“Dog Days”
by Angela James
We hadn’t discussed getting a dog when Miles brought home the retired stud chihuahua from the animal shelter. Buddy was Miles’ response to my increasingly desperate pleas for a baby. As though my biological clock was going to be tricked by any old seven-pound creature with big eyes and a piercing cry.
Miles purchased a sling so we could carry Buddy against our chests when his little legs grew tired on long walks. In addition to toys, Miles also bought a full layette of dog tee-shirts, sweaters and bath towels.
What Buddy’s new life lacked, though, was access to bitches. Nearly every night, he roamed our house, howling, humping pillows and whatever else he could get his groin on.
***
“Miles is still saying ‘not yet’ for a baby,” I told my friend, Lisa, over coffee.
“I seriously don’t know why you let him have all the control,” Lisa said, hoisting her youngest onto her lap. “Just oops him. What’s he going to do about it then?”
***
Miles gushed over the proofs from the “Welcome, Buddy” photo session. There were shots of Buddy lying on the cowhide rug by the fireplace and of him being cradled in my arms while Miles peered affectionately over my shoulder. “Seriously,” Miles said, “No baby could be any cuter.” While Miles posted the photos online, I twisted on the sofa, unable to grab a cushion for my back since they were all in storage to prevent Buddy from defiling them.
There wasn’t much I could do to prevent Buddy from harassing our spayed senior cat, though. Even when she stayed up high, out of his reach, he would wail, beseeching her to give into his advances.
“Cute or not, our middle-aged sex pest here is not a replacement for a baby,” I said to Miles.
“Well, when we are doing a bit better financially…” Miles said absently. The same mantra he had been repeating to me for the previous seven years. As if there would ever be a time when we couldn’t stand to have more money.
***
My phone rang at exactly 5:45am on my birthday. My mom makes a point of calling me every year on the exact minute I was born.
“I can’t believe my little girl is turning thirty-five!” Mom said. “Where has the time gone! Thirty-five… You know, if you guys are still hoping to have children, you’d better get cracking.”
***
The time came for poor Buddy to be fixed. I had argued against it because I worried it would harm his self-esteem. The final straw was when he mounted the cat’s face while she was sleeping.
The vet theorized that Buddy’s behaviour was partly due to a dominant personality streak. But the humping and howling came to an abrupt stop once the hormones left his body.
More than one month after the surgery, Buddy remained affixed to the sofa. He ignored offers of walks and toys. Only opportunities to scam treats or steal human food attracted his interest.
“Buddy’s depressed,” I said to Miles.
“Buddy’s fine,” Miles said. “He’s just a little less hyper now. Probably still recovering a bit.”
***
Miles sat beside me on the sofa with Buddy on his lap. I had been off birth control pills for about three months. My plan was to just to remind Miles when the time came that the pills aren’t always 100% effective.
I couldn’t help but admire Miles’ face in profile and imagine our offspring. I thought about how cute Buddy’s puppies would have been too.
“What are you thinking about?” Miles asked.
“Just wondering if we did the right thing about Buddy. Maybe we should have got him a girlfriend.”
“He’s already a deadbeat dad. We have no idea how many of his pups are out there as it is.”
***
Buddy’s depression hadn’t budged when Miles decided to say goodbye to his own fertility. He waited until the night before his scheduled vasectomy to make his announcement.
“I’ve avoided having children my entire adult life,” he said. “I just can’t imagine anything making me actually want a baby.”
We argued. He was steadfast, even in the face of my tears. “It’s my body,” he told me. “And I have the absolute right to decide whether or not to have this surgery.”
***
The vasectomy was on a Thursday afternoon. By the following Saturday night, each testicle had swelled to the size of a grapefruit. “Surely, thirty-six hours won’t make that much of a difference,” he said. “I’ll just go to the doctor when the office opens again on Monday.”
“Fine. If you truly no longer want your balls,” I said to Mr. My-Body-My-Choice, “I won’t interfere. But if you do have any intention of keeping them, you need to skedaddle to the emergency room.”
Miles somehow had the nerve to complain after the IV antibiotics were hooked up: “I can’t believe you made castration jokes about me.” After my stunning display of magnanimity. After he had already ensured his balls would never be of any use to me.
***
At Miles’ suggestion, we attended marital counselling. Desperate to cure my baby fever, I also arranged time with my friends’ most annoying children. I even tried imagining what Miles’ and my offspring would look like if cursed with the ugliest features from both sides of the family. Despite everything, I was overwhelmed by loss and unable to imagine a fulfilling future for myself where I wasn’t a mother.
Buddy‘s depression didn’t let up either. All the inactivity and overeating caused his weight to balloon from seven to thirteen pounds. The little shirts and sweaters would no longer pull over his belly. He resembled a baby seal and would tumble backwards whenever he hopped on his hind legs to beg for food.
