Dog - Day After Day

As my wife Mary led me, as good as naked, out our back door, tugging angrily on the leash that was attached to the collar around my neck, she resumed her lecture on the finer points of how we got to where we were. She was good at giving tongue lashings, I'll say that for her.

"Whenever you feel like complaining about your situation," she said, giving me another jerk of the leash as I stumbled on the bottom step. "All you need to do is remind yourself that you wanted this. Yes, indeed. Remember how much you begged me for this. Really begged for it. You went on and on for weeks. True?"

"Woof."

"You agree. Good. You so badly wanted this that, eventually, I decided I would do it for you. I would give you what you wanted, what you really wanted. Even though it meant lots of hard work and difficult adjustments for me. Just to give you what you bloody well wanted. Just to make you happy. Even though I knew it wouldn't make you happy. Isn't that so?

"Woof."

"That's right. And now you have it. The very thing that you really wanted. And instead of being happy, you are giving me those big sad doggy eyed looks. Well, those sad looks are not going to change anything. I committed to doing this and I will do it to the bitter end. So when, or if, this little game of yours ends, and things go back to normal, you won't be able to say that we never really gave it a chance. Agreed?"

"Woof."

"And remember: We both agreed to do it. You as much as I. We both agreed the terms and conditions. You wanted to be a dog for a week. Not just any dog, no. You wanted to be my dog; my pet dog. And now, less than two days into your doggy experiment, you decide you don't want to do it anymore. Well, too bad. I am going to continue following the plan that we agreed on. I plan to keep my dog and that dog is you."

"So you can forget your moping and whining. Instead, you should be grateful, and happy. Be a nice happy dog. Nobody likes a depressed dog around the house. Now what does my grateful, happy doggie say to that? "

"Woof."

"That's better. If you had a tail you'd wag it for me, I know. So we are agreed then. You are going to be a good boy for me, Rover, for the rest of your doggie time. A happy, obedient dog. You just need to get back into the spirit of it. Now let's get your little walkies done. Then I'll settle you into your crate for the night. Sound good?"

"Woof."

I was the dog in question. Rover by name. Human by nature. As my good wife has just pointed out all too clearly, I was reduced to this doggy state only because I wanted it. Demanded it, even. And, eventually, my wife agreed to go along with it. I was going to be her pet dog for a whole week. That was the deal. We had agreed on the basics of what was allowed by way of doggie language in advance. Two woofs or a more growly sound means 'no,' or 'I'm not happy.' One woof means 'yes,' or 'I agree,' or 'I'm happy with that.' Though, as you have gathered, I wasn't really happy with it. Wasn't at all happy with it, in fact, and had just made that clear to my wife, in plain English. Hence the tongue lashing.

By the close of day two of what was to be a hot, sexy, week-long experiment, I knew, for certain, that I didn't want to be my wife's pet dog any more. The novelty of acting like a dog, full-time or, to be more accurate, being treated like a dog full-time, had worn off surprisingly quickly. It wasn't hot. It wasn't sexy. It was mostly boring, dull and, occasionally, humiliating. The humiliating bit was fine. I was expecting that. Wanting it, even. To my mind, humiliation is a big part of the kick in the pet play kink. But I didn't anticipate the long boring intervals in between. They are just boring, and there is only so much a guy can take.

So, you are wondering to yourself, why didn't he just tell his wife as much and that would be that? Well I did. I tried in dog language, first. But no amount of doggy barking or whining managed to get that point across. Or she chose not to interpret my whining for what it was; a cry for help. Instead, she kept asking if I wanted to go out in the yard. Human to dog code for 'do you need to pee?'

We had made it to the evening of the second day. Most of our conversation that day consisted of me going 'wheeeii, wheeeii, wheeeii', meaning 'get me out of this doggie life disaster now.' Her going 'do you want to go out in the yard.' Me replying 'woof, woof,' in as angry and surly a growl as I could manage, to convey that 'no, this is not about me needing to pee, it's far more serious.' Her just not hearing my cry for help, or choosing not to, more like. Anybody could tell I wasn't a happy dog.

