WetLeather Motorcycle Rider Information

No shit, there I was: Standing on the driveway in front of a house in
Spanaway while a woman I had just met moments before gave my dog a
handjob.

No, really. It's true.

This all started some months ago. We decided that we wanted to get
another St. Bernard to bring the pack back to a quorum of three, after
the death of our #1 Dog, Zach, back in August last year. I've told
this story before, so I'll fast forward past the evil dog shows and so
forth, until we reach the point where Schoeder was officially declared
a "champion" complete with a certificate from the American Kennel
Association in which they mis-spelled my last name. We had arrived.
Now all we had to do was kick back and wait for the offers to come
rolling in.

Not exactly. Breeders don't just let the dogs go around doing it
doggie-style willy-nilly. Oh, no. Bloodlines must be scrutinized. An
appropriate match must be arranged. In all likelihood, the male and
female will reside in different states, if not on different
continents. Therefore, the male must be..."collected."

"Collected," I said to my wife, "What the hell do they mean by that?"
"Uh, I think they must... you know..., " she replied. "No frickin'
way! Now there's a job I don't want," says I. And there we left it for
a month or so, until this morning, when I received the call.

The voice on the other end sounded anxious. "She's moving fast! Her
progesterone level is at 7.0!" "Uh, ok, " I said, "I guess I need to
get him to the vet?" "yes, right away. We've got it all set up."

I already knew that the vet was in Tacoma, which I wasn't too happy
about, but the breeder we work with seems quite happy with this vet,
and our vet doesn't seem enthusiastic about performing "collections."
I should have known right there.

I call the vet. She says "Oh, today is my day off. I'm not at the
clinic. You'll have to bring him to my house in Spanaway." Spanaway!?
Jesus H. Christ, that's like, 70-80 miles away! So I say, "Can we hold
off a day?" Oh, no! Her levels are peaking. We have to move fast."
Goddamit.

So I get the truck emptied, then put his crate in there, then get
everything else ready, and finally load up the dog. He's happy as can
be 'cause there's nothing he likes more than a long, relaxing ride.
Poor ignorant bastard. Off we go.

Traffic sucks. It really does. It's not too bad in the wasteland
between Gorst and Gig Harbor, but after you get to Gig Harbor it all
goes to hell in a hurry. Finally I get to 512 and head towards
Puyallup, and Spanaway.

Every military base has a slum nearby. At least, that's been true of
every military base I've ever seen. McChord AFB and Fort Lewis are
very close to Spanaway, so Spanaway feeds off the leavings. The
"heart" of Spanaway, if you want to call it that, is a long, immensely
ugly strip of stores, pawn shops, cheap strip joints, and empty shops
strung out along Hwy 7 for miles. Every mile or so there is a pile of
glass and debris in the center lane, the remains of a recent vehicle
collision. Nice.

I'm looking for a mailbox shaped like a cow. Or, so I've been told.
How many cow mailboxes can there be in Spanaway? Fortunately I think
there may be only one. I turned off the main road onto a side
arterial, then a smaller feeder, and finally onto a capillary. Drive
past a group of sullen teenage girls with really thick eye makeup, who
refuse to move from the center of the road. Nice.

Finally I spot it: The Cow. I parked, unloaded Schroeder and went up
to the door, which has a sign "Warning: Maltese on Duty". Uh, yeah.
Press the doorbell. There is an eruption of "YIPyipYyippyipYIPYIP!!"
and a bunch of little white things can be seen throwing themselves at
the living room window. Schroeder is standing pretty still, looking at
the door. Then he looks up at me. "Where have you taken me this time?"
Aw, man. I had no idea, little buddy.

A woman answers the door. "Oh Hi, you must be Glenn! Is this our boy?"
Well, *I* sure as hell am not our boy, so I guess he's it by the
process of elimination. "Yes, " I replied, "this is Schroeder." "Ok,
wait right there."

A few minutes pass. The little white dust bunnies are still flinging
themselves mindlessly against the window. Schroeder looks pensive. I
feel a little sick.

She returned with a thing that - well, it's hard to describe. Like an
industrial-strength condom with a test tube on the end. It's about a
foot long. "I always collect the big boys out here," she says,
pointing at the driveway. Out here? Like, in your front yard? Oh, god.
This isn't happening.

