The Dog's Lover

I log onto the Target website, type the keywords “Target stuffed dog” and wait for the page to load. She’s not there. The white bull terrier with the red bull’s-eye around her eye, the one in the jaunty, red-and-white knit cap, is no longer available.

“Great,” I mutter. Now I’ll have to stalk toy stores until I find a suitable stuffed dog. It’s hell being Hank’s pimp. Hank is my undersized, oversexed Jack Russell terrier, and I have learned in the eight years we’ve been together that we’re all better off if Hank has a girlfriend. Through the years, I’ve supplied him with an array of stuffed lovers, including a mother and her two pups and a pillow-style hound dog, before hitting upon the Target dog, whose most alluring charm is her stiff back. Hank doesn’t like a girl who just lies there like a pillow.

I know Hank is not unique in his fetish for stuffed animals, but he’s elevated it to an art form. The first time Hank dragged a toy dog from our daughter’s bed and performed a lewd sexual act in front of the television, my husband, Ed, and I watched in stunned silence. When he was finished, he stood there panting with a goofy, but satisfied, look on his face. “I could use a cigarette,” my husband deadpanned.

When the kids lived at home, Hank used to wait until they had friends over before dragging the current girlfriend in front of the television for his love fest. “Mom, he’s doing it again,” our sophisticated teen would wail. Hank, who was neutered at six months, humps his girlfriend two or three times a day. She’s called into service when he’s stressed, bored, and whenever his owners commingle. Which, I must admit, is less creepy than when he decided to join us for a threesome. “I don’t know how you’re able to lick my knee at the same time you’re doing all that other stuff, but it really turns me on,” I’d purr to my husband. Neither he, nor Hank, was amused.

For two years in a row, when they were plentiful, I bought Hank a Target dog: one in the jaunty ski hat, the other in red long johns. We refer to them as the twins—one for the upstairs and one for downstairs. Both were immediately blinded, their ears half chewed off, and the fur on the back of their necks tramped down from the death grip Hank’s strong jaws have on them in case they try to escape.

Surprisingly, Hank can be a considerate date, too. Occasionally, he tries to take his girlfriend out. When we lived in Denver and he had twenty-four-hour access to a doggie door, this posed a problem because his then-girlfriend was too large to fit through the door. I once watched for twenty minutes as he tried to help her out. He’d push her for a while and then squeeze around and try to pull her out. Finally he popped her through, and they spent a couple of hours basking in the sun. He alerted me, in that bossy way of his, when it was time to bring her back in, so I’d open the door.

My other responsibility is to hide the twins in the hall closet every two weeks so the cleaning service doesn’t discover our dirty little secret. After we settle down for the evening in our clean house, Hank will remember the girls and demand I get up to let them out of the closet. And then we’re privy to a reunion worthy of a war hero returning from battle.

I did try once to keep Hank on the straight and narrow, but he became so tense, so nervous, that I finally gave in and bought him another stuffed dog. The gratitude in his eyes was enough to make me his pimp for life. It could be worse, I suppose—he could have a thing for real-life bitches, and we’d go broke paying puppy support or be overrun with the pick of the litter. Plus, Hank’s live shows have curbed any desire to view adult entertainment on video or pay-per-view. The money we save keeps his harem well stocked.