You have to understand about dog people. Being involved with dogs somehow causes us to lose our inhibitions when it comes to discussions about their less attractive attributes.  Dogs’ bodily functions and their sexual liaisons are of great interest to us.  The most civilized group of dog people eventually resort to conversations about these fascinating subjects.  Picture an expensive restaurant and a group of well-dressed people.  The conversation goes like this. “She ate it before I could even get to her.  I don’t know what it was, but it smelled really foul.  Then the next day she came down with a raging case of diarrhea.  It was all over the inside of the crate.  The car smelled so bad we drove 50 miles in the snow with the windows down.”  And so it goes.  So if this type of thing offends you, read no further.  This article is about sex.  Not the human kind, but canine, which can be far more interesting anyway.
     The protagonist here is Lucy, Ch. Redwing Comic Relief, CD, NA, my beautiful Australian Terrier special (for those of you who are unfamiliar, a special is a Champion who goes on to compete for Best of Breed).  It is my great hope that she will prove to be an outstanding producer as well, and that she will contribute to the breed through her offspring.  So her sex life is of great importance.  She can only be mated to a fine and worthy dog, one whose attributes and pedigree complement hers.  He must be a match for her in every way.  There’s only one problem.  Lucy is in love with George.
     Now, lest this sound like a soap opera, let me clarify.  George is a Chihuahua.  A rescue Chihuahua, not even a show dog.  He has long legs, and stands as tall as she does.  Because of his unfortunate conformation, George does obedience at the training center where Lucy goes.  To his credit, he sports a beautiful russet coat, two white stockings, and a flashy patch of white chest hair.  Lucy is clearly smitten, and flirts shamelessly when she sees him.  She seems to overlook his most obvious failing, that he’s been (cover your ears, Lucy) neutered.
    My friends and I laughed at Lucy’s little “amour”.  Whenever she would see George, my normally reserved (in fact, even a bit pompous) girl would throw herself to the floor, wriggling madly.  George, on the other hand, seemed a trifle embarrassed by her attentions.  Much like the pimply high school kid who’s the head of the chess club, George looked faintly uncomfortable at finding himself the suitor of the most popular girl in school.
I wasn’t concerned about Lucy’s obsession with George.  A harmless flirtation, she was obviously trying to cheer him, and raise his self-esteem.  Nothing could come of it, after all.  So I made plans for Lucy’s liaison with my dream dog.  Now, those of you that have done this before know the drill.  The bitch will pick the most inconvenient time to come in season.  She will need to be bred in the middle of the family vacation, a blinding snowstorm, or during 98-degree weather when it’s too hot to ship her to the dog of choice.  Lucy herself has missed two earthdog trials (bitches in season not allowed), and has made a carload of humans and male dogs miserable by coming in season in time for an important, far away dog show.  It’s not that her hormones don’t work.  They work just fine.  A lengthy period of p.m.s. precedes her season, which is followed by a raging false pregnancy.  So, by planning for her to be in season during the most inconvenient time, and observing diminishing p.m.s., I could safely predict that she would come in heat for Great Western Terrier Assn. Show in Long Beach, California.  This way she could drive us all crazy on the trip there and back, and her topline would look like the San Rafael Mountains due to hormonal surges.  It was perfect.  So I planned for the trip, and entered the show.  The dog of my dreams would be available there for Lucy’s hot date.  And, right on schedule, she came in heat, ten days before the show.  She would be ready for her liaison in California.  I congratulated myself on my cleverness.  Smug and self-satisfied, I had outwitted Mother Nature.
So off we went, Lucy and I, to California.  Visions of beautiful babies wrapped in purple and gold (the colors of Best of Breed ribbons) danced in my head.  I planned their careers, the ribbons they would win, the shows they would enter.  But while I was dreaming of Lucy’s perfect offspring and making arrangements for her rendezvous, Lucy was dreaming of George.
A brief explanation for the non-doggy is necessary here.  A bitch’s heat cycle is normally twenty-one days long.  She is seven days coming into season, seven days where she may (or may not,) be ready to be bred, and seven days coming out of season.  So for many bitches, the 12th through the 14th day are the optimal time.  So I made arrangements to meet the handsome gentleman and his owner in a secluded location (the parking lot behind the Holiday Inn).  They arrived, she with a stud dog contract, he with a full bladder.  He proceeded to mark vigorously, trying to impress Lucy with his masculinity.  She looked nonchalant, and gazed longingly across the street to the park where some children were playing Frisbee.  He decided to turn on the charm, and play-bowed before her.  She lifted her lip in a sneer.  And so it went for the better part of an hour, he flirtatious and charming, she disinterested, and finally hostile.  We (his owner and I) finally decided that the breeding was not to be, at least not that day, and made arrangements to meet again two days thence.
I was distraught.  This was not my clever plan, this was a nightmare.  Her biological clock was ticking, and she didn’t have a clue.  She teased and tormented the males in the show ring, twisting her tail to the side in the “ready” position.  The intervening day passed, and we were again in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn.  The dog-of-my-dreams was more handsome than ever.  His burnished coat was resplendent in the sun.  His profuse furnishings waved as he flirted, doing his best to entice Lucy into the game of love.  I was desperate.  The next day we were scheduled to leave.  And then fate intervened.  Across the parking lot, another exhibitor was walking her dog, a red basenji. In the distance he looked a lot like George.  The long legs, the curled tail, the russet coat matched Lucy’s chosen.  In that instant, her demeanor changed.  Curling her tail cooperatively to the side, she accepted the ministrations of her carefully selected mate.  While she gazed fondly at the object of her desire, the deed was done.
I wonder when the pups are born if she’ll question their parentage, or wonder why none of them resemble George.  Maybe she’ll attribute their beauty to the fact that they were clearly conceived in love, odd ménage a trois though it was.  Perhaps, in the fickle way of bitches, she’ll forget all about George, and California, and her date there.  Or maybe she’ll start planning her next rendezvous.  There is a Papillion in class she’s quite taken with.

 Sue Holsinger