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| Passion Defused | |
| By Emmuttmax | ||||||||||||
| 04 June 2008 | ||||||||||||
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The downside of sharing your life with dogs.
Passion Defused
My lovely wife prepared a gourmet dinner last evening consisting of steamed clams, eggplant Parmesan, and a deliciously tender rib-eye steak. It was, I believed, to be a precursor to an evening of hot monkey love. Unfortunately, a mistake was made. Since my wife, as is her style, prepared enough food to feed a professional cross-country bowling team, we decided to invite the dogs to join us. Pathetic Bob, Judy, Sophie, Zipper, Lily, Gizmo, and Paco were on their best behavior--OK, Judy and Sophie behaved well--and were rewarded with healthy portions of clams, eggplant, and a few bites of expensive meat. Following the meal, I cleaned the kitchen, washed the dishes, and then settled down to read for a while as the lovely one went about packing up Christmas decorations. It was an almost idyllic winter evening. As I sat in my leather recliner reading and occasionally taking a sip of coffee liberally doused with cinnamon-vanilla cream, I realized Pathetic Bob was not in his usual position on his cushion next to my chair. He was in one of the dog beds at the far corner of the room, and the other dogs were a good distance apart from him. I figured he was just tired, and continued with my reading. After a while, the cook winked at me and said it was time to turn in. As we all made our way to the bedroom, I felt a familiar stirring as I watched my wife’s glutes sway in front of me. Before we climbed into bed, I told the dogs they would have to watch the bedroom TV because I was too old to perform in front of an audience. The younger dogs said, "Ewwww, get over yourself," and turned their heads towards the TV. Gizmo fell asleep as soon as his paws touched the mattress, and Judy—who is deaf—joined Gizmo in slumber. Pathetic Bob crawled under the covers between my wife and I, and I had to forcibly transfer him to my other side. This did not make him happy. As my spouse and I closed the distance between us, Bob's head peeked out of the covers next to me, and along with it wafted an odor so vile that my nasal hair began to fall out. My wife’s perky little nose shriveled up, as did parts of my anatomy. "Jesus Bob, what the hell is that smell?" I asked. "I think it's the clams," he said. I tried to throw him out of bed, but he kept whining about how cold he was. "I don't care," I said. "You're toxic." Although I was adamant he could not return to the bed, the sweet woman next to me caved into Bob’s pleading, saying that she had put up with my random, undercover perfumery for years, and she just couldn't let Bob freeze. Although I tried to re-stir the passion, Bob's chemical warfare continued relentlessly. Passion defused, I kissed my wife on the cheek, took my pillow and a blanket and slept in my chair. It is the last time I allow the dogs to dine with us.
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