I had spent most of the day in the cage, or dog crate to give it its full title, beside the back door. First, because she had work stuff to do, and second, because she felt I wasn't sufficiently trained to be relied on not to go and lie on the couch the minute she went into her home office to work. Dogs are not allowed on the furniture; as in kitchen chairs, arm chairs, sofas or couches, and beds. That's one of the agreed rules. No watching TV on my own either. That was another rule. The TV remote had been put out of reach too so I couldn't switch it on with my nose. Which, I accept, I most definitely would have tried to do.

When Mary eventually arrived into the back kitchen, all bright and pretend cheery, doing that 'Who's been a good doggy while Mumsy has been busy in her home office' thing, I just couldn't take it anymore. I spoke up.

'I'm sorry, Babe, but this just isn't working for me. Let's call a halt to the pet play experiment. I've had enough.' And so the dog spoke English! The horror of it! With severe consequences to follow.

"Hold on there, Rover,' she shot back quickly. 'You are going too fast for me. Let me count the words. Hmmm..hmm..hmm..hmm. I make it twenty-one, no twenty-two. That's twenty-two days added to your dog life. Give me a 'woof' if you agree."

Recognising that my wife is a dogged (ha, ha) and determined kind of person, I had to make a call here. Yes, we had both agreed that for each word I spoke in English when I should be in dog mode, we would add an extra day to my pet life. This was intended as an incentive to keep me in my dog character. Now, if my wife was going to be a stickler for the rules, then she was, indeed, entitled to keep me an extra twenty-two days as a dog. I know her, and I accept that she really would do it, if she is minded to. She's like that. The question was would she chose to do it.

So my call. I had to decide. Was this stuff about an extra twenty-two days just her making me sweat or was she really going to go through with it and add three weeks to my dog life? A month as a dog instead of a week. Really? As she said herself, this pet play stuff is a lot of grief for her too. When I was persuading her to do a week of full on pet play with me as the pet and her as my owner, she kept pointing out all the extra stuff she would have to do. With that in mind, I decided to gamble on her being as glad to get out of the role as I would be.

I decided it was worth making one more attempt at getting her to see the benefits for both of us of ending this mad dog experiment now.

"Ah, come on. Be reasonable, Babe. We don't have to do this anymore," I said through the wire mesh of my four foot by three dog crate, inside of which I was all scrunched up. Not dignified, I know, but what choice did I have? "If we stop now, it would be letting you off the hook too. It would be a win-win."

"Hmmm..hmm..hmm..hmm..hmm. I'll count that as thirty-one, or no, just thirty, more words, because I'll consider 'win-win' just one word. That's me being nice to you, Rover. And, in case you think my counting is off, I didn't count 'ah' as a word either. Let's just say it's an exhalation. A dog could just as likely make an 'ah' sound as a human. Like when a dog pants, it makes the 'ah' sound over and over, as in 'ah, ah, ah, ah....' You'll probably make lots of 'ah' sounds in the course of your long doggie life."

She was toying with me now. I could tell. Because who cares if 'ah' is a word or not. That was more than beside the point. It was absolutely nothing to do with the point, and well she knew it. What she meant, really, was that I was fucked. Done and dusted. It was her way of telling me she's not going to let me out of my dog life. Not anytime soon, anyway.

By ignoring the actual, and important, point I was making; that I wanted out, and instead playing around with the semantics of what is or isn't a doggie word, she was saying 'I'm not even hearing your argument.' That what you, the dog, tries to say carries no more weight than whether 'ah' is a word or not. Less in fact, as shown by the fact that she was prepared to totally ignore my actual request.

I knew then that she had no intention of letting me out of my dog state. My heart sank to the bottom of my doggie boots. But she hadn't finished rubbing my nose in it, which, I just remembered, is what you do to puppies when you are toilet training them. Which also reminded me that I really needed the bathroom -- big time. But it would have to wait because Mary, my wife, or should I now say, my owner, was still laying out the reality of my future doggie life.

