Not me, Gracie.

She’s as regular as if she were on the Pill. Every five months, like clockwork, Gracie goes into heat for 21 days. And it’s a pain in the ass.

This is the first “intact” dog I’ve ever had and it’s taken some getting used to.

You can always tell when she’s about to go into season because she gets a bitch thing with me. She’ll slam her nose into my pubic bone, which hurts like hell. She’ll refuse to go outside or come in when she’s called and she decides she should have the right to get on the couch that she’s usually banned from.

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She went into heat for the first time when she was 8 months old. That’s the equivalent of a 10-year-old girl getting her period. Way too young. And, of course, she did it the first time we showed her. She was on the grooming table getting ready to go into the ring, when the unmistakable crimson tide starting flowing.

Her handler looked at me and asked when that started. Um, now? That was the first time I saw it.

And trust me, I would have noticed. The poor thing—my bright WHITE dog—trotted around the ring with a streak of red running down her backside. You could see it from 20 yards away. And suddenly it made sense—dogs in the ‘hood barked and howled when I walked her that week. I’d pass dogs on the sidewalk and they’d go ape shit, lunging toward her.

When she came out of the ring, Gracie’s handler walked me over to the vendor area and introduced me to Bitches Britches—For Those Difficult Times In Her Life. No shit—that’s the tag line! They’re basically cloth diapers for dogs. They’re as subtle as a maxi pad and just as bulky. Stick a panty liner in them and it’ll keep her clean and protect her from “unplanned matings.”

Except that she hates wearing them and rips them off, eats the panty liner and chews on the britches, which oddly come in old-fashioned rose patterns. They remind me of those relics the sanitary napkin.

The unfortunate side effect of her not staying, um, modest is when Gracie moves around, or worse—shakes—our house looks like a crime scene. I came home from work one day and the walls were splattered with blood. It was like an episode of CSI.

We can’t leave her outside because her milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. And the last thing I want is a litter of illegitimate puppies. It would sully her reputation—and more importantly, it’s irresponsible.

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When Gracie’s riding the cotton pony, she’s kind of a whore. Innocently scratching her becomes foreplay to her. She moves her tail to the side, which is basically an invitation to mount her. It feels sort of indecent. Bill won’t touch her for three weeks. She’s also fond of rolling over and displaying her Mother Nature—midway through her heat cycle, it’s like a third eye appears, a big red beacon of porno lust. It’s kind of disturbing. The first time I saw that happen I thought she must have had an infection and was ready to rush her to the vet. I was fumbling for how to ask my male vet about that one. Fortunately, before I rushed off,  I did some research and realized the swelling is normal. When she’s on her back I have tow walk away. It feels like walking in on your parents during sex.

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She’s about halfway through her cycle right now. That’s the good news because the end is near. The bad news is that she’s as horny as a 13-year-old boy with a boner. She can’t leave it alone and she’s obnoxious.

Ten more days to go…