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To reproduce or not reproduce -- that was the question


By Jamie Miles


Traditionally, the answer whether to procreate is decided by husbands and wives who love each other very much.

However if you happen to be a dog, more likely your master makes the call, unless fate provides you with a one by two foot gap between the chain link fence and dirt. And with our dog’s increasingly randy behavior a decision needed to be made for him.

It was like when our children were babies. One was a particularly smiley infant. People would gush in the glow of his dynamic toothless grins.

“He must really like me,” they would coo and wear satisfied expressions of those belonging to the chosen few. I didn’t have the heart to tell them he smiled that way to everyone. 

It’s the same with the dog. His nose would attach like Velcro to the female sites of any bearer of estrogen appearing at our door. They would giggle saying, “Wow. He must really have a thing for me.”

No. He had a thing for everything, especially pillows. 

The children became undone with laughter as he entwined his body around them. I explained dogs are pack animals and instinct wires him to assert his dominance, a fact which tickled my 7-year-old boy to no end. I tired of stepping over my son curled up in a blanket inviting domination by the dog.

Then one afternoon in a pheromone-induced rage, the he blindly blasted across Main Street at 4:45 p.m. Only God prevented a tragedy. That was it. 

Tebow had to be fixed. (Our dog, not the NFL quarterback.)

My husband didn’t agree but he wasn’t around when the animal pinned a visiting child to the floor as she squealed, “He’s hugging me.”

This “hugging” had to stop. And I was tired of piecing together pillowcase fragments. 

So one Thursday, Tebow bounded into the vet a sire and stumbled out missing a few body parts. Seeing the dog looking as if he taken one too many spins in the tea cups at Disney World, my son immediately pointed out the operation site. “That’s where his eggs came out.” Our daughter agreed, “It’s all squishy now.” 

For days, a squishy egg-less wonder, our Tebow moped around with downcast black eyes, licking his squishy parts.

“Is he going to be the same?”

“Why doesn’t he jump on my bed anymore?”

I couldn’t answer them and was afraid to try. My bounding friend was as a child stricken with a low-grade fever. I never realized how much I liked riotous sound encased in 65 pounds of muscle and slick black fur. Out with his eggs went the demon dog I so loved – a crazed critter I didn’t know how much I loved. 

“See,” said my husband.

But one morning last week, rugs lay scrunched up in the middle of the hall and one of my slippers turned up missing. I was overjoyed. 

That could only mean one thing, our Tebow was back. Only now he is free from worries of any dropped passes or lost balls. 

* * * * *



Jamie Miles
2010 GA Press Association First Place Humor Column
Morgan County Citizen

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