No, it’s not because the dick on Pete, my two year old Chihuahua terrier mix, is bigger than what a few of my tricks lately had between their legs. But seriously, did you know that 3 out of 5 gay men have, or have had at least one dog in their adult lives? You can certainly count my partner, George, and I among them. Over the years, we have had 16 mongrels ( a few pedigrees, but mostly what guppies refer to today as designer dogs). Nine of them lie buried in our own private pet cemetery on our property in PA, and three others sit in urns on my dining room breakfront in Florida.
So what’s this canine obsession by us homos all about? Is it companionship we seek, are they our surrogate kids, is it the unconditional love they offer us (and we them), or is it that we just like a hot furry thing next to us in bed?
Sure, all of the above, but I think the real reason so many of us are hooked on canines is because they represent one of the few constants in our crazy, unscripted lives. Family come and go, tricks fade with the next morning’s coffee, lovers morph into curling vacation photographs, but our doggie is perpetually around (and if you’re a true dog lover, there’s always a doggie in your life). In the bathroom when we take a crap or primp for the bars. On the bedroom floor when we fuck or get fucked. On the sofa when we get high or drunk over the guy who got away. That’s also why we’re usually wasted when Fifi or Fido dies, often more so than if it were our mother (at least my mother. She was a bitch).
Next life, I want to come back as a dog, (pedigree or mutt, don’t matter) to two wealthy gay guys with a penthouse on the Upper East Side, a house in the Hamptons or Fire Island, (either one is fine), and a condo in Lauderdale.
Just make sure my doggie bed overlooks the beach.