The Human Puppy - Part 3

[Please read these sequentially.]

For my birthday, Mindee took me in for a microchip implant; she knew a sympathetic veterinarian from a previous relationship. He pointed out that chips are usually inserted below the skin at the back of the neck of most American dogs and cats, between the shoulder blades on the dorsal midline. European pets, though, often get the implant in the left side of the neck. I’m the sort who likes to do most things the old-fashioned way, but Mindee urged me to have a bit of panache, and to follow the lead of the Europets. In the end, I agreed.

By the time we got back to her apartment, I was absolutely desperate to mate, but she was unalterably opposed to bestiality, and if I pointed out that it wouldn’t really be bestiality, I’d be letting the air out of my own fantasy. It was a real dilemma. As the days became weeks, and the weeks months, I began to think the only way out of it was for us to encounter a female whose owner wanted to breed her, but human caninism is a virtually all-male phenomenon. We did occasionally encounter a few latex-encased pony girls and their masters in the park, but it seemed not even to occur to Mindee to suggest that we get together. Her aversion to inter-species mating wasn’t limited to women and their human puppies.

We were nonetheless very happy together for around 18 months. When she’d come home from her job as a buyer at one of the big midtown department stores, I’d get up on my hind legs and paw her jubilantly, and then fetch her slippers in my mouth. Often she’d give me wet food as a special treat, and we’d spend a lovely evening together watching The Dog Whisperer on the Discovery channel. Eventually, though, it came out that the funny looks we were getting from the pervs who take over the park after midnight had been troubling her very much more than she admitted, and she left me for a guy who imagined himself a cat. How I wished women could tell the truth every now and again!

I briefly thought of looking into becoming a human goldfish, but it didn’t seem feasible, as I wasn’t close to being able to afford a place big enough to accommodate the requisite fishbowl, which itself would have to be custom-made. I became depressed. Through one of the caninist Websites, I found a sympathetic psychotherapist, herself a reformed pony girl, and the medication she described to regulate my mood made me feel as though an Olympic-sized swimming pool’s worth of frigid water had been poured on my libido. I looked into Buddhism, and, considering the notion that all suffering springs from desire, did my best no longer to long for a women who’d love me for what I am.

It worked like a charm. Not 96 hours before I’d changed my Facebook status to In a Relationship (they don’t offer a No Longer Looking Because Desire Engenders Suffering), I heard from Lynda D—. who was waifish and, as best I could determine on the basis of a couple of postings on my so-called wall, even witty. Not for Lynda anything as predictable as Starbucks; for Lynda, the dog grooming supplies aisle of Petco on 2nd Avenue. When she divined, on meeting, that I was going to say mwah to each of her ears, she stepped backward and asked if I wouldn’t prefer to lick her face instead. I nearly swooned.

Earlier girlfriends had complained about the lack of variety in our coitus; I always wanted to enter them from behind. Lynda had no such misgivings. When I pre-emptively tried to coax her one evening onto her back, just for a change, she got angrier than I’d ever seen her, and said she had no interest whatever in what she termed unnatural sex. And I thought I’d been in love before! After vigorous lovemaking, during which she orgasmed multiply after discovering the microchip in my neck, she spoke one night of us maybe having a litter one day, and I licked her face with such enthusiasm that it was a wonder it didn’t go all wrinkly, like fingertips in bathwater.