I rode my bike over to Manslaughter’s last night for dinner. Manslaughter is a legend, a giant among men, a titan of tales and amazingly full of awesomeness.
We hadn’t seen each other in a while. He has a rescue bulldog named Charley. Charley was born with a birth defect in his front shoulders and forelegs, so his front end is very low to the ground and his rear end is normal height. It’s a pretty severe handicap for a dog but Charley makes the best of it.
He doesn’t complain about it at all.
When we walked up, Charley immediately squattled out of the gate. I reached down and scratched his head, which he liked. In fact, he liked it so much that he stood there in the familiar dog position of “I’m not moving as long as you keep scratching.” So I scratched for a while, long after it had become awkward, me standing at the door and my hosts waiting for me to come in.
“He’ll let you do that for hours,” Manslaughter explained.
I walked into the garden and sat down on the porch. Charley came over and gave me a big lick. “He likes dirty people,” Manslaughter explained.
“Then he has hit pay dirt,” I said. “So to speak.”
Next Charley put his head over on my lap and started humping my back. Now, I have been humped by lots of dogs in my life. Our old dog Fletcher was a pretty solid leg humper and crotch sniffer. When a guest would come over he would put his big wet muzzle smack in the middle of the guest’s legs, snuffle as if to say, “Yeah, good stuff there,” and then sometimes follow it up with a leg hump.
Women especially didn’t appear to like it, but after the approving snuffle and leg hump, Fletcher would always go about his business, which was principally begging for food.
I’ve seen lots of dog dry-humping. It’s a fact of life with them and with people, only we call it something different.
But I have never been dry-humped like I was by Charley. It wasn’t your simple “Howdy, this is my penis,” hump, no sir. It was the full-on “I think you are in heat and I ain’t stopping ’til you are cold.”
He humped to the side, up high, down low, off to the right, off to the left, he humped my back, my arm, my leg, my foot, and the more he humped the less he seemed like he was going to stop.
It’s not easy to catch up with news in a group when a 50-lb. bulldog is grinding you, and Charley, the more he ground, the faster he went until you couldn’t help but think, “Wait a minute, I know what happens when it gets faster and faster, and what happens is usually not something you want on the back of your jacket or leg.”
I mentioned this to Manslaughter, who shrugged. “He’s never jizzed. But he might tonight.”
This was mildly worrying, but not as worrying as the thick layer of dog hair that was building all over me. Finally after about ten minutes, we all agreed that Charley had humped enough to confirm that we were now the best of friends and that we’d hate for him to herniate a disk over it.
I won’t tell you how they got him off me, but it did involve a jar filled with coins.
Now, what was I saying?
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