“Yeah, I dunno if this is gonna stay on,” I said to Paul after wrangling a doggie diaper from its wrapping.
“No real option unless you want to knit her a pair of bib overalls,” Paul replied, describing the other alternative to get one of our young pups, now on the cusp of puberty, through her heat cycle.
Both our gals, litter mates, and despite their description at the shelter as being Jack Russell crosses, are most decidedly, as a friend coined them, “micro hounds,” 25-pounders on their way to probably 30. And with, ahem, “recessed vulvas,” meaning our vet wanted them both to go through their first heat cycle before being spayed to protect them against complications.
I’ve no intention in become distastefully graphic (unless working a third show on a Saturday night in Vegas and dealing with drunks who just gambled away their mortgage), so let us just say, gentle reader, that unless I want to dry clean or wash every surface Posey comes into contact with when she sits or lies down, it’s best to keep her covered.
“Doggie diapers,” a knowledgeable dog breeder friend drawled. “It’s the only way.”
“Doggie diapers,” said our vet.
“Oh, Lordy, doggie diapers!” said everyone else.
And so off Paul went on a hunting and gathering excursion to Petsmart where he purchased and returned with the charteus colored “Top Paw” package of doggie diapers. They looked easy enough. There was a hole for Posey’s tail and sticky tabs on the sides that could create a snug fit over her slender, spotted hips. We pulled them on and were surprised how well they actually looked.
Poppy was immediately intrigued and promptly pulled them off her sister’s haunches. Posey looked immeasurably relieved because no matter how much I praised her for submitting to wearing the thing, she still looked humiliated, as if having been punished, keeping her golden head low and rolling her enormous, liquid eyes to cast me a look that implored, “Please. I’m so ashamed.”
That look went straight to my heart and so I caved on making her wear it and remedied the situation by simply tucking a towel beneath her when she jumped on the sofa beside us for a cuddle. No problem—I’d done this the last two years of Bonnie’s life when her bladder wasn’t as strong as it had been. In fact, I might suggest that to girlfriends who complain of the same thing when laughing or sneezing.
But at night, in bed, sometimes the girls will change positions, get down to go have a drink of water and come back. Posey was going to have to don the diaper and surely that would be more palatable as she’d soon be asleep? I could only hope. On went the diaper, several pats and praises, only to be met with the most doleful of expressions. But good girl that she is, with a long, defeated sigh, she stretched out alongside my hip, her head resting on my shoulder, and fell asleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I heard one of them hop off the bed, trot downstairs and lap up a bit of water. I reached out to make sure it wasn’t Paul. Definitely one of the girls. Because it can be very dark as they come back upstairs, I switched on the bedside lamp for lighted assistance.
There in the doorway stood Poppy, wagging her tail effusively, expecting all sorts of praise as she held Posey’s diaper in her mouth. And Posey was still sleeping like a log next to me. Poppy was enamored with the diaper and that’s all there was to it. Or perhaps it was sibling rivalry. In any event, she was going to get it, one way or the other.
In the end, both girls went back to sleep in diapers. Poppy will certainly be needing one in the very near future. Until then, Mommy needs to sleep.