I live next to the neighborhood doggie park. The place where all the twenty- and thirty-something dog owners mingle, gossip, and behave in a generally obnoxious and Annex-y sort of way. Enjoying the recent respite from despicably cold weather, I stopped to linger in the park one sunny morning and absentmindedly scanned the familiar scene.
Not too much was out of the ordinary—there were mommies with weather-proof prams, that dude who gets high and talks to strangers, and of course five or six dogs gallivanting about. But wait…what was this…(gasp)? There, in broad daylight, for all eyes to behold, was a brown, short-haired mutt astride and hammering a weepy-eyed border collie. Two dogs were humping, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
My immediate reaction was to look down in horror and shame. How could this be? Weren’t there laws against this sort of thing? How could the Annex community condone such wild and animalistic behaviour? Where had these dogs been raised, in a barn? And more importantly, where was Bob Barker, and why hadn’t he warned me this could happen?
I looked around frantically, fully expecting either of the dogs’ owners to intervene in this public display of cheap sex. But I heard no cries of disgust, no yelps of panic, and no angry accusations of rape. Instead the rest of the park seemed to ignore the couple in the corner doing it doggy-style.
For my part, I stood befuddled and morally perplexed. While it was none of my business, I couldn’t help but feel some concern for the poor border collie. As countless observers turned a blind eye, that bitch just stood there and took big brownie’s hot beef injection like a weathered prostitute taking it from Hugh Grant.
Watching her, I began to wonder—do the recent inroads in harassment laws extend to the canine kingdom? Had Ms. Collie consented to the coitus? While she wasn’t struggling, she was definitely not doing what was well within her power to make the experience more enjoyable for all. There was no hip-swaying, heavy panting, or tail-wagging. Her eyes were not rolling into the back of her head, but were gloomily set upon me.
As we exchanged a knowing gaze, I became convinced I could already see the fear of unplanned pregnancy welling up in Ms. Collie’s watery eyes. Her future was doomed: she’d soon swell up like a balloon, give birth to six or seven squealing pups, get the living daylights suckled out of her teats, and be left with nothing to show for it except a litter of ungrateful offspring and stretch marks where the sun don’t shine.
And would Mr. “I-like-it-on-top” Brown take any responsibility? Nope. He’ll go back to living the high life in his split-level on Walmer Road, until he finds another unsuspecting victim to spray with the wellspring of his lust. Before we know it, our nice, homogeneous Annex community will be running ragged with illegitimate puppy children, all spawned in the lascivious act of public miscegenation. Where was I standing—a brothel in Ho Chi Minh City, or the corner of Brunswick and Bloor?
Snapping out of my apocalyptic reverie, I turned back to the “lovemaking” couple. I stopped dead in my tracks. Then doubled over laughing. Now, Ms. Collie was on her hind legs straddling Mr. Brown, and thrusting her nether region into his backside with such gusto you’d think she was buying her ticket out of this one-horse town. And funnily enough, Mr. Brown stood subdued, obviously expecting nothing less from his partner. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, and carried on with my day, contented and warmed by this sight of honest-to-goodness puppy love.
