Doris Becker’s milestone birthday was a bummer. The unintended bachelorette turned thirty; just as depressing, Honey Boy, her 14-year-old cocker spaniel, died just two days before. Three decades and never been married. Still a virgin; never been kissed. Today she was at Paws & Claws Animal Rescue intending for a four-legged companion to cheer herself up; lo and behold, she found a two-legged one, instead.
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Doris was making the depressing Tour of Hopeful Dogs–all aching for freedom–and saw him working in one of the kennels. An exotic-looking fella for small-town Indiana, about her age, with long, silky, ginger-colored hair and soulful brown eyes. He said his name was Ralph and he would be happy to show her around “this prison for abandoned pets,” as he called the place. “Should be a prison for abandoned pet owners,” he growled.
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During the tour, her heartstrings were plucked more by Ralph than by any potential fur-baby. She found out that his heritage was part Irish, part Afghan, part German, and other mixes with DNA unknown. That his surname was, uh, Mutter. She left without a pooch, but did get his attention and a date and a shot of hope for love.
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The date was at the local park. Ralph wolfed down the picnic lunch Doris had packed (“nothin’ better than home cookin’ to a bachelor,” he told her, unembarrassed by his manners), then ran and romped and chased Frisbees in the grass for the next couple hours. She was amazed at the guy’s stamina for his age.
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On their second, Doris got her very first kiss. A very sloppy one, as Ralph joyfully licked her entire face! If this is the way boys do it, I didn’t miss much, she thought, disappointedly. Making out sure looks a lot more romantic in the movies, but then that’s all make-believe. And is scratching a fella’s belly supposed to get us gals all “loosey-goosey”?
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Their married life was just as odd. She slept stretched out in the king-sized bed, while Ralph preferred curling up down on the floor beside her–the hardwoods helped his sore back, he claimed. Backyard barbecues were peculiar: he would devour his steak bloody, just past raw, barely sizzling; then would gnaw on the bone for hours. For the calcium intake, he said. Sometimes, instinctively, he would chase Doris’s Buick LeSabre down the driveway, then falsely profess that he was flagging her down because he thought a tire was low. He got ‘barky’ when the mail came because of all the bills the woman in uniform brought, he asserted.
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Doris disregarded her husband’s eccentricities because at least, at last, she was finally married. From what I read in the fan mags, no couple is perfect, and celebrity kiss-and-tells are especially revealing about their ex-spouses peccadillos and quirks.
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The Mutters had a litter of kids–seven in all. Ralph found the perfect job at the Diamond Pet Foods manufacturing plant in Rushville and was eager to go to work every day, although he balked at showering off the work dust when he got home every night. After working like a dog all his life, he retired after five and a half years, as he secretly marked time.
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Now at nine, rising to his feet became more difficult because of arthritis. His bowels seemed to give way as well, as Doris would sometimes find a load of excrement on the bathroom rug after overnight rains. “Anxiety-induced Irritable Bowel Syndrome exacerbated by my fear of thunderstorms,” he claimed. “Such sudden gastric pain that I couldn’t make it to the toilet on time. Sorry.” Once, she caught him scooting across the living room carpet in his sweatpants–for that he needed a prescription of Ivermectin. His eyesight and hearing deteriorated, and towards the end, depended mostly on his sense of smell to get by. At 11, he died.
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In a kennel at Paws & Claws sits a mixed-breed pup begging for his freedom. He has the ginger-colored coat of an Irish setter, but with the silky, matted fur of an Afghan. He has the fervent eyes of a Rottweiler. The card above his cage reads, Ralph.
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