Guest Editorialist: Owen Egerton!

If I Had to have Sex with a Dog, What Kind of Dog Would It Be?

I have never had sexual relations with a dog. No heavy petting or even awkward adolescent moments while washing the family Golden Retriever. I’m not attracted to dogs. Not at all. Lately, though, I’ve asked myself: if I had to, really had to, make love to a dog, what kind of dog would it be?

This is not some pointless pondering like imagining zombie attacks or what rain looks like on the sun (steamy, I bet). I believe exploring my own soul is essential for a full life. As Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” And you just know that at least once he wondered, “If I had to make love to a dog…” (Though I’m not sure they had dogs in ancient Greece. More camels, I think. And I remember reading something about peacocks. But you can’t have sex with a peacock, not without hurting it.)

First of all, what situation would arise that would demand that I make love to a dog? Well, let’s say my wife, Jodi, asks me to do it as proof of my love? When pressed, she swears she’d never ask this of me, but people change. She used to like coffee. Now she won’t touch the stuff. So who’s to say that I won’t wake up tomorrow with her begging me to fornicate wildly with some domesticated pet?

Or what if terrorists demanded I make love to a dog or they’ll blow up a Denny’s? Think of all the old people. Or what if making love to the dog will save the dog’s life? What if… I don’t know the medical jargon… but the dog needed human… you know… stuff… in it. How could I say no to a dying dog? That would be heartless.

Now on to what kind of dog I’d prefer. The most important quality in a dog I would make love to would be willingness. Having sex with an animal is one thing. Raping an animal is just wrong. And I mean that. If the dog is not into it, then count me out! Seriously.

But let’s say the dog is into it.

The right size is important. I don’t think it’s bragging too much to say that me making love to a Toy Fox Terrier would count as animal cruelty. Plus, I find them annoying.

Now if the dog is too big or fierce, like a Rottweiler or Pit Bull, I don’t think I could perform, or at least not splendidly. And I believe if you’re going to do something, do it well! So I need a pleasant-natured, mid-sized canine.

Again, I don’t want to make love to a dog. I don’t want to even think about it. But sometimes you have to think about things you don’t want to think about. Like cancer or AIDS. Horrible things that REALLY exist. If you haven’t thought about cancer and AIDS and tornadoes and death, then how can you say you’re really alive. You’re living in a fantasy world. When Christians knock on my door to tell me about Jesus and truth, I invite them in, have them sit on my couch, and pour them cups of decaffeinated coffee (that’s important). They tell me all about salvation and God’s love and I ask, “What about cancer and AIDS?” They usually have an answer and I can tell they’ve done some thinking. Then I ask them, “Well, if you had to make love to a dog, what kind of dog would it be?” And they never have an answer, which proves they haven’t thought nearly enough, so how can they be explaining ultimate Truth? I tell them, usually loudly, “If you don’t know what kind of dog you’d have sex with, how can you know which faith is the single route to salvation?”

They often get up at this point and head for the door. But I’ve locked the door. I always lock the door. As they pull and pull on the knob, I start whistling. They hate that. They get all sweaty and say things like, “Please. Can we just go? We have money. We’ll pay you money.” But I’m not listening. I’m showing them pictures of other Christians in white button-down shirts and black ties making wild love to all kinds of animals! And sometimes the Christians aren’t the pitcher, the top spelunker, probe control, the captain on the Enterprise. Often they’re the catcher, the spelunkee, the front desk receptionist, Lieutenant Sulu. Have you ever seen a giraffe making love to a Jehovah’s Witness? Hot damn! Most of the pictures are Photoshopped, but they don’t know that.

“So tell me! Tell me,” I ask. “What kind of dog?”

One will blubber something out about a Labrador and I’ll nod and pat him on the shoulder. And the other will say something like a Pug. And I slap him across the face. “What kind of freak wants to have sex with a Pug?! God hates you,” I say. “And you want to know something? That wasn’t decaf coffee. Caffeine. 100%. Now name a breed!” He starts crying and sniveling, and his friend, the Lab-Fucker, is all “Come on, man. He likes Labs like me. Can we go?”

So I bring Pug Boy (perv) a tissue. I thank them both for their time and the interesting literature they’ve left me. I unlock the door and wish them well.

Don’t tell my wife I do this. She’d be pissed. She’d call it cruel, and criminal, and a misuse of Photoshop. But in truth these boys have left with a deeper, richer faith, a more explored psyche. I have helped them. Now they can say with certainty, “I believe in Jesus. And I’d fuck a Labrador.” That’s a testimony I’d listen to.

I wish someone would have done this for me. It might have saved my faith.

And that’s the point here. Faith, growth, breaking the invisible-self free from the faux-gravity of normalcy. Pondering, wondering, asking, striving into the thought-dance of God!

And for me, Chinese Shar-Pei. All the way.

Owen Egerton will be reading from his newest set of short stories, How Best To Avoid Dying this coming Monday, in Austin.