## "Fred on Ice" or, Sex and the Single Dog--from Ducks Unlimited

Posted September 26, 1995

"FRED ON ICE"

Or, Sex and the Single Dog

BY MARY LOVELESS

reprinted from the September/October 1995 issue of Ducks Unlimited;
Copyright (C) thereby, therein, thereout, and therefore. So there. :)

> [And posted here on ASB by Actaeon, without any kind of permission or consent whatsoever. :) Perhaps DU's lawyers will go easy on me if I mention that Ducks Unlimited is a wonderful organization for anyone who delights in the sight and sound of waterfowl gliding effortlessly through the mist on a crisp November evening, just as the stars are...sorry, I'm waxing poetic again. Anyway, DU is worth supporting if you believe in the conservation of waterfowl, and even if you don't. There are a lot worse ways to spend your money.

> [BTW, I've changed some people's and places' names in this story, to give the wankers a roadblock should they wish to embarrass the rest of us; newbies dedicated enough to track down the original article are at liberty to do so. I presume this story is at least partly based on fact; my apologies to Mrs. Loveless for renaming her husband. :)

> [But anyway, on with Fred....]

Most men harbor a strong need to procreate. My husband, Brian, on the other hand, has a strong need for his dog to procreate. I suspect these feelings might be different if Fred were merely "Fred," but Fred is in fact Fred the Wonder Dog, only the most remarkable golden retriever who has ever drawn a breath, retrieved a bird, or licked a scruffy, post-hunt face.

A couple of years ago Brian began to panic because at age nine, Fred had not yet found a suitable mate, set up housekeeping, and thrilled to the sound of little pawsteps in the nursery. It was not for lack of trying. It was just that sultans in most Middle Eastern countries set less rigid requirements for their daughters' suitors than Brian had for Fred. She must be beautiful, smart, come from a good family, and be a good hunter herself. I'd like to think Brian set these same high standards for his own spouse, but I'm afraid I'm only a so-so hunter.

Our first stab at an arranged marriage was with Jackie, whose bloodlines predicted she'd be a good dog, but who, after we'd had her awhile, began to exhibit signs that she was a sweet dog but was probably never going to be the canine equivalent of a Rhodes scholar. She was a few birds shy of a limit, if you know what I mean. Jackie was spayed and went on to live the peaceful existence of a simpleton spinster. So no puppies yet for Fred.

Several years went by with Brian making casual (checking the bulletin board at the vet's) and not-so-casual (screeching to a halt in the middle of the street to yell at people walking their goldens, "Hey, is that a male or a female?") inquiries about potential consorts for the King of All Dogs. All this was to no avail, though thankfully Brian was never brought up on charges of assault or harassment. Meanwhile, Fred's biological clock was ticking.

Then, a couple of years ago Brian was goose hunting in Texas with a group that included Harry Walker, a veterinarian from Millington, right outside of our Memphis hometown. As Fred was braving snake-infested gullies to haul back geese at least twice his size (and leaping tall buildings in a single bound along his way), Harry told Brian something he already knew--that he had a great dog there, and he really ought to breed him. Brian agreed, and lamented the lack of a girl good enough for his son.

Not to worry, explained Harry. With today's genetic techniques and procedures, you could harvest Fred's seed, so to speak, store it in the same type of facility common in cattle and horse breeding, and use it at a later date--even posthumously--once an appropriate female was found. Brian began to ponder the possibilities. Just think, Fred could live on and on--past his death--hell, past Brian's death, if need be--giving man the ability to create the perfect dog... Brian's mind reeled with these Frankensteinian musings when he was brought up short with a disquieting thought.

"Uh, Harry, just how do you, uh, get it?" asked Brian with some trepidation, wondering what demonic machine would be employed.

"Why, the old-fashioned way, of course," came the answer that Brian was not quite sure he wanted to hear.

"The old-fashioned way. Uh, huh."