We walk to the driveway. Schroeder is patient, and as always, trusts
me to look out for him. Jezus, I feel about six inches tall. "Ok, now
praise him enthusiastically!" she says. Ok, I ask you: What do you say
to a dog while he's getting jacked-off in someone's front yard? "Good
boy" doesn't seem entirely adequate. So I say "Good boy, Schroeder.
Good boy!"

The dog was surprisingly unemotional. Stunned, probably. Apparently
there is a high school just behind the house, because suddenly a bunch
of kids start yelling (I swear I'm not making this up) "Give me an L!
" and the crowd yells "L!!" "Give me an I" and the crowd yells "I!!"
They went on for a while but I lost track of whatever they were trying
to spell.

Meanwhile the dog is rhythmically sort of bumping his shoulder against
my leg, while I look up at the trees, clouds, just about anything but
what is happening next to my right leg. "Good boy, Schroeder" I say.
Then it's done.

The vet stood and brightly said "I'll just take this in and spin it.
I'll be right back."

Spin it? Ok, don't panic. That probably means something about a
centrifuge. I hope.

A few minutes later she's back, carrying a fairly large box. "So, is
he all tucked in now?" Well, he's standing right next to me, so I say
"no, I could put him in the truck..." and she says, "No, I mean
underneath." Underneath? Oh. Like I've been out here checking out his
wang. I have no idea if he's "tucked in" or not. She bends down and
takes a look - "Good." she says. I guess he's tucked in, then.

Aiiiieeee!! I can not believe I'm participating in this scene. At some
level I knew that this sort of thing had to happen, but I never quite
connected all the dots such that I saw myself in the picture. Until
then.

Then she says "We've got 90% mobility. This is good stuff." She hands
me the box. It says "Puppie Pak" on the side, along with "Refrigerate
Immediately". Wow. Big freakin box. Way to go, Schroeder.

So I'm off to the "Mail and More" store to FedEx the Puppie Pak to
California. I get into the store and tell the girl behind the counter
that I need to fedex this box. She's about 18, maybe. She hands me a
form to fill out, points to the From: address box and says "this is
you," then points to the To: address box and says "this is who you're
sending the box to."

Really?!

I fill out the boxes. Then I get to the line that says "Describe exact
contents." I figure, if I'm ever going to do it, this is the time.
I'll never have a better opportunity. So I write "Frozen dog jizz
(semen)," sign the form, and hand it to the girl. Then I wait.

She started typing the stuff from the form into a computer form, then
stopped. Looked at me. "What is this," she says. I play innocent.
"What?" says I. "What is in the box?" "Dog semen." She glances at the
box on the counter. "Oh-kay..." she says, and continued typing, a
little slower than before.

The look on her face was worth a reasonably long drive, right there.


--
- Glenn M.

A few days ago, I received email titled "Girls, girls, girls!" It was
from the dog breeder that has been showing Schroeder. She had another
bitch lined up for Schroeder. She has a sense of humor about this, so
far she's the only one who has shown any awareness of just how ludicrous
the whole process appears to an outsider. This was my warning that I was
about to begin another foray into the world of dog breeding. I was a bit
more positive about it, though, because the plan called for Schroeder to
do the deed in person. My little buddy was gonna get some. Woohoo!

Saturday morning I received "the call." The woman on the phone said
that "Her levels are over 7, we need to do this today or tomorrow at the
very latest." Seems that this event always creates a panic. Here we go
again.

I asked how long it would take, so I could plan whether or not I needed
to stick around. She said it would take about an hour. I replied that
she must be expecting Schroeder to perform prodigious service. She was
silent for a second - she's never seen Dr. Strangelove, apparently -
then replied that no, it sometimes takes a while to get the male
excited.

I said that shouldn't be a problem, because Schroeder is normally about
like a teenager on a topless beach. He's a ready Freddy. I ended up
eating those words, but I believed them when I said them. Win some, lose
some.

After a bit of wrangling, we agreed to meet in Kent, at our breeder's
house. Unfortunately, J. is in CA attending a funeral and would not be
there to help. That was a bad sign, though I didn't realize it at the
time. The woman I was speaking to was driving over from Yakima.

