What's So Funny?

How old is too old to laugh at juvenile things? Whatever it is, I haven’t reached it yet. I enjoy bathroom humor as much as a six year old. If someone trips and falls, I am going to have to stifle a laugh before I can offer assistance. And don’t even think about naming the planet after Neptune in front of me, unless you want a barrage of blue gas and Klingon jokes, and who doesn’t? If something odd or socially inappropriate is going on, then count me in.

A few weeks ago, my family and I were enjoying a quick vacation at a beach near Charleston, South Carolina, with a good friend who had lots of extra place at his oceanfront rental. (Thanks again, MR!) We decided to go into the city our last night because seriously, it’s Charleston, and who needs a reason? We planned to enjoy a delicious meal at MR’s favorite restaurant but went to the Battery to kill some time before our dinner reservation.

Charleston is one of my favorite places of all time; I never get tired of looking at the same magnificent houses overlooking the mouth of the Ashley River, across from Fort Sumter. Between the houses and the seawall is the lovely White Point Gardens, where in addition to several historic statues and preserved cannons are some of the most amazing live oak trees. Those trees have survived a hurricane, a war, an earthquake, and a fire, and like Charleston itself, they somehow keep going in the face of years of so much disaster.

Walking through White Point Gardens, I imagine life in pre-Civil War Charleston. I can almost see proper Southern ladies out for an afternoon stroll, their slaves fanning them in a failed effort to keep them cool, their dogs frolicking under the shade of the live oaks, while their husbands and fathers lean against the railings of their porches, mint juleps in hand. The truth is, that park probably saw more pirates hanging and cannons firing than ladies strolling and slaves fanning. Never you mind; it’s my fantasy.

But dogs frolicking? That still happens every day, including the humid afternoon we paid the gardens a visit. We parked our car along the edge of the park and walked around, watching kids climb the pyramids of cannonballs and the many cannons that sit every so often along the square. We walked the entire perimeter of the park, taking in the view of the antebellum mansions on one side, the sailboats dotting the harbor on the other.  We peeked in windows and along porches, just enjoying the splendor of the historic district.

As we walked back toward the car, I noticed two majestic golden retrievers playing near where we had parked. Their owners were deep in conversation, not really watching the dogs at all.  I sort of glanced at them, registering their presence, but not really paying any attention to them. My younger daughter, S, however, who is in love with every golden retriever she has ever seen, was watching them intently.

“Hey Mommy, do you see those dogs? They are playing together. Look! Aww, they are so cute!”

I didn’t ignore her, but I was talking to my husband, and therefore did not respond fast enough for her.

“Mom, hey, Mommy. Do you see the dogs?”

Again, I didn’t answer her. It’s rude to interrupt people, and someone needs to teach her that.

“Mommy, look at the dogs!” she shrieked again.

So I did. To paraphrase a joke my grandfather used to tell, the one in the front was sick, and the one in the back was pushing it to the hospital.

I turned to my daughter and said, “Um, yes. I see them. Now I wish I didn’t.”

She turned bright red and said,” I swear they weren’t doing that a minute ago. I just thought they were cute; that’s all.”

My other daughter chimed in. “Gross. They need to get a room.”

“Or a kennel,” I added. The dogs were still going at it, humping away. If they were people, they would have already been arrested, or at the very least, YouTubed.

“Why won’t they stop?” S asked me.

“Don’t stop til you get enough,” I sang in my best Michael Jackson falsetto.

Which is when we all cracked up. I laughed harder than anyone, because I think I'm funny.

At that point, MR noticed the dog fornication and judged us. MR, who is still obsessed with “The Human Centipede,” had the audacity to say, “Oh, come on. Grow up, “ in disgust.

“Hey, she’s eleven,” I said to him. “If you can’t laugh at dogs going at it when you are eleven, when can you?”

He thought for a minute. “Hmm, you’ve got a point," and walked on to the car.

I, however, am not eleven. So what if I laughed?  At least I didn’t teach my eleven year old the expression “doggy style, “and believe me, it was a feat not to. They were dogs, and they were doing it doggy style, which to them is just “style,” I suppose.  Does it get any better than that?

Not for the dogs, it doesn’t.

Objects of Desire

Without their testicles, aren’t male cats supposed to get fat and lazy and decidedly asexual? Someone needs to explain that to my sister’s cat, Max. He was fixed years ago, but recently he has developed a new found lust for life. It’s like someone slipped a little Cialis in his Meow Mix.

