Hormones are raging at the Cottage, the least of which are mine.
Actually, mine shouldn't even be mentioned in light of the breed-me-NOW! debacle I'm managing. And by managing, I mean crating-everyone-and-leaving-the-house ASAP, because I can't hardly handle the sexual tension that's exploded in the Cottage.
So yes, as you might have guessed, Skye's in heat. Well, she's in the horny-I-thought-you-were-an-annoyance-but-now-I-realize-you-have-a-penis stage of her heat cycle, the same cycle that started nine days late and threw off my breeding plans. It's also the one that sparked dog-sex education discussions between me and nearly all of my friends.
Actually, I don't think one friend has been left unscathed from the "Okay, so a dog's heat cycle is three weeks long. The first week you don't know about it, the second week they're bleeding and the third week their vulva becomes swollen and engorged and that's when you can breed them" conversations that have been exchanged in multiple states and via text, cell phone, and over lunch in the break room.
There has probably never been a more publicized period.
And this one, like all the others, will come and go and result in no puppies. That's right, no babies for us anytime soon. That's what happens when you're late, Skye. No hanky-panky for you.
Convincing her of this (and Tuck, no less!) is a chore, and today was the first day of separation.
I could tell last night (as all responsible dog-moms can) that if puppy love were to be consummated, it would be this weekend, and since Cupid isn't shooting any arrows near our Cottage, I knew I'd have to enforce division starting today. And lasting about a week.
Let the torture begin. For all of us.
For Skye, because she's a little bit of whore and unlike some whores, she physiologically can't help it. Here's your dog-sex education fact of the day: bitches want it as bad as studs. And in the cases of every female I've owned, they want it worse.
For Tuck, because everything in him is telling him to do one thing. And he can't.
For me, because my job is to mitigate sexual emotions and make sure no accidents happen. I'm not wallowing in dog-pity because I'm a hard-ass and saying, "No, you shall not have sex!" is just another day in the life of. What I am wallowing in is self-pity because for all of their awesomeness and intelligence, no amount of screaming German commands can deter what nature's begging.
And we've come full circle. I crate everyone and leave the hormonally-crazed Cottage as soon as possible.