Is it cuckolding?

Misty softly punched the pillow, trying to fluff it to a more comfortable shape. “Has it only been three weeks since I met Jeff?” she questioned herself. Tonight had been her first sleepover at his place. Now here she was, trying to sleep while Jeff snored next to her. Not only couldn’t she sleep, but Jeff had turned out to be a less than perfect lover. She tossed and turned, but the snoring reverberated, and sleep eluded her.

Casting her mind back, she remembered the day they’d met. “I was sitting, brokenhearted, on that park bench, watching people walk past. I still carried Turbo’s leash and collar in my purse. That was the same bench where I’d watch Turbo romp around off his leash, despite the leashing bylaws – which no one followed anyway, despite numerous signs and their warnings of fines. At that point, all that was left of my beloved companion was a little grave in my back yard, the tombstone, which I’d made myself, marking that spot, and his collar and leash in my purse.” She wiped away a tiny tear, thinking about that moment.

“I was looking at people and their dogs, especially a little girl throwing a tennis ball for a huge Doberman who could run faster than she could throw. The result was comical enough that it lightened my heavy heart a little. The sprinting dog overtook the ball, and had to sort of skid in mid stride and spin sideways, like he was wheel spinning, until he semi collapsed. Still, he managed to snatch the ball and trot back proudly. Both girl and dog seemed to find that game a lot of fun. People watching were smiling indulgently.”

There in Jeff’s bed, Misty took a slow, deep breath, struggling with her emotions. “I recall thinking about getting a new puppy, maybe another Beagle, one that looked just like Turbo… but I feared I might resent him. Obviously, he wouldn’t be Turbo! Perhaps another breed would be better, my heart said. That small house of mine had just enough of a plot around it to call itself a garden, or better still, a gardenette. So I knew a large dog like that big ball-chasing Dobie was out of the question. I remember I was musing over various breeds and their relative traits.” She almost punched the pillow next to her head. “Maybe I was prejudiced,” she thought, “but every breed tended to add up to a negative.”

Now Misty’s internal dialogue shifted. She tried to imagine what Jeff must’ve seen as he strolled closer. “Hopefully, I was a pretty picture, sitting on that bench. He’d had seen a woman, a shade over 5 feet tall, willowy in stature, long copper hair looking soft and silky, seeming to flow in the light breeze. As he got closer, he’d have seen, if he was looking closely, that my eyes were a cheerful meadow green. Of course, since then, since he’s seen my differing moods, my eyes sometime morph from that tranquil green to the colour of the sea during a storm, sullen lead-green and filled with rage – my red hair and green eyes fair indicators of the demons lurking just under the surface of my freckled skin and pretty smile.” She actually grinned, remembering Jeff’s reaction the first time he encountered that aspect of her.

“Where was I?” she asked herself silently, snapping back to the reminiscence of their first meeting. “I sat, enjoying the warmth of the sun, when a dog trotted up to me. While he resembled my late Beagle, I noted that he was much taller and broader. He was muscular and looked as speedy as the ball-chasing Dobie. Oh, how he carried his head – well up and showing no signs of fear or nervousness. His coat looked moderately coarse but glossy and blue in colouring. He wasn’t actually blue. That was an illusion made from his black and white mottling. And he had tiny tan dots like freckles all over his intelligent face and muzzle. His eyes were chocolate brown and promised intelligence. He also appeared to have gray at the end of his tail.”

Misty chuckled quietly to herself. “That just shows how much more attention I pay to dogs than I do to humans,” she thought in self-analysis. “But I did finally look at the dog’s companion. He had a short ‘Van Dyke’ beard and mustache, and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of knockoff Aviators. His cheap sunglasses rested on a perfectly symmetrical nose. His lips were slightly full: the kind that end in a cute little smirk at the corners. The rays of sun highlighted him, displaying the dimples in his cheeks and chin and emphasized that his dark hair needed a trim. I’d estimated that he was an inch or two under 6 foot, broad at his shoulders and lean around his waist.” As she remembered that moment, Misty’s lips curved into a smile. “OK, maybe I do pay attention to some humans after all,” she acknowledged. Still trying to get drowsy enough to sleep, she let the dialogue of their first interaction pay in her head as it happened.



“Do you feed your Beagle steroids?” Misty asked, smiling.

“Oh yeah,” the guy replied. “He suffers from roid-rage and chats up every cute red-haired girl he meets.” He smiled. “No, he’s a good ol’ Bluetick, but the only thing he ever hunts is the best place to lay down.”

Misty held her hand palm down to the dog, who canted his head to one side and licked her hand.