“ A Puppy Can Ruin Your Sex Life.”

The obviously gay friendly guy on Air Canada’s cargo desk said to come back in an hour. We looked at each other, my partner and I.

“Are we early?” I asked.

“Plane’s late.”

“Damn!”

“Should have known,” Babikins said.

We drove to the main terminal and had lunch. I fretted, thinking we would never get served in time but in the end it was an unexpectedly agreeable affair with gourmet pizza and a glass of chardonnay for me.

“You’ll regret that,” Babikins observed testily.

“It’s only one glass!”

“It’ll go straight to your head. Always does when you drink before noon.”

“Oh, shut up.”

I drove us back to the cargo depot, a little merrily maybe. I was excited in anticipation. We both were. This was to be our first puppy.

A chunky man, with an inappropriate disinterest in our baby, lifted his little travel box on to the bench.

“Guess this is it. I need a signature here,” Chunky said, pointing a fat finger to the bottom of the form.

Babikins scribbled obligingly as we peered into the travel crate.

“Oh, he’s shivering!” I exclaimed.

“Little puppy-pooh, you’re shivering,” repeated Babikins.

“Poor little puppy-poohs. Oh look at you.”

“Poor baby.”

And with that we opened the crate door and lifted Max into our hearts.

Dachshunds are indeed very cute, (show me a puppy that isn’t), but I had never thought of getting one. Max is black and tan with an adorable little face and ginger eyebrows and exquisite two-tone paws on dwarf legs. He has a perfect tan diamond patch on his butt, which never fails to draw attention. He was Babikins’ idea, testament to the power of TV advertising; the one with the mini wiener dog running round with a knitted effigy of itself all the way to “Petcetera”, or some such store.

I had my misgivings. Not particularly about dachshunds, although a web-search says they suffer back problems, but about getting another dog. We’d already had one failure, a beautiful, rescued five-year-old Vizla, who under went a complete personality change during the four months we kept him. From being every one’s friend he became a lip- curling adversary of those neighbours he took against. I hoped it wasn’t we who were responsible but rather some latent character flaw made manifest once he had settled in. But the fact remains, I was very relieved when we re-homed him. A dog is a huge responsibility and considerable drain not only on finances but also time and energy. I re-learned all that during our Vizla’s brief residence and resolved we would not hasten in to puppy parenthood. But my husband prevailed. He contacted the nice lady in Houston, BC. She sort of gave him a mild third degree over the phone and them warmed to his interest. Yes, she had two puppies available. Well, actually they were already six months old.

“Isn’t that a bit old for puppies?” I asked Babikins.

But apparently not when their breeder had been hoping to raise them as show dogs.

“So why isn’t she?” I continued, playing devil’s advocate.

It seems our little fella has flat feet though for the life of us we can’t tell. Come to that, neither can anyone else, but the breeder assured Babikins a show judge would take one look and dismiss our little treasure from his pedantic assessment. It doesn’t bother us and Max is oblivious. Besides, everyone who sees him on the street reacts favourably. I guess that is another plus to puppy walking; people who ignored me previously now angle for an excuse to chat. Of course, I know it’s the dog they really want to admire and given half a chance, I think some of them would walk straight off with him. That’s why we don’t do the tethering thing outside ‘Capers’, or any other place come to that.

I remember a horror story from way back. I read it in a daily newspaper, about a devoted Dachshund owner who spent a fortune in vet bills on her aged pooch. But the poor thing still looked like it was being slowly starved to death. She carried it everywhere she went, including the butcher’s shop, only it wasn’t allowed inside. So little old lady parks her beloved companion out side. It wasn’t going any place fast. Or so she thought. But along comes Miss Do-Goody who presumes a cruel owner is mistreating the poor dog. She whisks it away to the nearest vet and has the poor thing put down. Imagine! I’d probably have killed the bitch!

I drove us home from Air Canada. Max snuggled in to Babikins’ accommodating lap. His shivering steadied to a barley perceptible, occasional tremor, until we reached home that is. Then he started up again. Of course we know now it was all part of his doggy tricks; ‘let’s get these guys in training,’ I can imagine him thinking. He knows how to get us wagging his tail. Anyways it worked well. By nightfall we had already abandoned our first rule and took puppy to bed with us.

“Only for tonight,” I explained.” Just while he settles in.”

We’d made the same mistake with the Vizla and finally come to our senses the night he pushed Babikins out of bed and started on me. But he was a big dog. How were we to know little Max has the same capacity? The difference is Max won’t take no for an answer. We got restless one night. We’d had him more than a month and put our regular sex life temporarily on hold for the sake of our ‘baby’. He routinely sensed bedtime and was there ahead of us choosing his preferred spot under the covers, usually bang centre of the bed.

But a month is rather too long to be consummating marriage in the washroom; or on the couch while puppy takes an afternoon nap in bed. We hadn’t really got down to it and pressure was building up.

“Oh Jesus. Let’s just shut him in his crate for tonight,” Babikins moaned, “he’ll be fine”.

I had absolutely no objection.

“Max. Box! ”I commanded.

Pooch lifted his head from the pillow with a look that asked whether we were joking or plane crazy. Either way he wasn’t going anywhere. He settled back in bed, emitting one of those sweet, reassuring sighs dogs bestow upon their servants, reassuring us we are doing just fine for now, and keep up the good work while I indulge in a little more shut-eye.

Lover and I looked at each other. Babikins marched over and firmly lifted our treasure from beneath the bed linen.

“ Sweetheart, daddy and daddikins need to fuck. Alone!”

There was a barely discernable complaint from Max, or was it actually his first ever growl? Stunned at suddenly finding himself confined in his crate there was five minutes silence, enough time for the two of us to find the K-Y and get naked. We had a brief window of opportunity before the howling commenced. Just a low pitch, almost nonchalant little howl at first; the ‘hello guys, remember me’ sort of noise. But it got worse. Much worse.

“Oh for fuck sake. Just ignore him,” counselled Babikins.

It’s hard to ignore a howling hound giving the impression he’s being slowly strangled in your apartment. Supposing the neighbours hear? How were we to concentrate on the matter in hand, our every caress punctuated with a piercing bark? The effort of focussing somehow drained the batteries. We both went flat!

“I don’t believe it,” Babikins exclaimed. “Fucking dog won’t let us do it!”

He got out of bed cursing and assuring Max he was grounded for the rest of the night, which we all knew was bullshit. The barking stopped. We could hear puppy’s tail thumping on the side of his crate; just a slow, steady thump at first. It got louder as we approached. His little front paws scratched the wire door in excited anticipation of freedom. A pink tongue flashed through the bars coating affection towards his pack members. Max bounded about upon release as though we had all been oceans apart for hours. He race-tracked round the lounge taking in a quick leap on the couch and settled at my ankles lavishing his largesse of licks.

“Perhaps this is better than sex?” I said rather feebly.

“The hell it is!” replied Babikins.

The truth is, a puppy can ruin your sex life!.