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When you have the maternal instincts of Britney Spears, you indulge Darwinism and go with the intelligent decision nature has made for you and never procreate.
“What if you want to love something?” People who have obviously never discovered Box Set DVDs have asked me.
“I will buy a puppy,” I inform them. “I don’t have to educate it, clothe it, teach it about the birds and the bees or feed it. I just have to love it.”
“You, actually, still need to feed puppies…”
“You get my point.” I probably couldn’t make it any clearer. Caring for living things isn’t one of my Skills I Can’t Get Paid For.

I was on a conference call when a puppy the size of my cigarette pranced into the lounge room and made himself welcome by showing off his massive erection.
“Excuse me,” I laughed to the person employing me to be a professional adult, “I just have to deal with a puppy’s penis.”
LA Girl Friend and I had agreed to baby sit a teacup Chihuahua. Apparently, we had agreed to baby sit a teacup Chihuahua on viagra.
“I am not cool with that,” LA Girl Friend refused to touch the puppy. “This is not what I meant when I said that I wanted dick in my apartment tonight.”
We momentarily basked our ability to make any male who stepped beyond our door hard and then, like Britney Spears, we left our protégé alone in the house while we went to a bar to get drunk.

Channelling all of my maternal instincts into dogs the size of my shoe, combined with my never ending love of anything male, means that I have been surrounded by little balls of boy fluff for my entire life. Sometimes, I have been surrounded by little balls of aroused boy fluff. And then there are the horny puppies.
“How do you get it to stop?” LA Girl Friend asked the resident boner killer (read: me). Like experience has thrown me a bone. “Should we give It something to hump?”
“Do you have Beverly Hills Chihuahua on DVD and we can leave the room, maybe?”
There is a common misconception that all dogs that resemble the size of a DVD are of the female category. The sexist, and overgrown, homo sapiens of the world have, apparently, collectively decided that gender is decided by ones size and anything below a multi-poo doesn’t have the masculine ability to be considered a real man. This type of thinking does not prepare anyone for the reality of a Chihuahua with a boner.
“What is she doing?” Boys have asked about my male poodle.
“She is a He.”
“No, she isn’t. Anything that looks like that is a girl. Boys don’t look like that.”
Mr Kitty, the straightest Chihuahua in all of the land, proved this assessment to be incorrect.

After rolling onto Mr Kitty in my sleep and almost killing him, I woke up to Morning Glory.
“How is the hard on?” LA Girl Friend IM’d me from work.
“Is it wrong to say that this is not the smallest penis I have ever woken up to?”
Not being a girl who says “I have a headache”, “I am not in the mood” or “I am actually sleeping with your best friend,” I had no idea what to articulate to the massive erection attached to the tiny man to make the situation go down.
“At this point, it looks like a penis with ears.”
While debating whether to put the puppy in a cold shower or hang pictures of cats around the house, I was contacted by a real-live human boy who, apparently, wants to show me his own penis at some point.
“Would you like to go for a hike?” He asked.
“I can’t. I am baby sitting a puppy and he has had an erection for twelve hours. I am scared that if I leave him, he with have a heart attack from loss of blood or find something in my house to love.”
“A simple ‘No’ would have been suffice…”
I sat Mr Kitty on my lap, looked into his eyes, and recited all of the lines I have used in the past to turn off someone from the male category.
“Do you want to watch all of Beverly Hills 90210 on DVD? I have the box set.”
“I will cook you dinner.”
“Yes. I am just using you for sex.” But it seemed so weird saying it to a puppy. No, sorry. It seemed so wrong. It seemed so wrong saying it to a puppy.

Feeling that fresh air was the only available solution, I took Mr Kitty out of the smokers lounge I call an apartment and onto the streets of West Hollywood.
“Mr Kitty!” a resident homosexual stopped to greet the little ball of hormones. “I can recognise that dog from anywhere!”
Considering that he looks, objectively, like an overgrown rat, I had to wonder if Mr Kitty had an infamous defining feature[?].
“He must love spending time with a girl!”
The common misconception is that chihuahua’s are gay. Mr Kitty, apparently, proved this assessment to be incorrect.
Take that, Darwinism.