"Let me remind you that, as a dog, we agreed you can bark, you can howl, you can growl, you can whine. Dog's whine all the time. In addition, I've just agreed that you can go 'ah, ah, ah' or whatever. But, we both agreed on the key point. Dogs don't speak. That, we agreed, is the absolute hard limit in this game. You agreed it. Didn't you?"

Okay, so I made the wrong call. Time for damage limitation. Time to surrender. Time to go back into doggie land. Anymore English speak and I'd be a dog till Halloween. I could go trick-or-treating without having to dress up.

"Woof," I replied, quietly.

It was a tired, defeated 'woof.' It was me letting her know I was back in the land of 'woof' and resigned to being kept there for a lot longer than I ever intended.

There it was. Total acceptance that she called the shots. That, in our domestic arrangements, I would, from now on, play the part of her pet dog, and would remain in character as per the agreement. That I would bark and whine for eight more weeks or until such time as she decided I could speak like a human again. That I accepted her right to add an additional seven weeks to my intended one week as her pet dog. That I recognised reality when it was staring me in the face.

"That's better, doggie. Yes, indeed. You agreed there should be severe consequences for getting out of your dog character, unless it was an emergency. And I don't see any emergency, not even a doggie emergency. Do you see an emergency, Rover?"

I took that as her saying she was now applying the sanction we had agreed for speaking English. Fifty-two added days as a dog, fifty-nine in total. By asking me the question and requiring me to answer, she was making me complicit in my sentencing. I complied.

"Woof, woof," I agreed, in dog speak, that, no, I did not see any emergency. Consent granted, in effect, even though I didn't want to do it. Not only surrender, but complete submission.

As my resigned 'woof, woof' confirmed her victory for Mary. I could see that triumphant gleam in her eye. That instinctive quick flicking out of her tongue to lick her upper lick. Savouring her win. Down the years I had come to know it well. She enjoyed her little victories over me, did my wife. Couldn't help letting it show. Her pet had been brought to heel. Brought back to his doggie state, in compliance with her wishes, whether he liked it or not. Had accepted his doggie state, whether he liked it or not.

But I still didn't want to do seven or eight weeks as a dog. The only option open to me now was to go back into doggy begging mode. Let her know I still wasn't happy.

"Wheeeii, wheeeii."

"I'll take that whine to mean you are not happy with the situation. I fully understand, Rover, but you know what we agreed. We agreed that for every word spoken, a day extra is added on top of the seven days of your pet play experiment. You have reached a grand total of fifty-two words so far. That means you are going to stay as my pet dog for a total of fifty-nine days. Now let that sink in before you say another word, Rover.'

'Wheeeiii, wheeeii," I whined again. I was begging for mercy here. I would like to believe she wasn't seriously going to keep me as a dog for an extra seven weeks. But she could. My only hope was that she would eventually relent a bit and grant me time off for good behaviour. Though that wasn't mentioned in the agreement. When Mary makes a rule she does tend to stick to it. And, I accept that I did agree to that rule. Why? Because I just wanted to make the thing real. Wanted to put myself under a bit of pressure to stay in character.

With a sinking heart I watched Mary pick up my dog leash, the roll of poo bags, and the packet of wet wipes. We were going for our evening walkies. And at this stage, as much from the fright of my new situation, as from the fact that I had been locked in my crate for hours, I really, really, needed to go.

"I'll expect you'll be doing a lot more whining over the next two months," said Mary crossly, as she attached the leash to my dog collar. "And it serves you right."

"Now come on, Rover."

Giving a sharp tug to my leash, she led me out the back door and into the evening. I was going to have a shit. That much I knew. And she was going to give me a lecture on how and why we got to this point. That much I guessed.

Beyond that, who knows?

Tomorrow will be another day, the third day in my life as Mary's pet dog.