Tag Archives: dir cartoon

Meet Humper: The Wonder Dog

 Meet Humper: The Wonder Doglove our dog. I love the fact that he’s mildly retarded, that he thinks every com­mand means beg, that he has an uncanny, nearly super­nat­ural abil­ity to sock me in the balls every time he jumps up into my lap, and that he eats water­melon and pop­si­cles. He is unbear­ably cute and truly remark­able and I’m going to miss him but he has to go.

My dog’s name is Ty, we got him from a res­cue soci­ety who found him along the side of the road in Utah. Should’ve been our first clue. He was dam­aged goods, har­bor­ing a deep wound from his past, nurs­ing a grow­ing neu­ro­sis that would one day blos­som into an obses­sion of unre­lent­ing power, a full-blown unmit­i­gated per­ver­sion: our dog, that cute lit­tle puppy, likes to hump the children.

When I say “likes to hump the chil­dren” I mean that he is cease­lessly dri­ven to stalk unwit­ting fourth graders and pounce on them the moment they lose a lego under the couch. The kid bends over and HUMP! Ty is locked on.

It’s a sick­ness, I know, and I ought to just train it out of him but I think I may have acci­den­tally encour­aged his per­ver­sion and I feel respon­si­ble. See, I had this party and I served some decent Scotch and a buddy of mine, a young comic book writer, thought hold­ing your liquor referred merely to vol­ume and by the end of the party, was slumped in the cor­ner of my din­ing room locked into a slurred berate­ment of my poor dog, attempt­ing, appar­ently, to teach Ty to sit.

Ty is untrain­able. Although he clearly under­stands Eng­lish, he mis­in­ter­prets every­thing as being in FRAT dialect.

Roll over=Dude! Dude-Dude!
Play dead=Dude Dude!
*&!!@#$! idiot dog!=Dude! I love you, dude!

So my buddy finally stands up and declares that he has trained the dog, spins to the right, and stag­gers into a bed­room where he falls face first onto the bed, his ass in the air like a dirty car­toon and Ty, who has been in train­ing with the man for the last hour, jumps into bed with him because the bed the man falls into just hap­pens to be the one Ty sleeps in every night. I don’t think much of it, I’m just glad the guy finally shut up. A cou­ple of hours later I stop by to do a drunk-check and Ty is going at it like a coke-addled Chi­huahua on my poor friend who’s dead to the world and here’s where I went wrong.

I laughed my ass off. I did. I hung on the door­jamb and howled while Ty kept going, big stu­pid dog tongue hang­ing out, big grin on his snout. Who am I to inter­fere with true love? So like ten min­utes later I kicked him off my friend and locked him in the base­ment where I’m almost sure he abused the sofa cush­ions all night.

So a few weeks later my son has a friend over and they’re in the base­ment evis­cer­at­ing storm troop­ers when I come down with a load of whites and see Connor’s friend madly jig­gling the con­troller while the dog’s madly jig­gling my son’s friend.

The kid’s pretty much ignor­ing the dog frot­tage so he can focus on slay­ing drones.

TY! Cut it out!”

The kid glances back at me, still play­ing, says “Oh, he does that all the time.”

I pic­ture the parade of 4th grade boys who’ve been hit­ting the base­ment game-room all sum­mer and sud­denly see each and every one of them attacked by my grin­ning, per­verted, horny dog.

I crate Dog Juan and coun­sel the boys to punch him the snout next time he tries it. It’s a power thing, I tell them, he’s just prov­ing who’s boss.

Con­nor doesn’t miss a beat. “If that’s prov­ing who’s boss, I’m never get­ting a job.”