I arrived shortly after 8p to find the bitch's owner, C., and a
"helper," F., who I had previously met at one of the dog shows. I
couldn't remember her name until she mentioned the name of her dog. We
shook hands, an action I was later to regret. At first I wasn't exactly
sure why a helper was needed. I thought that the dogs would probably
work this out on their own. Then I recalled that J. had said something
about sometimes having to help the male "aim." Oh, boy. Yeah, I'd drive
down from Seattle to help a dog aim his willie - NOT.

We decided to introduce the lovebirds to each other. Schroeder wandered
over with his tail wagging, the bitch responded by barking and growling
at him. Just like one of the blind dates I was on, back in the day.

The other dog was unloaded from the van and we went about the process of
trying to get them to get it on. Watching dogs fuck is not really my
thing, and in fact I'd sincerely hoped not to participate at all. This
is when I really, really started regretting that J. wasn't there,
because she would have taken over and I could have gone back to the
truck and studied the book on operational amplifiers that I had brought
along.

We worked at it for a while, but eventually Schroeder decided that he
didn't want anything to do with Yoda and she wasn't at all interested in
him either. Quite the opposite actually, she growled at him whenever she
saw him. For his part, Schroeder just wanted to get back into the truck.
Me too.

I suggested that maybe this was a case of performance anxiety. They
thought that was funny, but I was serious. The situation was not
conducive to putting either dog at ease. The other dogs were barking,
we're standing around staring at them, Schroeder is always nervous at
J's place because he knows he's on someone else's territory, and both
dogs had spent a lot of time in the car. I think this might have gone
better if we'd put them into a kennel with some Isaac Hayes music
playing and a bottle of vintage chicken broth, but C. didn't think it
was good for them to be put into an enclosure together because she was
concerned that Yoda would be aggressive. Maybe a Roofie Milk Bone would
have helped calm her down. J. would have handled the situation with far
more aplomb, I'm sure of that.

We made another attempt to lead Schroeder to Yoda's butt. Schroeder took
a sniff, then turned away. "No Sir, I don't like it." Well as far as I
was concerned, that was the end of the show. We tried, the mood wasn't
right, the stars weren't favorable. No dog humping tonight.

Then F. reached down and started fondling the bitch's vulva. I raised an
eyebrow but didn't say anything because I could hardly wait to find out
what was going to happen next. The dog showed absolutely no reaction
whatsoever. After a few seconds of that, F. put her hand out to
Schroeder. He took about 1/4 of a normal whiff then abruptly turned his
head away. He's not stupid.

The two of them looked at each other and I examined the scenery.
Impasse. Then F. says, "Um.." and she's doing that thing that people do
when they're playing coy, by which I mean that's she's kind of
scratching her chin and ear - with the same hand that was just up the
dog's coozie. I remembered that I'd shook that woman's hand when we met,
and decided that I needed to wash my hands ASAP. [Note to self: Stash
some alcohol swabs in the truck.]

Then F. says "How do I say this delicately... perhaps you could fondle
him?" Whoa! I replied, immediately and firmly, "We don't have that kind
of relationship."

C. says, "I understand, but we need to get him excited." I replied,
"Look, I didn't too much mind driving 90 miles to get here, but this is
where I draw the line. The answer is No." I guess they heard the resolve
in my tone because they didn't ask again.

They traded exasperated looks, then F. said "What now?" I replied, "Do
we have any beer?" They both looked at me blankly, so I elaborated "It
works for men." Oh-ho! The remark about performance anxiety was funny,
but apparently this one wasn't. Whatever. Well, _I_ thought it was
funny. That's when C. says, "I have Dr -'s number, I can call her."

"Aw, Jesus H. Christ," I thought, "not *that* again!" I decided to give
the dog a drink while C. called the vet. The vet must have picked up the
phone on the first ring because within minutes the red light was lit. We
were headed for the Chicken Ranch in Spanaway.

All I had in the truck was some Windex, so I used that to wash my hands
before we drove off. I was wishing for betadine solution and a scrub
brush.

