The other day I had this conversation with my friend Ruby. Ruby is not her real name, but for reasons that will soon become crystal clear, she wishes to remain internet-anonymous.
“I’m worried about Bubbles,” Ruby tells me.
“Who the fuck is Bubbles?” I say, sort of hoping that Ruby is now a Madame and that Bubbles is one of the whores that’s slacking off. Because that would bring on some kick-ass posts for my blog.
“She’s my dog,” Ruby tells me. Like I’m supposed to keep track of these things.
“What’s wrong with Bubbles?” I ask.
“Her teats are swollen and she is sort of gaining weight and is lethargic.”
“First of all, please stop saying teats,” I ask Ruby.
This is very different from the whorehouse scenario and I’m disappointed. My blog is really going to suffer as a result and none of this is my fault.
“Well they are swollen. It’s like she’s pregnant.”
“OMG, do you think your whore bitch of a dog is pregnant?”
“I don’t know. She’s not fixed. And she gets walked by a dog walker who has a group of dogs.”
“So Bubbles had group sex?”
“I DON’T KNOW,” Ruby sounds tense, like Bubbles’ moral shortcomings are my fault.. “But you should see her teats!”
Why does that word even exist?
It’s like verbal nails on the chalkboard and Sarah Palin’s voice remix.
“Bubbles needs to get an abortion,” I tell her. God knows there are a lot of unwanted puppies in the world and Bubbles doesn’t seem like the maternal type to me.
Mostly because she’s a whore.
“I can’t get her an abortion,” Ruby tells me. “I’m Catholic.”
I swear, I’m so sick of the Vatican standing in the way of canine reproductive freedom.
But then Ruby and I talk some more and we realize that this could be a hysterical pregnancy. Like maybe Bubbles is one of those crazy Lifetime Television for Women bitches who thinks she’s pregnant and snags another dog’s baby from the nursery.
“You have to find out,” I urge Ruby, thinking of my blog post, I mean, Bubbles. And my absolute need never to hear the word teats again.
And Ruby hesitates. “What?” I ask, a little too urgently.
And she confesses that she’s too embarrassed to go to the vet and admit that she doesn’t know if her bitch of a dog is pregnant. She doesn’t want to be that dog owner.
“Look,” I reassure her lovingly. “You need to know. Bubbles needs to know. If she is pregnant, she needs to take prenatal vitamins and stop smoking and all that other nonsense.”
And my wisdom convinced Ruby.
“Thank you, Marinka, for your wisdom,” Ruby says, albeit not in so many words.
A few days later, she takes Bubbles to the vet. And the ultrasound doesn’t reveal any puppies, but the vet says that it may be too early. And that if Bubbles does have a hysterical pregnancy, it will have to run its course, with Bubbles going through the pregnancy, reading What To Expect When You’re Expecting, nesting, ordering puppy clothes from Hanna Anderson, the whole shebang.
So I get a brilliant idea.
“Hey, why don’t we get Bubblelicious a hysterical abortion?” I mean, I know Ruby is Catholic (although I’ve known Ruby for almost twenty years and this is the first I’ve ever heard of it) but Catholicism doesn’t stand in the way of fake abortions, does it?!
But Ruby won’t hear of it.
Probably because she’s a hysterical Catholic.
One year ago ...