TMarie and a Bitch Named Steve

I swore I’d never be a “dog blogger” so I promise this post is NOT about dogs.
It’s about sex.
Sex and dogs, actually.
No, sex and A dog.

We have three dogs, and Steve is our most recent addition to the family. A year and a half ago, I rescued her from under a shed behind a trailer at the end of a dirt road in a holler in a backwoods coal town in Kentucky.

Steve was a mewling, pathetic, runt who was half the size of her litter mates. At 4 weeks she still couldn’t walk or see. I assumed she would be blind (hence the name Steve after Stevie Wonder) and didn’t think she would survive in her current living conditions. Of course I brought her home. This was mistake #1.

Steve lived, and turned out to be a not-blind-lightning-fast-attention-hounding-demon-dog. Of course I spoiled the shit out of her. This was mistake #2.

Steve went on to develop the voice she must have inherited from the Beagle side of her family. She learned to use her voice to get attention by standing on your lap and howling in your face as if someone had just shoved a hot poker up her ass. Of course we thought this was funny. This was mistake #3.

Eventually, we started letting Steve sleep in the bed with us.
This wasn’t a mistake. This was just STUPID.

Our other two dogs have always been very polite. They will actually leave the room when mommy and daddy need some “alone time”. But not Steve.

We tried kicking her out when we didn’t want an audience. Naturally, she sat at the door and howled as if her flesh was being peeled from her body. And woke up the kids. And that was the end of that.

We started letting her stay for the show.

At first Steve would go lay on the floor when asked and just seemed somewhat confused by why mommy and daddy were making strange, hushed noises and bouncing on each other.

Then Steve got a little older and decided our bed was HER bed and that she wasn’t moving for anyone or anything- no matter what.

For the most part she ignored our bouncing ritual and remained at the foot of the bed. Weird, but eventually we became accustomed to her presence and would forget she was even there. Until the other night:

Kissing.
“Honey, the dog is on my legs.”
“Steve, get down.”
More kissing, groping.
“Honey, she’s still there.”
Angry whisper. “Steve! Get Down!”
Pushing Steve off the bed.
And we’re back in business.

Until-

“She’s back.”
“Dammit woman, just ignore her.”
“I can’t, she’s looking at me.”
“Well stop looking back at her.”

I close my eyes. Third base is nice. At fourth base I’ve forgotten all about the dog. But I forget to keep my eyes shut-

and the dog’s face is two inches from mine and she’s just sitting there staring and freaking-me-the-fuck-out.

Even worse, her bright, blue eyes shining in the dark seem to be interested.

At this point I made some sort of strangled-gasping sound and managed to untangle myself from my husband’s embrace while shoving the dog into an unceremonious heap onto the floor.

“What the hell babe?”
“That freaky little bitch was studying us.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“Am NOT.”
“Can’t you just ignore her?”
“NO.”
“Are we going to finish this?”
“HELL NO.”
“Am I being blamed for this?”
“erm, No.”
“That’s right. Because who brought that dog into this house?
“erm, me.”
“And now I’m being cock-blocked by the dog?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Until we figure out what to do about her pervy curiosity.”
“Well the two of you have pervy curiosity in common, so I’m sure you can figure something out.”