrible dog, the worst dog that I've ever owned. Caesar was aggressive and unpredictable; as his hearing loss increased, so did his aggression and unpredictability. He had other issues as well, he constantly dribbled urine everywhere, he literally climbed the walls to chase bugs, he barked at shadows, became enraged by them and would try to attack them. Caesar jumped through the glass portions of both our front and back doors in order to chase neighborhood cats and he did this several times. If he found food, he ate it, including the top layer of our wedding cake as it defrosted on the kitchen counter th day of our first anniversary. That cake was horrible when it was fresh, so I can only imagine how bad it would have been after sitting in the freezer for a year. I also noted that Caesar hadn't finished it off. Smart dog. In a way, I was pretty thankful that he'd saved me from having to eat it, so I really wasn't all that mad at him for that particular episode. Caesar also liked to destroy things; anything and everything. Still, the dog was a complete and utter lunatic.

I have always trained my own dogs and they have always been well behaved. I had never had a problem with a dog before, but with Caesar, I had hit the proverbial brick wall. Everyone I knew had advice to offer and we tried everything tat everyone suggested;  we were aways open to suggestions, but nothing that we tried seemed to work.

That dog was completely of of control.

My friend Will was always telling me that I had to assert dominance over Caesar and I did, all day long. I would get him to lay down and roll over (I had trained him using hand signals, as I do with all of my dogs) and I would very lightly pinch his throat with my fingers, much like an Alpha dog would do with its jaws. Will didn't think that I was going far enough and he wanted me to take it to another level.

"You have to be more assertive with him," Will told me.

"What do you mean?" I asked him.

"You have to hump him," Will said. "That's what the Alpha dog would do and that's what I do with my dogs."

"You hump your dogs?" I asked, incredulous.

"Only to assert dominance," he replied.

"You hump your dogs," I accused.

"Well..."

"I'm not humping my dog," I said. "No way, no how."

"That's what you need to do," Will said.

"Maybe that's what you need to do, but I can assure you that my needs are entirely different," I said. "I prefer the company of women, which is why I married one. You, on the other hand, are single and have four dogs, That and your words today lead me to believe that your "needs" are entirely different from mine.

The argument about whether I should hump my dog or not raged on for months. Every time that Will came over to my house, he argued his point of view and he would go on about how he humped his dogs all of the time and that I should hump my dog, if I knew what was good for the dog and my own peace of mind. Will was the most emphatic of my friends when it came to Caesar and he was just relentless about it; he never let up.

"Hump your dog," he said. "It will be a good thing."

Can someone please explain to me how fucking your dog could ever be considered a good thing?

I steadfastly refused to hump my dog. The peanut butter trick might be one thing, but fucking your dog is something else entirely.

One quite memorable time when Will was over, Caesar was misbehaving more than he usually did, Will started in on his old dog humping spiel all over again.

"I am not fucking my dog," I said for the umpteenth time.

"You're not fucking your dog," Will told me, "You're asserting dominance over the animal. Do you want me to do it for you?"

Well, I guess that Will had finally had enough of Caesar and something in his mind must have snapped, because Will suddenly jumped up and without another word, before I could even make a move to stop him, Will stood up, grabbed Caesar by the collar, got behind the dog and started humping him.

I couldn't believe it, that motherfucker was really humping my dog.

Holy shit!

You know, I've seen some really strange shit in my life, but this... this... I had no words for this shit and if that doesn't tell you how shocked I was, I don't know what would. I just... Fuck it.

I was stunned, the entire scene was surreal. Will was fucking my dog. No, that sick, crazy bastard was pumping away at my dog like a piston engine in overdrive. Sure, Will's clothes were still on, but that doesn't matter and it doesn't change the traumatizing event that I was forced to bear witness to; that freak was fucking my dog and I wasn't happy about it. Jesus, I think I have PTSD.

Apparently, Caesar wasn't happy about it either/

As fast as lightning, Caesar's head flew around and he bit the living shit out of Will's balls. Sank his teeth right in and let me tell you, it was somethung to behold. Too bad that's not what really happened.

The truth is that Caesar bit Will's hand, but saying that it was his balls just seems to invoke some sort of cosmic karmic justice, whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean. Caesar had taken a deep bite out of Will's hand and Will squealed like a little bitch. Blood was gushing everywhere and Will wasn't doing anything about it, he was just letting it drip onto my carpet. Not cool. I thought that was very inconsiderate of him. I mean, the guy tries to screw my dog and then when he gets what's coming to him, he has the audacity to bleed all over my stuff. Again, not cool.

Someone's going to have to clean that shit up and that someone is me. I'm the one who is going to get stuck with cleaning up the mess that Will's poor life choices made. How is that fair to me?

Asshole...

I helped Will clean his wound and then I bandaged his hand. It's a good thing that Caesar didn't bite his balls, because I'd have let Will bleed to death before I touched his junk, Seriously. Like, if we're ever in the woods together and a poisonous snake bites your dick, you're completely fucked. Hey, just letting you know where you stand.

Will apologized to me and acknowledged that the responsibility for the bite was his and that trying to hump my dog was a foolish thing to do and that he'd learned a valuable lesson.

And that valuable lesson was...

Don't fuck my dog.

Thanks for stopping by. I hope you've enjoyed what you read.

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