When The Dog Humps The Dinner Guests

Huffington Post blog post, Feb.23,2016  ©2016 (PG-13 version in La Jolla Light is above.)
 Call me naïve, but I really thought neutering a dog was supposed to make him, well, uninterested.  But even after our English bulldog Winston went under the knife, there would be the odd occasion when we’d be having a dinner party out on our patio and a guest would suddenly exhibit a certain telltale twitching indicating to us that Winston was under the table having a close encounter of the interspecies kind.

Winston is almost nine, pretty senior for a bulldog, a breed for whom years of ill-considered inbreeding have created an ever-decreasing life span and a guarantee of asset-plundering vet bills for their owners. So it is an even more puzzling why, in the last year, Winston’s proclivities for canine-human limb interaction would have increased exponentially. He seems to have rediscovered the fountain of doggie youth, not only in interest but in, er, function. My husband Olof, far from being dismayed, says it gives hope to old guys everywhere.

Suddenly, no guest is safe at our house. I confess I have spent more than little time pondering why Winston picks one particular leg out of all the legs under the table. Why not the leg three seats down? Just as some people are more attractive to mosquitos than others, do some human legs emit subtle pheromones that say “come and get me” to horny dogs? This just screams ‘Science Fair Project’ to me.

As we entertained the woman CEO of Olof’s former company one night last summer, she reached out from her low-slung Adirondack chair to pet Winston only to have him mount her arm.  He had it in a death grip, possibly because this was his first upper limb experience. The CEO’s increasingly physical efforts to dislodge him only seemed to prove mutual excitement. “Woo-hoo!” he seemed to think, pumping like an elliptical on overdrive, “She’s really into me!”

Fortunately, the CEO is (a) a nice person, (b) a dog owner and, most importantly (c) no longer controls Olof’s pay check. Because whenever Winston sees her now, she can’t even reach for a canape before Winston makes his move. You never forget your first arm.

Historically, we have always let Winston mingle with dinner guests because he’s a very social animal and most of our friends are dog people. Usually people’s worst complaint about Winston is that in true English bulldog fashion, he will wait until the main course has just been served to release a nuclear-strength kibble-scented air biscuit into the proceedings. Fortunately, we usually eat outside. Sometimes, that’s not enough.


Sadly for Winston, he now often spends dinner party time locked in our bedroom where he hurls himself against the door in frustrated outrage. It’s not that we don’t give him a chance to observe social graces. But first leg and he’s gone.


What’s even more alarming these days, however, are Winston’s sudden sexual proclivities toward other dogs.  Friends of our son’s came over with their dog and their two preschool children. Their dog, Snarfle, is twice Winston’s size.  While we were all chatting, I suddenly looked around and said, “Where’s Winston?”  Answer: under Snarfle. “Winston!” I said, grabbing his haunches and dragging him out. “Bad dog!”  I apologized profusely to the dog’s owners and to Snarfle as well, although Snarfle didn’t seem to be unduly distressed about it all.  In fact, a tad disappointed. We began tossing balls for the dogs to distract them. 

We were chatting some more when one of the tots piped up, “What is Snarfie doing, Mommy?” 

We all turned around and were simultaneously aghast.  Snarfle was lying on his back being, um, serviced by Winston. It was hard to decide who looked happier. Well, not the humans, that’s for sure.

We collectively grabbed the dogs (Winston snarled), uprighted Snarfle, and banished Winston.  But the kids weren’t letting this go.  When they first came, we had explained sniffing behavior to them, as in this is how doggies get to know each other, how they make friends. What we hadn’t covered was consensual oral congress. 

The three-year-old inquired, “Are they still making friends?”

 “And then some,” I muttered. 

Olof, who hadn’t been there at the time, observed, “Who are we to interfere with consenting canines? Don’t you think they’re just as grossed out by humans?” Many dogs sleep in their humans’ bedrooms, he noted, probably with their paws over their ears and dreaming of fire hoses.

But, of course, Olof had not been standing there in the company of two intensely curious tots who will hopefully not decide to impart the graphics of canine friend-making to their preschool classmates when it’s their turn for Sharing.