Usually when you think about a horny pet, you think about getting your leg humped by a dog. When I was young, my family had one of those dogs, the kind that would hump anything. Gus was the Dog Juan of the neighborhood, and even though he was a fat dachshund with a horrible flea problem, he still scored with all the bitches. I remember seeing him trying to mount an English sheepdog once. He could have used a step ladder, but somehow, he made it work with his short, stubby legs.
  
He didn’t even care if his paramour was another dog. He would hump guests in our house, once even going so far as to mount my mother’s date’s chest when he sat down. I guess Gus was a big fan of his cologne or his looks or something. Whatever the reason, he found that man irresistible, just as my mother did, which is even more disgusting than the dog humping him if you think about it, which I would prefer not to do. Gus also used to hump our cat. Our male cat. He was the kind of dog who would find a way to meet his needs even if it went against the grain of acceptable animal lovemaking protocol.

In his defense, Gus was not neutered, so he swung those plums of his proudly, strutting up and down the street while his balls slapped from side to side. But my sister’s cat, Max, well, his little kitty ball sack is supposedly empty. Is he regenerating his testicular tissue, or did they leave him a little something something when they snipped him?

It all started when my sister received a Slanket for Christmas a few years ago. A Slanket is the upscale version of a Snuggie, and hers was the same gray color as Max’s fur. Max was instantly attracted to it, and whoever would get all comfy under it could be guaranteed that Max would soon come round and mount the Slanket, humping it until the Slanket wearer shoved him away. If Max had balls, they most certainly would have been blue-gray from all that Slanket interruptus.

Max decided to branch out, looking for more worthy recipients of his passionate attention. His newest target is my brother in law’s dirty laundry. When no one is looking, Max sneaks into the closet and selects one of the articles of clothing from the laundry basket. He drags whatever he decides to seduce into the foyer, where he sweet talks it with a stream of annoying mews. He spoons it, holding it gently between his teeth and front paws, giving it a playful kick now and again. Then, when he thinks he’s provided enough foreplay to the t-shirt or boxer briefs or sock that he has chosen, he mounts it and, as they say, goes to town.

My sister, being what most people would describe as “normal,” does much in her power to discourage this behavior. She makes a point to limit Max’s access to articles of temptation by keeping up with the laundry, or, at the very least, keeping my brother in law’s closet door closed. If Max slips by her undetected, she will get up and take away the alluring garment, leaving Max sexually frustrated and thus reduced to taking care of himself the way human men wish they could but most, due to poor flexibility or small penis size, find themselves unable to. Even though Max would lick his wounds, as it were, he still had that sheepish look on his cat face, like he got caught doing something he knew he shouldn’t have done, but he just couldn’t help himself. If he was lucky enough to complete his dance of love, Max would slink off, leaving the frock feeling used and cheap.

When my family visited my sister’s family over the holidays, we were able to witness Max’s sexual addiction to the contents of the laundry basket. My youngest daughter thought he was so cute, the way he played with her uncle’s clothes. My teen thought it was gross. I found the whole display hilariously fascinating. My husband found me gross. 

I often look at my own pets and reflect on how odd it is to have animals living in one’s house, just walking around, doing what animals do. They don’t kill each other, but given the opportunity, they will snuff the life out of a centipede. They beg for food and eat like every bite is their last. They sleep peacefully, knowing they are safe. And in the case of Max, they make love like their very species depended on it. Just because your pet is spayed or neutered doesn’t mean he or she can’t ruin the reputation of your slippers or favorite sweater and freak out your children at the same time.

Here’s what I want to know. When my cats purr  and walk across me and knead me with their tender little paws, is it because they are showing affection, they think of me as their mother, or they want to cross an unspoken interspecial barrier? When I pet my kitty, am I sending him the wrong signal? I like my cats, but I don’t like like my cats. And poor Max, are his needs not being met to such a degree that he has to abuse the dirty laundry? Is that the cat equivalent of paying a hooker to take a dump on you?

It must be nice to be an animal. You eat when you’re hungry. You crap wherever because you feel like it. You can sleep just about anywhere or with anyone. And if you’re feeling randy, anything that’s laying about can do the trick: another animal, a leg, even a dirty t-shirt. What do you care? It’s not like you have to clean up afterwards. And if you choose to, hell, you’ve got a perfectly good tongue. Your sex tape might end up on YouTube, but no one will think less of you. We should all be so lucky.