A boy and his deeply disturbed dog.

You know I often look back on things I regret in life, as unproductive as that may be. And one of the major things I regret, or at least regretted until now, is related to a dog I had when I was around 9-12 named Spike. Spike was a mutt we got when my dad’s biker gang next door neighbor’s dog Demon got knocked up for the 10^th or 11^th time, but more on that later. Anyway the regret is related to the fact that this pooch and I were best friends when I was around the 9-10 year old range, but then things started to change. I started becoming more interested in climbing the social ladder, trying to make sure I was sitting at the cool people lunch table, what color suede pumas I had, if I could do windmills and other breakdancing moves, and girls, yes, I became interested in them young. Anyway, Spike started falling by the wayside, and I would do this horrible trick on him where my mom would tell me to put him outside, and I would get him all excited and be like “YOU WANNA GO OUT AND PLAY?!?! HUH SPIKE? YOU WANNA GO OUTSIDE!?!?” and I would open the door and he would go running out to the middle of the yard and whip around ready to play, and I would already have closed the door and went back inside. Sometimes I would look at him through the window as I walked inside and the look of disappointment on his face still seriously haunts me to this day. Over a period of months of this routine he started jumping over the fence and running around the neighborhood, disappearing sometimes for days and the time span between him coming home would get longer and longer until eventually he never came back. This really tore me up for a long time, but then I remembered something this little fucker used to do that made me glad I forced the beast into homelessness.

Several years before his self-inflicted exile, I came home from school one afternoon and walked up to my room ready to kick back and watch Degrassi Junior High or something, turned the corner and witnessed a spectacle so deeply disturbing that the image will be etched in my mind until the day I die. Spike had bunched up all my sheets, blankets and worst of all, my PILLOWS all into a tightly compacted semi-doglike shape, and he was having intercourse with this mass of my sleeping gear, rocking a giant red greasy dog boner and drooling and grunting like a priest in an orphanage at midnight. I mean, he was fucking the shit out of my bedding, hammering away at it like the Alpha Inmate breaking in the fresh meat that just came off the prison bus. I was left stammering and couldn’t even bring myself to tell him to stop at first, the shock was so severe. After being caught, he stopped trying to hide it and would just flaunt that shit. And if I remember correctly, this was BEFORE I started pulling my slight-of-hand “YA WANNA GO OUTSIDE?!?” move. To witness him doing this from scratch was a testament to both canine intelligence and perversion. I’d be watching T.V or what have you, and suddenly I would hear a commotion behind me. I would turn and he would be using his two front paws to gather up the blankets, pillows etc., grunting and growling the entire time, ready to make my bedding his bitch, and I’d have to stop him before that sickening red demonic dog boner would pop out of its hairy sheath. Now, these are the times I caught him, imagine how many times he did this deed unbeknownst to anyone? Luckily he was fixed so jizz wasn’t a factor, but regardless, no doubt I slept many a night with the remnants of fresh dog junk all up in my face for hours.  So Spike, you and I are even pal, that's one regret that gets scratched off my list today.