Ironically enough, it was another Sunday (way back in the month of June – I know, I’m behind) and we took the dog’s to the LB’s softball game (Once again). To clarify we have a 13-pound miniature pinscher named Daisy and a 44-pound Brittany Spaniel named Mac. Mac is my baby, and if anyone said anything negative about him, I’d go ape shit on the person. And I have. When my dad said he thought Mac was gaining weight. This dog already has food issues. When I go out of town, he refuses to eat. There are times when my brother’s home, that he refuses to eat if my brother is in bed.[i] Honestly, calling a dog that has refused to eat and loves running as much as a fat kid loves cake overweight is like saying Christina Ricci’s huge head is proportionate to her body. This dog’s eating problems have led to a supplemental nickname (because we still use Tom Cruise) of Macster-Kate Olsen or the Olsen Twin.
But Mac’s eating habits aren’t on trial at the moment. No, we’re discussing coitus and reproduction amongst the canis genus.
And so it happened as we were driving home with the dogs. Daisy, being the commanding female she is, likes to sit in the diver’s seat no matter who is driving. In typical male fashion, Mac is giving the leftovers – the backseat which he hates. So we’re driving home, Daisies in my lap barking at cars and trying to climb on the steering wheel while Andrea keeps swatting Mac to the back of the car (Mac’s like Rosa Parks and doesn’t want to sit in the back.).
Anyway, I’m driving and Andrea looks over at me and Daisy.
“What’s that?” she says.
I have my eyes on the road (not easy to do with two dogs and a moron in the car) and respond with “I don’t know what the hell you’re pointing at since I’m kind of driving.”
“That little hangy-thing between her legs,” Andrea replies. She’s clearly baffled and now I’m intrigued and take my eyes off the road for a fleeting second to check out what I will call Daisy’s feminine bits.
“That’s her pee pee,” I say. Yes, I’m an adult who has two college degrees and I said pee pee. Two college degrees does not a mature adult make.
“I thought…” Andrea says and her voice trails off. I could hear the wheels grinding in my sister’s head putting this information together in a coherent fashion[ii].
“It’s where her pee and the children she might’ve had would’ve come out,” I said to clarify things.
“But…” she begins spluttering. “I thought they came out up here,” Andrea says and points to her butthole.
“That would be her asshole. Where her shit comes out,” I acerbically respond (Like you wouldn’t!).
Andrea’s silent as her eyes gently appraising Daisies feminine bits and then her excretory bits. “So, when the dogs do it doggy style…where does the man’s peep go?” FYI, my sister is twenty-four. Clearly, she’s as mature as me.
“His ‘peep’” I say in mocking tones, “Goes into her pee pee, the hangy-down thing between her legs.”
Andrea’s suddenly quiet which means she’s even more baffled than before.
I spot headlights from over the hill that spark my only little wheels to move in my head. “Don’t tell me you’ve thought that dogs have been blasting each other in the ass all this time,” I say with all the absurdity and crassness I can muster.
“Well, Erin,” she responds trying to defend herself. “I’ve seen how the horses give babies and it looks like they come out of the ass.” We are Indiana girls after all. My grandfather had horses and by the time all of the HKs were five I think we’d seen a horse give birth. Icky, juicy stuff, and yet you can’t move away.
I sigh and begin to give my sister an anatomy lesson, explaining that all mammals (i.e. humans, dogs, and horses) have birth canals separate from their assholes. She sits in the car, slapping Mac back whenever he attempts to vault into the front seat, absorbing all I say. When I’m done, she gets quiet again. I figure she must be lost in deep thought.
“So when people do it doggy style…” she begins and I know exactly where this conversation is going.
“They don’t necessarily blast each other in the ass.” I look at her and see that this information is new to her. “Have you seriously thought that doggy-style for humans meant butt sex?” She’s quiet. “You’re 24 years old!”
“I know that Erin!”
“I mean, you can have doggy-style butt sex, but the two aren’t mutually exclusive,” I continue.
“Just shush,” she responds. “I know I’m a moron.”
So I continue to laugh the rest of the way home where we find our little brother Kevin. I ask the LB about dogs and how they have sex. He looks at me like I’m some weird fetishist. I tell him to humor me, and he responds by saying that dogs would have to have sex which would include a vagina, not an ass.
“I hate you two,” Andrea says. “Anyone up for Rock Band?”
[i] It should be noted that Daisy has no problem eating and routinely eats Mac’s food if we don’t keep an eye on her. This has led to me buying Mac elevated food bowls, but Daisy will still stand and balance on her two hind legs and eat Mac’s food if she can get away with it.
[ii] It should also be noted that coherent thoughts for Andrea are not what most people (or so I hope) would consider coherent. If further proof is needed me, e-mail me. I can tell you about the donut hole story, the Blair Witch story, the blow-hole story, etc., etc.
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