Spring has arrived. It’s the time of year when a Monkey boy’s thoughts to turn to performing inappropriate hip movements with luxury purple sofa blankies, but this spring has brought forth an additional behavior – one that is apparently common amongst fully intact boys, but which I had never seen or heard of before: teeth chattering. When Daisy squats for a pee on a walk, I dig through my pockets to reward her with a treat (yes, that habit is still ongoing) and Monkey moves in and gives the pee residue his undivided attention, sniffing it, licking it and where possible, lapping it up. Once I’ve treated Daisy I am obliged also to offer a treat to Monkey (due to the longstanding “if one puppy gets” rule) and it’s then that I observe it: chattering teeth, staccato breathing and a slightly crazed look in his eyes.
It’s exactly the same look he gets when aroused by the aforementioned purple sofa blankie. It evokes in me memories of Hannibal Lector talking about fava beans, or maybe the particularly bitey Cenobites from the Hellraiser movies. It’s something I never saw at all with Biggles (who of course had “the op”), and never saw previously with The Monkster, though to be fair I might still be unaware of it if it weren’t for Daisy’s pee-pee biccie ritual. Regardless, it is apparently a common randy boy thing and confirms what I always say about Monkey: he is in many ways the sweetest, most innocent little soul I’ve ever known, but he’s also a raging pervert.
Yes Monkey is undeniably a perv, yet it’s still Daisy who does most of the humping
Sadly, I must report that we’ve been having sleepless nights over The Monkster of late. It’s all because I did the most heartless, cruel thing a supposedly caring humie can do to a Beagle boy: I put his existing crate bed in the wash, and slipped another new one in its place. I don’t feel the least bit guilty about this, but all the crashing and banging as he goes through yet another round of bed making does keep us awake. I mean I put it in there, it’s a perfect fit, it lies flat and it’s gloriously soft and furry; all he has to do is lie down it and nod off, but he doesn’t because it’s different and he has to exercise those bed-making “skills” of his.
I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve folded the sofa blankie to produce a thick, soft topper only to watch him spend five minutes kicking it out of shape and pulling it with his mouth until what’s left is lumpy mess. And then what happens? He tries to lie down it, realizes he’s screwed it up and makes a quick exit to the rug or the other sofa, which will soon be perfect – after just a few small bed-making tweaks. We called him Monkey. We should have called him Dufus.
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