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My folks have a beautiful Eskimo Spitz named Snowflake. They never let her out of the fenced-in back yard because she likes to head straight for the highway next to the house whenever she's on the other side of the fence.

We weren't the only ones who thought she was a gorgeous canine. Any number of horny dogs would pay our yard a visit whenever she was in heat, even though we tried to discourage them with shouts, charges, and the hurling of various items... but the pack of curs just slavering to slip their DoggyChoads into some white Spitz meat would be back within minutes, lured by her intoxicating perfumes, but thwarted by the fence inside which Snowflake was kept. The frustrated, raving dogs fought amongst each other sporadically for her favors.

One summer, we noticed a striking suitor for our lovely Spitz. This unnamed mongrel (I'll call him "Big Fella") appeared to be part coon hound and part Rottweiler. He was big -- probably 80 pounds or so -- and had the meanest-looking pair of dog eyes I've ever seen, but was friendly enough... to humans. I suppose the crafty bastard knew that he wouldn't get any Spitz-nookie from if he pissed us off.

We returned home one afternooon to find the big dog walking with an unusual gait... alone. For whatever reason, the other five or six dogs that had been in the yard when we left had vacated the premises. As Big Fella struttingly limped by us with his head held high and his tail up, I saw a sight that struck horror into the depths of my heart: Big Fella's nutsack had been torn open, revealing occasional glimpses of his testicles. As my father and I looked on, Big Fella flopped onto the ground and, without so much as a flinch or a whimper, grasped an inch-long strip of dangling, bloody scrotum flesh in his teeth, ripped it off the remains of his codsack... and swallowed it.

Upon seeing this little feat, Dad and I each instinctively hunched over, grabbed our own nads and, in unison, howled in empathy for Big Fella and sheer gut-crawling horror at what we were witnessing. The big dog looked up, perhaps wondering what had brought on this display of human nuttiness, then returned to the task of cleaning his wounds. We could only wonder what the OTHER dog(s) looked like, because they had obviously gotten the one and only look they needed to see just how tough Big Fella *really* was, and had capitulated, scrambling for the nearest bit of forest, rather than risking whatever fate had befallen the dog that had torn open Big Fella's scrotes. Once he recovered from his attack of the heebie-jeebies. Father made a decision on the spot: We had found Snowflake's beau.

Father opened the gate and let Big Fella limp inside. We retired into the house to let the festivities commence. Bare moments after we were out of sight, the action began. The gaping hole in his scrotum had absolutely no effect on the tough hound as he porked our dog mercilessly (we weren't watching, but we heard her yelping in pain every once in a while). After that day, we never saw Big Fella again.

Snowflake had several pups a few months later. Of the eight that emerged, five died during the frigid January morning of their birth. A sixth died a couple of years later when she was crushed under the wheels of a passing car. Now, only two remain.

Harmony, the bitch, is a doggie Tard. She has to be tethered because she has a taste for the tubing going to the heat pump, electric wiring, clothes on the line, the tires of the riding lawn mower, and anything else in the yard upon which she shouldn't be gnawing.

Leo, the dog, is anything but a Tard. He's led several jailbreak attempts over the past few years. Failing that, he learned how to climb over the 5-foot fence surrounding the back yard. He is also tethered, but only because we fear he has as much road-sense as his dear departed sister.

He also has his father's eyes.


credit given to original author if known

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