So I was sitting at my
computer the other day, writing about yoga in Seattle, and my dogs were fighting
over one of the 35 tennis balls that are on the floor. Apparently this
particular tennis ball was the one that oozed filet mignon flavored juices and
was more worthy than the other ones. Fletcher, the fat one, stopped long enough
to come over and stick his head on my leg asking for a walk. He is not as much
fat as he is big boned, although it has been remarked that when a 55 pound dog
gains 20 pounds, that he may in fact, be fat. Fletcher will maintain that the
bit of unfortunate weight gain is my fault, in that I am the one who insisted
that he become a eunuch at the young age of 5.
When I called over to
the little one, Brody, thus letting them know that they would soon be getting
their tenth walk of the day, he didn’t respond. Not only did he not respond,
but he stood there, staring at the floor, like there was a delicious
advertisement running on the carpet for the most delicious dog food ever
invented, and that if he looked away, this treasure of a dog food would be
removed from his life forever. I thought he was hurt, or at the very least,
emotionally traumatized that Fletcher again wouldn’t let him have the tennis
ball for the 600th day in a row.
I moved in my chair
getting a better angle and called again. Still nothing. He just stood there,
looking like he had already taken that magical, yet creepy trip to the
taxidermist. I was about to call him again, in my sternest “you are a dog and I
am the alpha male in the household voice” when in mid lip movement I saw the
cause of the problem.
Brody had a red
rocket. In human terms, he had a raging, engorged erection, the kind that 18
year old young men get when they are with their first college girlfriend.
However Brody was having the same reaction that that same 18 year old would have
if this was happening on a public beach. He was not moving. There was a reason
he was not moving. It was stuck.
It was probably wrong
that the first thought that went through my mind was from the Viagra
commercial: “If you have an erection lasting longer than 4 hours, please call
your doctor.” Personally, I never put much merit in that commercial. My doctor
is a 74 year old male Vietnam veteran. I don’t see him helping me much with my
erection issues, no matter how long I have had them. I would probably defer to
the professional opinion of an escort.
Brody was neutered, so
he had no testes and no ability to be sexually aroused. Yet, he clearly had an
erection. And not just any erection, it was engorged; sticking straight down to
his shaking knees with what was left of his testes was stuck out as well. No
wonder he was terrified!
So between trying to
get the dog to move and fumbling for my phone, and laughing myself to tears, I
was able to dial my veterinarian. At 6:00 pm on a Friday, the vet was not in
the office but I did have a great time trying to explain to the receptionist
what was wrong with my dog. The conversation had the same comfort level as
telling my mother about my most recent sexual encounter. She suggested that I
take him to the animal hospital. Meanwhile, little Brody hadn’t moved and was
still staring at the floor.
I next called the
backup vet, the one that neutered the fat dog Fletcher. I figured they would
have answers. There was no doctor there either. Apparently veterinarians all
knock off work early on Friday’s to hit the dog park to troll for new
clientele. So I again was left explaining the mechanics of a dog penis that is
stuck in erection mode to a receptionist. In hindsight, I was being much more
descriptive and mechanical than was probably necessary and the intermittent
chuckling in between statements was not helping the matter.
After 15 minutes of
phone calls, Brody was sitting at my feet looking at me, the issue resolved. He
had licked it and it went away. All men should all be so lucky.
As a follow up, my vet
called me on Monday to discuss Brody’s condition. She mentioned to me that
there is a medical term for it and that Brody had Paraphimosis. This
would have been some useful information when I was trying to explain to half of
Seattle’s veterinary community that my dog had an “engorged hard on that was
stuck and he was so terrified he couldn’t move”. She also had a “solution” to
the problem.
She suggested that the
next time it happens that I apply some KY jelly to my dog’s penis. I suggested
that the dog can suffer or get a little further along the evolutionary chain and
grow thumbs so that he can apply it himself. I also wondered how she knew I
kept KY jelly in the house.
So if you see me at a
local dog park, say hello. I will be the one walking two black labs, a fat one
and one with well lubricated genitals.
