Gus Stevens: Love Me, Love My Dog

When Trudy showed up at my front door that evening I became an instant dog lover.

Don't get me wrong, Trudy is no dog. Far from it.

She batted her big baby-blue eyes at me and it was several seconds before I was able to break away from her gaze and examine the rest of her. What there was wouldn't quit and I saw an instant winner.

Trudy was built so that every last brick was perfectly placed. She was maybe five-four, with blonde hair that could light an absolutely black room. She had the face of an angel and-as I was to discover-the soul and body of a devil. The eyes gave me the message and that figure backed them up. Under her miniskirt lurked the shape of a vamp encased in the skin of a teen-ager.

The reason I became a dog lover was because of Alexander, our German shepherd. Maybe I don't have Alexander to thank, if I keep on going back. Maybe I should thank Amy because she'd never become pregnant.

It all started a few weeks earlier when Amy was complaining one day because we'd been married for going on three years and there were no little Bradys running around the house as living proof.

I immediately volunteered my services for another attempt at baby-making, running my hand down the back of Amy's shorts as she knelt in the grass of our back yard. She jumped a foot, protesting loudly, but I could see the flicker of light in the back of her eyes. She was game, all right.

“I wasn't suggesting that we run into the bedroom this minute,” she said crossly, getting up and brushing at her knees.

“Well I was,” I said.

She made a face, trying to look angry, but it didn't come off. My wife Amy is a damned good-looking girl, even if I do say so. She's a big one at five-eight, with brown hair that caresses with its softness and good smell, hazel eyes that can make me weak in the knees, and a figure that adds up to a very exciting and comfortable roll in the hay about three times a week.

“What I mean is,” she continued, shading her eyes with her palm, “that the house seems to terribly empty.”

“Thanks loads.”

She smiled, touching my arm. “You know what I mean. We have all those bedrooms and nobody to fill them. We both know there's nothing wrong with us, only that we haven't matched your sperm with my egg at the precisely correct time.”

“You sound just like the doctor.”

“He's assured us that we're normal often enough,” she replied. “Heaven knows he's examined me thoroughly.”

“I've been wanting to talk to him about that,” I grumbled. I don't like him sticking his arm into you every six months like some damned plumber. He's getting his kicks and I'm paying him twenty-five bucks every time.”

Amy stood still while I touched her throat and let my hand drift down into her halter. She has dandy breasts and I never tire of playing games with them. Her excitement was rising, but she had to finish her speech.

“I thought perhaps a pet would be nice,” she went on, batting her eyes at me, her look promising me a nice fast and clean piece if I'd only cooperate and listen like an adult. “You know, a dog or something like that. It would help fill the lonely days until we have children of our own.”

“Sounds sick, substituting a cocker spaniel for a child.” I sniffed in disgust, but her breasts felt more interesting by the minute. “Ridiculous. Wanting to practice diaper changing on a mutt.”

“He's not a cocker spaniel and he's not a mutt,” she complained.

“Who isn't?”

The answer came from the garage, where a loud and anguished whine interrupted our conversation. It sounded like an overgrown baby, and that was what Amy released into the yard a few seconds later.

It was, she explained, a very valuable German shepherd, in excellent condition, six months old, and a pet-store bargain at only a hundred dollars. My whine outdid the dog's as he raced about the yard, panting, leaking on the avocado tree and trying to fall into the pool.

Slapping my forehead, I complained, “God, five minutes home from the office and you present me with this. I should have opened the front door of the garage and let him go back to his kennel, or wherever he comes from.”

Amy listened to my bitching for fifteen minutes, countering each of my arguments as to why keeping a dog was impossible with a better argument of her own. He could stay in the garage while we were at work, he wouldn't cost more than a dollar a day to feed, he'd be excellent protection when Amy was home alone, he'd only need a sitter at night, according to the man in the pet shop…

“A sitter at night?” My icy voice stopped her.

She batted her eyes. “We don't go out much, anyhow.”

“I repeat: a sitter at night?”

She nodded. “Alexander's afraid of the dark, unless someone's with him.”

“A fine watchdog. We can just leave a light on in the garage and to hell with a sitter.”

“It isn't the same, the man said,” she replied, taking my hand and shoving it back inside her halter. “He needs and loves people… except for thieves and rapers.”

I stormed on, but it was no good. I might have won, but my hand finally slipped low enough to cup a heavy and yielding breast and that was all she wrote. She could have asked me to buy her a full-scale replica of the Statue of Liberty for the front yard and I would have written out a check at once.

My jaw kept moving, but no words would come. Amy smiled like an angel, batting her eyes and taking my other hand. “Now everything's going to be all right. You'll love the dog and we can afford him. Just because he's chicken doesn't mean we can't give him love and affection. When a real baby comes along he'll be wonderful protection for the carriage when I'm walking Donald Junior in the park.”

I gaped at her swelling breast, squeezing one final time before she slipped away from my fingers and began pulling me toward the house. I looked back at the thing named Alexander and managed to blurt, as he watered the brand new orange tree, “How did you come up with Alexander? Crazy name for a mutt.”

She lifted her face and laughed. “For your father, of course. They're both chicken, yet both handsome and lovable, just like you.”

“I'm not chicken.”

“I meant lovable.”

“You mean that?” I breathed, watching her bottom twitch back and forth as we went into the house. Alexander, it appeared, could safely be left alone in the comforting sun of the back yard.

Amy nodded. 'I'm going to show my appreciation for letting me keep our new dog… and I'm going to love every minute of it.”

“Every minute with the dog?” I scowled. “I've heard about crazy dames who do things with collies and Shetland ponies. You have plans for Alexander, eh?”

“Please shut, dear husband. Stop that filthy talk and concentrate on love. Those are the minutes I'm going to enjoy. The ones with you… starting now.”

She turned fast, facing me and locking her arms around my neck. My head was pulled down and her lips were like starving piranha as they nibbled at mine and then began chewing furiously. I chewed back while her body fastened itself against mine, her breasts flattening, her belly trembling, her hips jockeying for position. Even her knees knocked against mine as she tried to crawl inside my skin.

I lifted my face for an instant. “It's been a long time since we've done it in the kitchen like this,” I managed to gasp, sucking air like it was going out of style.

She laughed with a low gurgle, deeply in her throat, playing a sultry role she knew drove me out of my mind. “Let's adjourn to the bedroom. I want this one to be good and thorough.”

I played along with her until we were in the hall, heading for the master bedroom. Then I began to grapple with her, getting my hand back inside her halter and flipping a breast free before she could protest herself.