In Spring

My cousin's dog is in heat. He put underwear on her. I couldn't believe it; I'd never heard of someone doing this. He said if he hadn't done it, she would rub herself on the ground or anything at all seeking relief. And that she'd just make it worse for herself. I kept looking over his shoulder out into the backyard where she was. It seems criminal to keep her penned in away from other dogs and then further, to prevent her even from trying to do something for herself. He was protecting her from herself, he said to me. He was punishing her for her biology. For living. It was so cruel that I had to excuse myself. But when I was alone, after a while, I thought that maybe he was doing a good thing. The consequences of the natural acts that would alleviate some of her desire are so many, afterall. And they are out of all proportion, it seems to me, as what should follow the acts themselves. Women pay for sex, for desire. In all kinds of ways. A price that I have never thought was fair. My cousin's dog's life is not fair.