Twice in my
childhood I was seriously humped by dogs. Once at a family summer camp. The
older girls lip-synched to “How Much is That Doggie in the Window” for Talent
Night. I was given the part of The Doggie; my lines, “Ruff Ruff.” As I crawled
onstage on all fours, the camp owners’ terrier, Sporty, dashed in out of
nowhere and mounted me from behind, clinging and humping while I tried to
scurry away.
The whole thing was a spontaneous hit. All the grownups howled.
The whole thing was a spontaneous hit. All the grownups howled.
The second
time, I went with my parents for a visit to some new neighbors. We were all in
the parlor having soft drinks when I heard a dog whining in the basement. René, their French Poodle, our hosts explained, wasn’t allowed to
greet guests. I begged to meet their pet, not understanding their protestations.
How could a French Poodle, the popular image on everyone’s swing skirt (second
only to the Eiffel Tower) and the inspiration for the Poodle Cut hairdo, be a
problem?
Finally the
neighbors gave in and opened the basement door. René bounded up the stairs and made a bee
line for me, knocking me to the floor for some frenzied humping. While his
owners scolded and tried to restrain him, I scrambled behind the sofa. René broke loose and attempted to leap over the sofa before he
was caught and again exiled to the basement. René had the full poodle coiffure but his
pompom ears and tail made him even more sinister.
Permutations.
Are infinite.