From the mists of history, from cave paintings of canines in southern France, from the dawning of Western civilization in Europe in the fifteenth century, French Poodles have been identified. Dwelling in caves and huts with their masters, they proved to be expert duck and truffle hunters, who stayed close to their masters and obeyed like no other dog. In fact, so attached were they to their humans that they were soon bred as companion dogs and the grunt work of retrieving and sniffing out grungy stuff from the earth and water left to pigs and other lower breeds of hounds.
And so, after thirteen days, Sugar and I are attached at the hip. Almost literally. She won't have it any other way. Sugar defines the lap dog. She makes Lady Bertram's pug, of Mansfield Park, seem stand-offish by comparison. This is truly a wonder for me. I don't think that even my mother ever loved me this intensely.
There is, however, a downside to this Poodle mania. It's called the husband in my life, who also loves Sugar. But who also enjoys recreational sex, as do I. This is not at all racy stuff, dear reader, because we're old and we're married and we're now animalists, so we can address the earthy issues.
Thirteen nights -- no sex yet. But why? you ask.
Well, how to explain? Sugar sleeps in her crate below my side of the bed. Hubby sleeps at my left. The first few nights after Sugar's dramatic air rescue, she tended to cry her eyes out in the crate. Then she bonded with me, strongly. A regimen was formed whereby hubby would hold her in his lap downstairs while I high-tailed it upstairs to have my bubble bath, cleanse and cream my face, get in nightie, etc. Then hubby would bring her up and we'd urge her into her crate alongside the bed. However, until I was actually physically in the bed, she cried. Not only did she cry, but she shrieked and howled like a wolf cub. Thus she trained me to quicken my formerly relaxing bedtime routine. Once we were both safely under the covers, Sugar could dry her eyes on her fleece mattress and drift off to puppy dreamland.
Well, after a couple of nights with little or no vocal objection, we thought we might try IT. Under the eiderdown we snuggled, struggling to strip off winter nightwear, locking lips, getting cozy, warming up...then...rustling. We ignored it. I snuggled up to hubby; still ready. Then whimpering. Snuggled up to hubby and heard only muffled sounds of laughter. He was laughing! It was over. I knew at once it wouldn't happen with Sugar beside us at the foot of the bed.
Next night. I decided that Sugar could be crated and left safely in the kitchen for ten minutes -- that's all we needed -- ten minutes before we began the nighttime ritual. You'd think she'd understand the need: she's a FRENCH Poodle, for god's sake. I put all her favorite toys inside: the dragon that squeaks, a tennis ball, a bully stick (do you know what a bully stick it? Because I didn't till last week when I was out buying puppy supplies -- it's a stick make out of bulls' private parts! Puppies and dogs LOVE to chew on them). So anyway, we tiptoed upstairs ("Mummy's coming back in one minute, Sugar, don't worry, Mummy's coming right back") raced to the bed, ripped off only essential items and locked lips. Everything was going so well. Suddenly hubby froze. "What's wrong?" I said. "She's howling, don't you hear her?" I didn't. "Ignore it," I said. "How can I ignore that?" I lifted my head from beneath hubby's hulking frame and I heard. The sounds of an entire asylum baying at the full moon.
However, dear reader, I want to report that we dim humans outsmarted the Poodle at last. We PRETENDED to go to sleep last night. (Second attempt of the evening, bear in mind.) And we fooled her. She quieted down and fell asleep. And even though we were exhausted we pulled it off. Was it lovemaking? That's a stretch. But where there's a will there's a way. So they say, whoever THEY are. I'll keep you posted.
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