My German shepherd Puppy and I have shared nearly ten years of bachelorhood bliss. He’s been witness to a parade of beautiful, dumb, smart and sometimes crazy women in and out of my life. Likewise, I have seen him break the hearts of numerous bitches in our estate. And I use the term in its rawest most respectable form.
Puppy is a healthy, beautiful specimen, and, like canines whom I consider smarter to any human are wont to do, many a female dog have offered their rumps to him whenever I walk him around. Puppy is also a very sexually active specimen, and on more occasions than I dare to remember, he has taken such invites in the same spirit I embrace my relationships — short and sweet, and on to the next conquest.
Lately, however, Puppy has been spending more and more time with a particular Newfoundland in our neighbourhood. I thought little of it, chalking it to lean pickings surrounding us. Puppy isn’t into regular dogs much, preferring those who wear shiny coats and go on regular vet appointments.
My illusions were shattered when he disappeared for nearly a week, prompting a search, in which even a few of my detractors participated. Little did I know he was shacked up in one of the empty houses in the estate, playing daddy to a liter of nine pups. And guess what? If there is ever such a term as a “kienyeji” dog, the mother of his new brood fitted the word to the letter.
Poor me. My most loyal friend seems to have decamped to the other team.
