Later, Please

Later, Please

Ada was screaming, “Mama, help Mitzie.” I arrived at the window. On the sidewalk our beagle was running as she howled as she labored under Spud, the bulldog next door. His stubby front legs clung desperately to her shoulders. As he coupled, Mitzie struggled mightily, pulled away suddenly, and yelping with the pain, bolted at top speed. Spud’s inadequately sprinting back legs and his pelvic thrust kept him upright on hind feet for five or six steps. With each step a squirt of seminal fluid arched forward onto the sidewalk. Once on four legs again, he stood confused, as his organ retracted. As he licked the bottom of the left front paw, then the right. His resignation was palpable. He tilted his head back, sniffed, and trotted up the walk showing us his scrotum wagging back and forth. He approached our garbage can at the curb much as he had Mitzie. It teetered and fell. The top un-bagged layer spilled out. Spud had a mouthful immediately. He tilted his head back, and with two fierce skyward lunges of his blunt snout he had downed my discarded chicken sopapilla. Its fresh red chili from Chimayo (the world’s finest chili and hottest) hit Spud as he was pulling the plastic bag from the can and I was approaching with my broom. He began rubbing his snout with a front paw and yipping, running away from me on the other three legs when he was attacked from the front by Max, the schnauzer across the street. I got Max a good one with my first swing, and he ran for cover. I turned my attention to Spud but couldn’t connect, and he escaped emitting a “red chile” howl. As I was putting the garbage in order, I realized the real reason for the anger in my attack… because of him, now I had to explain to Ada—well, everything. If she were only a decade older than three, I could point out she had just seen the full gamut of male behavior, everything she’d need to make valuable anticipations of—pets, boyfriends, brothers, fathers, anything doused with testosterone. It was so wonderfully simple. Sex, a fight, a meal—the basics were there. But, no, thanks to Spud I would be mired in Ada’s detail questions. I had thirty feet of sidewalk back to the house to prepare for her first talk about sex. Mitzie was back, unfazed and wagging her tail. As I reached the front door, I rescued Ada as Mitzie was licking her face. I put Ada comfortably on my right hip. Her eyes widened and she asked, “Mommy, why does Spud’s penis have that red ball on the end?”
“That happens to Spud when they fight like that,” I answered with a confident explanation that astonished me with wherever it might have come from and with how reasonable this sounded.
Ada paused, said “Ohhh.” The reply floated softly on the cool morning air as her face grew pensive, far away. I waited, terrified of the next question.
She had it formulated, and back from far away, she asked “Can I have a hot chocolate?”
“Sure, Honey. Daddy’s leaving for work, give him a kiss. We’re going to the library to get you some new books, and we will get a hot chocolate with marshmallows at the bakery.” I was trying not to show my relief, my wonder at the incredible reprieve.
My murderous thoughts for Spud returned, and I could see him…how he would scratch a little grass up onto his steamy pile using those stubby back legs. He would trot away scrotum swinging to and fro, howling pitifully, violated from behind by that Chimayo red chili, just as Mitzie had been by him. I smiled warmly, and took Ada’s hand.