Marrying a veterinarian no doubt leads to many animal debacles. There is never a dearth of source material when you have a dog like Jeffrey. Jeffrey is our Pomeranian that refuses to weigh more than four pounds no matter how much we feed him. He is not the manliest of dogs but I remain comfortable around him since I grew up with several dogs that would rather ride shotgun in a purse or a basket in front of a bicycle than the back of a pickup truck.
A little personal animal history: as a toddler, we had two bigger dogs at the house. One night, in an early display of my infinite wisdom, I tried to grab a ball out of one of their mouths.
That did not end well.
I was pounced and mauled and left 1mm away from losing my left eye. That was the end of the big dogs for me. I graduated to a more sophisticated type of canine, that of the toy variety. I’ve grown up with two poodles, a lhasa ahpso, and now I’m breaking in my second Pomeranian. There have been other animals in the mix like birds, fish, and a hamster named George, but the dogs remain the sticks by which I am measured.
We should probably get back to Jeffrey though, because you do not keep Jeffrey waiting. That’s free advice if you ever come to my house. He is not the most masculine of dogs and I am not the most masculine of men when I’m around him. We had a repairman come to our house to replace the surface of our shower. Kristen wasn’t able to take Jeffrey with her to her clinic so I was stuck with him. I opened the front door with our little cotton ball of indomitable fury tucked neatly under my arm, a place where he stayed for five solid hours. I couldn’t just let him roam free because the repairman was using some fairly potent chemicals and sealants. What kind of parent would I be? Jeffrey was my right hand man for most of the day. Manly.
I tried to walk Jeffrey once. I made sure to leave my man card on the kitchen counter next to the Wusthofs and top shelf tequila where I knew it would be safe and proceeded out the front door with my little rascal. Two things happened to me when I slipped the leash over the head of this little animal that is smaller than my shoe. I immediately clinched my butt and stuck my nose in the air. There might have even been prancing. This euphoria lasted for a second and a half because of a metamorphosis not seen since John Landis and Michael Jackson hooked up on Thriller. There stood before me on two legs a snarling maw of slobber and teeth. That dog does not like to wear a leash. This veritable werewolf made me forget he was less than six inches tall and I let out what can only be described as a very loud squeak. Walk finished. We made it to the mailbox.
I mention these things to illustrate that with the exception of his aversion to leashes, Jeffrey does not stand out as a pinnacle of masculinity. The most glaring of examples, thus far at least, happened two weeks ago. Our morning routine is fairly set. Kristen leaves the house while I’m still in the shower. I get out and pick up whatever the dogs have destroyed in the interim. This particular Friday, Jeffrey decided to throw me a curveball. I got out of the shower expecting the dogs to be dragging an old pair of socks or a t-shirt from the dirty clothes. If only that were the case.
As I opened the door and alighted from the bathroom shrouded in steam, I beheld Jeffrey in all his glory. He was lying down with paws perfectly crossed, head tilted ever so slightly, and tongue agape. With that pose, he could be in Westminster or on magazine covers were it not for the little silver package held between those perfectly crossed paws. For that package once held Yaz, the latest and greatest in contraception science. Two thoughts immediately flooded my mind. Number one, had my mother put him up to this as some stealthy way of securing a grandchild? Number two, was my already less than manly boy dog going to grow ninnies? OD, our big mutt, evidently thought so because he kept giving Jeffrey his best, “hey baby, wanna wrestle?” look.
A man should never have to witness his son, no matter the species, ingest birth control pills. Déjà vu because I made a sound that can only be described as a very loud squeak. I grabbed the package and lunged for my phone to call my wife. She wouldn’t stop laughing. I’m glad she was taking this so seriously. Not to worry, she tells me, he should be fine. Yeah, except for the fact that he just ate birth control and my other dog is looking at him lustfully. I had to trust her though because she is a doctor. We’ve kept an eye on Jeffrey for the last couple of weeks and he’s showing no adverse effects though he’s not allowed to talk to my mother anymore. You can’t be too careful.
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