Sleeping With Bubba and the Bitches

In today’s blog, I’m going to take you back to the days of yesteryear, introduce you to my pal Steve from New Jersey, and tell you about how through his introductions, I later spent a week sleeping with a different bitch every night and three nights with Bubba.

I first met Steve when I was 17, when both of our families had seasonal spots in a campground in a small town in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania.  We met through a mutual friend—he began dating my friend Barbara. Although I was set to dislike him immediately because she had broken up with one of my other buddies to date him, when we actually met we clicked and became fast friends (and remain so to this day). At the time, his parents were raising two Doberman Pinchers named Vicki and Magnum; two well-trained ribbon-winning show dogs, with plans to breed them down the road. I’ll never forget the day Barbara and I were inside Steve’s motor home chilling out and talking, when without warning Magnum suddenly began humping my bare leg (I was wearing shorts), to the astonishment of us both, and before I could react, within seconds had had his own little happy ending all over my leg. Barbara nearly burst her bra open she was laughing so hard, while I sat there dumfounded and speechless. What can you say after something like that? I felt so violated. Barb kept laughing and laughing, she couldn’t stop laughing; while Magnum walked away quite pleased with himself. Well trained, my ass! Steve laughed too when he showed up and Barbara told him what his dog had done. I think my face had turned red; I still couldn’t believe what had just happened. I got my own laugh too though, the next time Steve and I were walking his dogs; he holding Vicky’s leash and me holding Magnum’s, when the big reddish brown Doberman suddenly lifted his leg on the wrong side of the forest path and peed on the leg of Steve’s white pants.

My leg wasn’t the only place Magnum liked to spread his seed…

When I was twenty-five, having moved from New York five years before, I took a two week vacation and drove up to New Jersey and New York to spend time with some old friends. The first week was spent with Steve at his large house, with all 10 of his Dobermans—one being Vicky, the surviving dog from the original pair, and the rest being the grown offspring of Vicky and Magnum. Nine of the ten Dobermans were female; the tenth being the largest of the bunch, and the only male. His name was Bubba.

When I first arrived at Steve’s property that first night and walked toward the house, I could hear the dogs barking furiously before I knocked on the door, already aware of my presence there. I was later informed, BTW, that they never locked their doors in that house. With ten Dobermans inside, why would they ever have to?

When I knocked on the outside door leading into the kitchen, the barking intensified, even as Steve and his mother herded the defensive dogs into another room and closed the door. Then Steve opened the outside door and welcomed me in. While we stood in the kitchen exchanging greetings and catching up, I could hear the alarming ruckus from the closed room. The dogs were barking and growling and snarling, ready to tear me to pieces. I love dogs; I don’t have any sense of uncontrolled fear of them, except for when they are barking and growling and snarling, ready to tear me to pieces! What would happen next, what Steve and his mother were planning, would require a measure of bravery on my part, and trust; my trust in Steve, and the trust that he had from all of his dogs.

Steve put me in the corner of the kitchen with my back to the wall, and stood in front, blocking me with his arms outspread. His mother opened the door, and the Snarl Squad charged out, running into the kitchen to intercept me. They had their sights set on me, the unknown intruder, intent on attacking and severely disabling me and God knows what else. They stopped short right in front of Steve—they could not reach me with him blocking me, and stood there barking and growling, waiting for him to move aside so they could attack me. It did not take them long to sense that he was protecting me, blocking me from danger. Their barks ceased and their growls lowered in pitch, as they came closer to investigate me, their pointed ears standing up at attention. They seemed a lot less threatening now. Steve slowly stepped away and let them go to me, and instructed me to let them smell my hands, and then to pet them.  I did just that, and then stepping closer I got down on my knees to greet them at their own level. That was when they attacked en masse, savagely and viciously… sniffing me and nuzzling my body and licking my face and jumping on me to play. Oh the horror!

The next time I returned and entered through the door into the kitchen, Steve repeated the same procedure, reminding them of his protection of me and my non-threatening entrance into their world. This time they stopped growling quicker as they recognized me sooner. The next time after that, I just walked in unprotected. They charged into the kitchen to defend their home, barking and growling, only to skid to a halt upon recognition, and turn and walk away. That was it; I was in, no longer an outsider.

Steve’s dogs were accustomed to taking turns sleeping in his bed with him every night; one dog per night. As his guest, I was given Steve’s bed and he took the couch. But the dogs did not care for the couch; they did not care who was in the bed, they only cared that they had a tradition to uphold. Each night, each took their turn and a new bitch climbed into bed with me. When it was Bubba’s turn, he climbed in and I knew right away there was a problem. As the Alpha male, he was larger than his female siblings, and more of the dominating type!

I wound up sleeping with Bubba a total of three nights. The first two, Bubba had stretched his legs out and squished me against the wall all night long. On the third night as he pushed past his sisters and climbed up on the bed beside me, I wizened up and put him on the inside, choosing the outside edge of the bed instead--a fine plan that turned out to be. In the middle of the night I was abruptly woken by the sensation of falling, and then of landing on the floor on my side. Ever the dominating bed-hogger, Bubba had simply stretched his paws out and pushed me right off the edge of the bed!

The jokes about prison cell mates are spot-on; unlike the slightly smaller females, sharing a bed with a dominative Bubba is never easy!

EDIT: I wrote that there were ten Dobermans involved in that story but that wasn’t fully accurate. There were actually nine involved in the Snarl Squad, including Vicky who didn’t remember me from the years before. The tenth dog was drugged up and in recovery mode when I arrived, laid out in another of the rooms. She had been carrying puppies until a medical emergency few days prior had forced the vet to operate quickly, and sadly, the puppies had not survived. When she regained her awareness and strength, she became alarmed. She knew she had been carrying a litter of pups, and with no understanding of what had happened to her, she was suddenly aware that the pups were no longer inside of her. One of the saddest things I have ever seen is of her rushing around the house frantically sniffing everywhere, looking into every area and pushing her snout under couches and into cabinets, desperately searching for her missing puppies. There was no way to help her understand what had happened and where her babies had vanished too.