So the wheels were set in motion for the project that became affectionately known around our household as "Fred on Ice." The first step was to do an initial sampling at Harry's office to determine those lovely factors such as "sperm count" and "motility." Brian left Fred with a soothing "it's-OK-old-boy-it9ll-be-over-soon" talk, and found it necessary to give himself the same admonition. This was, after all, his son, his boy, the one he raised from a pup.

Upon his return to the vet's that afternoon, Brian received this report from Harry: "I've got good news and bad news," the vet said. "The good news is that I can't believe this is a nine-year-old dog; his fertility and motility are that of a two-year-old. The bad news is that I don't think you'll be able to get him to leave. He's back there in the cage, lying on his back, smoking a cigar."

After this stellar report (but really, what else would you expect from Fred?), Brian went around bragging about the fertility results as if they were his own, or at least as if he were in some way directly responsible. "He couldn't believe Fred was nine...motility of a much younger dog...a veritable Strom Thurmond of dogs." After Brian calmed down and quit projecting his dog's fertility on himself, we advanced to the next step--collection and storage.

As an aside, you have no idea what kind of sparkling cocktail party conversation this subject matter can provide. It's amazing just how fast you can become the center of attention--and much hilarity--when you start talking about canine reproduction, especially when you're using words like "collection," "storage," "motility," and "shelf life." "They did what?" people would shriek, and then the euphemisms and double entendres would fly. Of course, there were those who would retreat rapidly to the bar or the canape' tray, but hey, if they can't take a little coarse, uncouth, barnyard humor, who needs 'em?

So we "collected" and "stored" at a quintessentially scientific and clinical facility called Millington Canine Genetics (whose logo depicts a smiling--no, absolutely laughing dog), and for $20 a year we do indeed have Fred on Ice. Brian tells me that we have enough in storage for five breedings, that it'll keep "indefinitely," or at least 75 years, and then he gets all misty at the possibility that he could live into his eighties and always have a "son of Fred" if he wants. The only drawback, Brian says, is that sometimes when there's a slow time in the duck blind, Fred will sidle up to him and get this rather wistful look in his eyes. "Don't even think it," is Brian's reply.

The upshot of this strange foray into the world of dog fertility is that we've not yet had to use the services of Millington Canine Genetics. Finally, after much cross-country communication, we found the perfect mate for Fred. The father was a field trial champion, the mother was a beauty (with a name like Marilyn Monroe Millhiser, how could she miss?), and we sent away to Richmond, Virginia, for a female puppy. Blazing Sugar Kane was a big hit with everyone--good hunting instincts for Brian, sweet disposition for our children, and--most important--apparently attractive to Fred.

More than apparently, it seems, because Sugar turned up pregnant in her first heat. It was actually a planned parenthood because Brian wanted to go ahead and have a litter; after all, Fred had turned ten, and Brian was anxious. It was a teenage pregnancy in that Sugar was less than a year old and mostly a puppy herself. But soon the puppy was ready to have puppies, and the whole family watched in fascination as nature's instincts kicked in and Sugar had her litter of eight like a champ. In typical teen-mother form, however, after a couple of weeks she began to look put-upon with the whole responsibility gig, and was eager to end the nursing routine. She was obviously ready to get back her girlish figure and get out there and par-ty. Fred, meanwhile, had developed a conceited little "Yeah, I'm bad" swagger, and is now teaching his son Gus the tricks of the trade.

All's well that ends well. Fred's a dad and has had a wealth of experiences he never dreamed of three years ago. Brian has satisfied his burning desire to have granddogs and to carry on the line of Fred the Wonder Dog. And we've got the ultimate insurance policy. We've got Fred on Ice.

###### About the author

The author is a former senior writer for Ducks Unlimited magazine who resides in Memphis, Tennessee.

> [And again, my (Actaeon's) apologies to Ducks Unlimited and to Mrs. Loveless for any offense they may take at my posting this story here. I know a good story when I see one, and this was simply too good a tale to pass up. :) ]

> [P.S. Cheap Plug: I used Caere's OmniPage Professional 5.0 to scan the original magazine article and do OCR on it, to save me the trouble of re-typing it. OmniPage made exactly one error in the whole document. Way cool. :) ]

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