“This isn’t right,” I told Miles. “A decision was forced upon poor Buddy and now he’s desperately unhappy.”
***
The dog anti-depressants did nothing.
The dog psychic had looked promising. We watched her lock eyes with Buddy and tell him it’s time for him to accept this new chapter in his life. But he responded as well to being told to give up his desires as I had.
***
The human anti-depressants successfully altered my mood. They brought outrage instead of the desired calm acceptance.
Buddy followed me throughout the house whining as I slammed my belongings into boxes. Miles cried and pleaded. Bizarrely, he claimed I had pulled the rug out from underneath him.
In his most definitive passive aggressive Miles-esque moment, Miles posted videos of himself sobbing and griping that I abandoned him. He responded to each of the “Oh No!”s and “What happened?”s flooding the comments with vows to “DM all the deets.”
***
I was on my own in my new place, hoping to find that special someone so I could have what my mom called my “change of life baby.” After a year of internet dating, though, I was ready to throw in the towel and get a sperm donor. Lisa was appalled that I would consider going that route. “Men are everywhere! Sperm isn’t a limited resource! Just go out in something tight and find someone cute…”
There was a practicality to her advice. I could definitely find other ways to spend money than at a sperm bank / fertilization clinic.
***
My daughter, Melinda, was born on Mother’s Day. Sometimes, while she napped, I lurked on her bio dad’s social media accounts. Even at my most sleep deprived, I had to concede he was a fine physical specimen. I did shudder, though, when he would post comments mixing up “they’re” and “there” as well as “your” and “you’re.”
Occasionally, I looked at Miles’ page too. Shortly after Melinda was born, he posted photos of another little dog snuggling and hanging out with Buddy. The caption said she was 7 years old and named Betty. I guess in dog years, Buddy’s late middle-aged, maybe almost elderly, so perhaps he’s ready to enter a companionate-rather-than-erotic relationship.
Miles also posted a close-up of Buddy, with a caption praising him for showing Miles what “true loyalty and unconditional love” look like. I found myself wishing I had done things a bit differently. For Buddy, I mean.
Angela James is a lawyer by day in a small Canadian community where she lives with her spouse and many, many pets. Her words are found in various publications, including Pithead Chapel, The Disappointed Housewife and Wrong Turn Lit. Her work has received nominations for inclusion in Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction and Pushcart anthologies.
by Angela James
We hadn’t discussed getting a dog when Miles brought home the retired stud chihuahua from the animal shelter. Buddy was Miles’ response to my increasingly desperate pleas for a baby. As though my biological clock was going to be tricked by any old seven-pound creature with big eyes and a piercing cry.
Miles purchased a sling so we could carry Buddy against our chests when his little legs grew tired on long walks. In addition to toys, Miles also bought a full layette of dog tee-shirts, sweaters and bath towels.
What Buddy’s new life lacked, though, was access to bitches. Nearly every night, he roamed our house, howling, humping pillows and whatever else he could get his groin on.
***
“Miles is still saying ‘not yet’ for a baby,” I told my friend, Lisa, over coffee.
“I seriously don’t know why you let him have all the control,” Lisa said, hoisting her youngest onto her lap. “Just oops him. What’s he going to do about it then?”
***
Miles gushed over the proofs from the “Welcome, Buddy” photo session. There were shots of Buddy lying on the cowhide rug by the fireplace and of him being cradled in my arms while Miles peered affectionately over my shoulder. “Seriously,” Miles said, “No baby could be any cuter.” While Miles posted the photos online, I twisted on the sofa, unable to grab a cushion for my back since they were all in storage to prevent Buddy from defiling them.
There wasn’t much I could do to prevent Buddy from harassing our spayed senior cat, though. Even when she stayed up high, out of his reach, he would wail, beseeching her to give into his advances.
“Cute or not, our middle-aged sex pest here is not a replacement for a baby,” I said to Miles.
“Well, when we are doing a bit better financially…” Miles said absently. The same mantra he had been repeating to me for the previous seven years. As if there would ever be a time when we couldn’t stand to have more money.
***
My phone rang at exactly 5:45am on my birthday. My mom makes a point of calling me every year on the exact minute I was born.
“I can’t believe my little girl is turning thirty-five!” Mom said. “Where has the time gone! Thirty-five… You know, if you guys are still hoping to have children, you’d better get cracking.”
***
The time came for poor Buddy to be fixed. I had argued against it because I worried it would harm his self-esteem. The final straw was when he mounted the cat’s face while she was sleeping.
The vet theorized that Buddy’s behaviour was partly due to a dominant personality streak. But the humping and howling came to an abrupt stop once the hormones left his body.
