#311 – The Blueberry Rebellion

A man can take only so much physical and emotional neutering before he breaks. In my opinion, the lack of minimally necessary imprimaturs of gender inevitably will wreak havoc on his psyche. I’m also confident these principles apply just as much to dogs as humans, as poor Prometheus can attest.

Simply because our dog is a Shih-Tzu/Yorkie mix weighing only six pounds, my wife pampers him as if he’s a human infant, and a special needs infant at that! Whether it’s the oversized pocketbooks she carries him in or the pink ribbon with which she ties his hair, she repeatedly emasculates our “Shittie” in ways no creature with a y chromosome ever should suffer. I’ve told her countless times: “The fact that he’s neutered doesn’t give you the right to treat him as if he lacks balls!”

Always the good sport, Prometheus to date has tolerated Sophia’s abuses. Nonetheless, I’ve held high hopes for his eventual rebellion. I’m constantly urging him to defend his inalienable rights as a male of his species. At the same time, I’ve warned my wife to expect payback for her insidious feminization efforts. Those dreams and warnings may’ve finally borne fruit. At least, I pray that’s the case.

Late yesterday afternoon, Sophia and Prometheus returned home from what I’d been told was Sophia’s “mani-pedi” appointment. I expected her typical five minute dissertation on the “your puppy is so cute” reactions typical of those encountering our mutt; yet, curiously, she mumbled only a few unintelligible words and then headed upstairs for a “quick shower before dinner.”

In the meantime, while clearing the kitchen counter to prepare supper, I came across what I initially took to be Sophia’s mani-pedi receipt. A closer inspection revealed that the receipt emanated from a facility for canines, not humans! Adding injury to insult, it showed a $45 charge for a “Spa Treatment!”

After Sophia finished showering, I confronted her with the document and demanded answers. Under withering interrogation, she confessed to procuring a “blueberry facial” for Prometheus that afternoon – a treatment meant to make his face “clean and kissable.” I went berserk, of course, ranting about the “ultimate indignity” she’d perpetrated on our boy. I also demanded that she subject Prometheus to no further “emotional castrations.”

Sophia raised no objection, an omission which I found highly suspicious. When I questioned her prompt surrender, she grudgingly conceded that Prometheus hadn’t enjoyed the spa’s ministrations to the extent advertised.

“What makes you say that?” I asked.

“For one thing, he whined from the moment the woman began the facial, and he kept trying to lick the stuff off his face. But mostly because, when we drove home, he climbed onto my neck and refused to move … until he’d crapped down the back of my shirt, on its inside!”

 
The Blueberry Facial


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