I'm the proud owner of a Beagle. Yes I am.
I'm the proud owner of a, well, to put it bluntly a "Gay Beagle".
I've had my surrogate son now for nearly 3 years and in all that time he has brought me nothing but joy.
From the day I picked him up at 8 weeks and he managed to shit through a hole in the side of his transport cage and leave a smell so bad in the car I couldn't remove it, to the point where he began his lifelong struggle to eat the kitchen from the bottom up, chewing on the expensive oak cupboard doors to relieve either boredom or teething issues.
Oh yes, this inbetween "doing" his glands every few days on the sofa next to me which brings more than a tear to my eye to digging holes in the garden to bury anything from a bit of grass to a toy he's fallen out with. ( The whereabouts of a cuddly squirrel to this day is slowly becoming nothing more than a "cold case" although before it's dissapearance I did find a black plastic eye on the floor in the hallway and what looked to be a chewed plastic nose. Stan the squirrel is M.I.A.)
This morning I found the head of Elvis's toy meerkat, Compo at the top of the stairs, his hollowed out torso lay dormant in the kitchen over night, showing the scars of a battle lost, including a chewed up leg. To this day one of the few toys he still likes to play with is a plastic frog who I refer to as Dennis (Hopper) and has so far managed to make it through the last 2 years with nothing more than a deformed nose and a chewed bottom. But even Dennis knows, none of his toys are safe. Elvis runs his toy box with Hard Regime like selfishness and at any point during the day any toy could be plucked from silence into a world of Beagle nastiness only known to a certain few foxes that have survived the anger of a bored beagle.
But this is by the by.
Of late I have been delighted to find that Elvis has began to start cocking his leg rather than squatting for a pee. I became overjoyed that my boy was now growing up and his bad ways were slowly going to become a thing of the past.
Saying that, a new issue has become apparent.
Elvis isn't straight. Sexually. He's not even a bit metrosexual but in my eyes has become a full on cock-knocker, the beagle equivalent of Rock Hudson. It doesn't come as quite a shock though, everything my dog does seems to go against the grain, even his OCD patterns of distress when he's taking a piss in the garden. Maybe it's my fault for having his bits chopped off at 9 months, I dont know.
Well, he's gay, nothing to worry about then. Or so you'd think.
A few weeks ago we were in the park and Elvis was playing with one of the usual dogs that he runs around with when out of the corner of my eye I saw my dog mount the face of this Staffordshire Bull terrier called Manny, front legs wrapped around this poor dogs head so it couldn't move, until about 5 seconds later Elvis yelped with a sudden dismount of his victim and ran over to me as fast as he could. On closer inspection I found he had his foreskin slightly torn, all I could think was "Serves you right, it's not the done thing in public places".
So, off to El Vetto, the Spanish vet that treats Elvis.
"How he do this?"
Well, all I can say is Pedro found it highly fucking amusing, recounting a tale of a stray dog he knew in his old town that used to rape other male dogs, all of this really didnt make me feel any better, I felt even worse when the bill for 2 stitches and some anti-biotics came to nearly £200 so I neatly rounded up that number by purchasing Elvis a new cuddly victim for being a good boy when he was having his knob sewn back together.
Sat thinking about this the other day led me to this conclusion.
Do I love him any less? No.
Would I change him in any way at all? No.
Would I prefer not to pay £200 every time he mounts a dogs face?
Think that one goes without saying, don't you?