More than one month after the surgery, Buddy remained affixed to the sofa. He ignored offers of walks and toys. Only opportunities to scam treats or steal human food attracted his interest.
“Buddy’s depressed,” I said to Miles.
“Buddy’s fine,” Miles said. “He’s just a little less hyper now. Probably still recovering a bit.”
***
Miles sat beside me on the sofa with Buddy on his lap. I had been off birth control pills for about three months. My plan was to just to remind Miles when the time came that the pills aren’t always 100% effective.
I couldn’t help but admire Miles’ face in profile and imagine our offspring. I thought about how cute Buddy’s puppies would have been too.
“What are you thinking about?” Miles asked.
“Just wondering if we did the right thing about Buddy. Maybe we should have got him a girlfriend.”
“He’s already a deadbeat dad. We have no idea how many of his pups are out there as it is.”
***
Buddy’s depression hadn’t budged when Miles decided to say goodbye to his own fertility. He waited until the night before his scheduled vasectomy to make his announcement.
“I’ve avoided having children my entire adult life,” he said. “I just can’t imagine anything making me actually want a baby.”
We argued. He was steadfast, even in the face of my tears. “It’s my body,” he told me. “And I have the absolute right to decide whether or not to have this surgery.”
***
The vasectomy was on a Thursday afternoon. By the following Saturday night, each testicle had swelled to the size of a grapefruit. “Surely, thirty-six hours won’t make that much of a difference,” he said. “I’ll just go to the doctor when the office opens again on Monday.”
“Fine. If you truly no longer want your balls,” I said to Mr. My-Body-My-Choice, “I won’t interfere. But if you do have any intention of keeping them, you need to skedaddle to the emergency room.”
Miles somehow had the nerve to complain after the IV antibiotics were hooked up: “I can’t believe you made castration jokes about me.” After my stunning display of magnanimity. After he had already ensured his balls would never be of any use to me.
***
At Miles’ suggestion, we attended marital counselling. Desperate to cure my baby fever, I also arranged time with my friends’ most annoying children. I even tried imagining what Miles’ and my offspring would look like if cursed with the ugliest features from both sides of the family. Despite everything, I was overwhelmed by loss and unable to imagine a fulfilling future for myself where I wasn’t a mother.
Buddy‘s depression didn’t let up either. All the inactivity and overeating caused his weight to balloon from seven to thirteen pounds. The little shirts and sweaters would no longer pull over his belly. He resembled a baby seal and would tumble backwards whenever he hopped on his hind legs to beg for food.
“This isn’t right,” I told Miles. “A decision was forced upon poor Buddy and now he’s desperately unhappy.”
***
The dog anti-depressants did nothing.
The dog psychic had looked promising. We watched her lock eyes with Buddy and tell him it’s time for him to accept this new chapter in his life. But he responded as well to being told to give up his desires as I had.
***
The human anti-depressants successfully altered my mood. They brought outrage instead of the desired calm acceptance.
Buddy followed me throughout the house whining as I slammed my belongings into boxes. Miles cried and pleaded. Bizarrely, he claimed I had pulled the rug out from underneath him.
In his most definitive passive aggressive Miles-esque moment, Miles posted videos of himself sobbing and griping that I abandoned him. He responded to each of the “Oh No!”s and “What happened?”s flooding the comments with vows to “DM all the deets.”
***
I was on my own in my new place, hoping to find that special someone so I could have what my mom called my “change of life baby.” After a year of internet dating, though, I was ready to throw in the towel and get a sperm donor. Lisa was appalled that I would consider going that route. “Men are everywhere! Sperm isn’t a limited resource! Just go out in something tight and find someone cute…”
There was a practicality to her advice. I could definitely find other ways to spend money than at a sperm bank / fertilization clinic.
***
My daughter, Melinda, was born on Mother’s Day. Sometimes, while she napped, I lurked on her bio dad’s social media accounts. Even at my most sleep deprived, I had to concede he was a fine physical specimen. I did shudder, though, when he would post comments mixing up “they’re” and “there” as well as “your” and “you’re.”
Occasionally, I looked at Miles’ page too. Shortly after Melinda was born, he posted photos of another little dog snuggling and hanging out with Buddy. The caption said she was 7 years old and named Betty. I guess in dog years, Buddy’s late middle-aged, maybe almost elderly, so perhaps he’s ready to enter a companionate-rather-than-erotic relationship.
Miles also posted a close-up of Buddy, with a caption praising him for showing Miles what “true loyalty and unconditional love” look like. I found myself wishing I had done things a bit differently. For Buddy, I mean.
Angela James is a lawyer by day in a small Canadian community where she lives with her spouse and many, many pets. Her words are found in various publications, including Pithead Chapel, The Disappointed Housewife and Wrong Turn Lit. Her work has received nominations for inclusion in Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction and Pushcart anthologies.