Another scenic drive down Hwy 7 into bucolic Spanaway. Fox's Nude Review
is running a "Waitress contest - $100 prize." I bet that's classy. A few
miles later we were sitting at a light and I looked over and saw
Unmentionables - A Lingerie Store. The sign out front said "Huge Sale -
All Lingerie and Shoes". Hmmm. I wondered if they have anything that
would fit a 150 pound dog? Maybe that would help get Schroeder in the
mood. Then I realized that _of course_ they have lots of stuff to fit
150 pound dogs, just the wrong kind of dog. Bummer.

Not too long after that, I pulled up to my usual spot at the cow
mailbox. Schroeder seemed a little agitated, but maybe he was just
getting tired of being cooped up in the crate. I unloaded him and walked
over to C., who was trying to coax her dog out of the van "Come on out,
you old bitch!" That dog did seem a little grumpy. Cramps, maybe.

Dr.- met us in the driveway, dressed in a lab coat and fuzzy house
slippers. By then I wasn't surprised or amused by much of anything. It
didn't seem unusual that my dog was about to get another handjob from a
woman wearing fuzzy house slippers. Dr.- directed us to the grass next
to the driveway. Judging by the circular dead spots in the grass, this
was either a landing zone for alien spaceships or a pee zone for the
dogs. She's got another of those foot-long, industrial-strength condoms
in her hand.

This time I was more of a clinical observer than I was last time. I
noticed a couple of things. First, and most important, Schroeder doesn't
like this. I figure the only reason he let her touch him is because I
was there. He just stood there impassively, panting normally and looking
around. No need to ask "Was it good for you?" A likely answer might have
been "Was what good?"

Second, the vet is pretty sensitive to the needs of her patients. After
a minute or two she said "oh, I remember you. You just want everyone
else to do all the work." I decided not to ponder the implications of
that statement. Schroeder got a little distracted by some noises coming
from the direction of one of the neighbors, and the vet responded by
picking up the tempo. Then it was done. I'd have had no idea except that
the vet said "There!" There was zero reaction from Schroeder. Nada. He
shows more emotion when he burps.

Right then and there, I resolved that this was the last trip to Dr.- and
the last time I would put the dog through this experience. He doesn't
like it. I feel like I'm abusing his trust.

The vet said she wanted to go "have a peek through the scope." C.
started talking to Schroeder using the high-pitch, chopped tone that
people use when they're talking to dogs and old people. I have no clue
why people do that. The dogs don't understand a single word, and the old
people probably think that the talker is an imbecile - I know I do.
Schroeder quickly got bored and looked away.

A few minutes later the vet emerged and enthusiastically proclaimed that
Schroeder's sperm is "fantastic stuff!". Well, I'm glad that someone got
some excitement out of the evening, because for sure, Schroeder and Yoda
weren't getting any. They'd both paid their dime and hadn't even farted.

I asked if we were finished. They said yes, OK to load up Schroeder. I
hadn't noticed before, but C. had someone with her who had been driving
the van. He got out, and I overheard C. explaining to him that "Dr.- is
one of the only vets in the state who do this!" I thought, Oh, do tell?

I recall my vet's reaction when I asked if he could collect the dog so I
wouldn't have to drive to freakin' Spanaway. He said (paraphrased) "No
fucking way." A little more tactfully than that, of course, and he did
give me the phone number of a "fertility expert" in Kirkland. He said he
didn't have the equipment to do the collection at his office. That was a
bit of dissembling (I've seen the equipment) but I forgive him. I
understand his feelings perfectly.

I gave Schroeder a drink of water and a treat, then loaded him in the
truck. He needed no urging to get into his crate. Went right in and sat
down. You and me both, buddy. We're outta here.

When I left, the bitch's owner was sitting in a plastic lawn chair on
Dr. -'s front lawn, with the dog's hind legs on the chair on either side
of her legs. She was nose to sphincter with the ol' brown eye. The vet
was doing something to the dog's crotch, I didn't get close enough to
see exactly what. Didn't seem prudent to get that close. The dog
appeared to be stoically enduring the process, much as Schroeder had.
Everyone except the dogs and me seemed relatively pleased with our
progress. I half expected someone to open a bag of potato chips and have
a snack.

This is the last time I'll ever write a story like this one, because
that was the last time I'll ever participate in such a scene or allow
one of my dogs to participate. Never again. I'll get my dogs from the
supermarket, shrink-wrapped and barcoded, just like everyone else.

- Glenn