Wednesday, August 08, 2012

Of Dog Days and Tea Bags

Maggie, Morrie, and Morrie's Tongue
A few years ago, I wrote about Morrie the Pug, describing some of his more...unique...qualities.  He has odd conversations with TVs, and he screams bloody murder on the way to the park.  Not to mention, his tongue is longer than Shaq's...well, you get the picture.  But what he did the other night, without question, makes his previous exploits seem juvenile.  Our (fixed) little man is all grown up, and he is starting to explore his sexual side, sans testicles.


San Diego rarely experiences what the rest of the world has to deal with throughout the entire summer.  A few nonconsecutive days in August here and perhaps a couple more in September there, the heat becomes invasive.  You become aware of the weather and you feel what San Diegans call humidity, especially the farther away from the coast that you go.

And that's one of the many reasons why I even moved here: typically, you don't even notice we have weather.  While I read about heat waves or snow storms or hurricanes from other parts of the world...not many horrible things happen here, as long as we steer clear of fires and earthquakes.  And Kardashians.  We say things like "It's cold today" when it's 68, or "There were reports of Kim being as far south as South Orange County, everyone get your emergency kits ready."  We just don't have much to worry about.

But it's these few days, these Dog Days of Summer, that San Diego does experience when I am reminded about something important: I don't have air conditioning. And this fucking sucks.


When the Dog Days of Summer get especially sultry, and we have already opened every possible door and window, and removed every piece of nonessential clothing (apparently, it is "gross" to sit on the couch without underwear) and all the fans are at LUDICROUS speed, and it still feels like we are being lightly fried in olive oil over a low heat (with just a touch of sea salt), drastic measures have to be taken.  No one...NO ONE...can sleep under these conditions.  Not even our dogs.   So we ALL venture to the guest room, where by some architectural anomaly, it happens to be a degree or two cooler than the rest of the house.  We ALL jump into bed.  And we ALL pant ourselves to sweaty, sweaty sleep.

It's a Who Can Be More Pugthetic in the Heat contest.  I think Maggie won.

Maggie, as it turns out, is a very good bedmate.  She curls up as small as possible, typically at the foot of the bed, and goes to sleep right away.  She doesn't make a lot of noise, and, although hot, makes it clear that she is pretty happy to be in bed with us.

Then there is her brother, Morrie.  This foot-or-so-long, twenty-pound dog, is a BEAST.  He takes up more room than the rest of us combined, and when he does go to sleep, rests with his arms and legs outstretched, kicking the shit out of anything in his way.  But before that, he paces around the entire bed (and on top of us) for ten-to-twenty minutes, making loud sounds, which I can only equate to what an Ewok would sound like when it was dying, cumming, or dying while cumming.  He also licks and licks and licks and licks and licks anything he can get his gargantuan tongue on (within reason): our feet, our faces, our hands, his paws, his junk.  So, all we get to hear in between our MORRIE, SHUT THE FUCK UPs, is LICK, LICK, LICK or ROAWAHHHHH...ROAWAHHHHH (that's the cumming, dying Ewok sound, FYI).  Also, as an added bonus, he doesn't like to sleep at the end of the bed like his sister.  Nope.  He will do EVERYTHING in his power to squeeze right between me and Tauni.  He, needless to say, is a piece of work.


A few nights ago, after watching the Olympics, we hit one of the Dog Days of Summer, and our house was on FIRE.  We agreed we would sleep in the guest room, realizing we would then have to deal with at least ten minutes of pacing, Ewoking, licking, nudging, and/or ball crushing.

But as luck would have it, for the first time EVER, Morrie didn't do this!!!  We all jumped into bed.  Maggie went to the foot. And Morrie just quietly went to sleep (between us).  I was amazed.  And happy.  It made me not even mind the heat.  It was a Dog Days of Summer miracle!


This pleasure lasted for what must have been a few hours...because at about 2:30 AM, I was awoken by a pressure.  On my forehead.  I thought, at the time, maybe a pillow had ended up on my face...but as I was slowly brought back into reality...sadly, this was not the case.

My ears were the next sense to reawaken, and I could hear panting.  Very close to me...but as I tried to open my eyes...I realized I couldn't.  I couldn't see anything.

Now fully awake, I moved both of hands toward my face, to remove what was on my forehead and covering my eyes.   If you can imagine, my hands started exploring/patting what was on me.  First, I felt fur.  And then a head.  Then a LICK.  And it was then I realized that Morrie was awake.  And sitting on my face.  Panting.  Tea bagging me with a tea-less bag, his pug butt on my forehead.

I instantly pulled him off of me with a familiar sound, but now it was me making it instead of hearing it: ROAWAHHHHH.  I was completely grossed out by my freak-ass dog who perhaps was finding some coolness from my breath, or perhaps just found sick humor in slowly suffocating me with his crotch.  And I swear...I swear...I swear on the gods of Summer Dog Days themselves, I even heard him laugh.

Regardless, I was so irritated I was up for an hour in the heat and the humidity, and wondering how long he was sitting there BEFORE I woke up AND what possible diseases could be transmitted from a pug's ass through the pores on my face.  I only came up with two.


The Dog Days of Summer have taken on a new meaning for me...and although I live without fear of relentless extreme heat for months on end...I do now live in fear that my dog is trying to kill me and/or pleasure himself. With his junk on my face while I sleep.