Getting distracted, John. Don’t get distracted

Costs!

We must contain this genetic mistake at all

I told him we would think about it, and with our

new supply of mood-altering drugs in hand, we

headed home.

It was at this same time, as we debated slicing

away Marley’s manhood, that Jenny was placing

unprecedented demands on mine. Dr. Sherman

had cleared her to try to get pregnant again. She

accepted the challenge with the single-

mindedness of an Olympic athlete. The days of

simply putting away the birth control pills and let-

ting whatever might happen happen were behind

us. In the insemination wars, Jenny was going on

the offensive. For that, she needed me, a key ally

John Grogan

who controlled the flow of ammunition. Like

most males, I had spent every waking moment

from the age of fifteen trying to convince the op-

posite sex that I was a worthy mating partner. Fi-

nally, I had found someone who agreed. I should

have been thrilled. For the first time in my life, a

woman wanted me more than I wanted her. This

was guy heaven. No more begging, no more grov-

eling. Like the best stud dogs, I was at last in de-

mand. I should have been ecstatic. But suddenly it

all just seemed like work, and stressful work at

that. It was not a rollicking good romp that Jenny

craved from me; it was a baby. And that meant I

had a job to perform. This was serious business.

That most joyous of acts overnight became a clin-

ical drill involving basal-temperature checks,

menstrual calendars, and ovulation charts. I felt

like I was in service to the queen.

It was all about as arousing as a tax audit. Jenny

was used to me being game to go at the slightest

hint of an invitation, and she assumed the old

rules still applied. I would be, let’s say, fixing the

garbage disposal and she would walk in with her

calendar in hand and say, “I had my last period on

the seventeenth, which means”—and she would

pause to count ahead from that date—“that we

need to do it—NOW!”

The Grogan men have never handled pressure

Marley & Me

well, and I was no exception. It was only a matter

of time before I suffered the ultimate male humil-

iation: performance failure. And once that hap-

pened, the game was over. My confidence was

shot, my nerve gone. If it happened once, I knew

it could happen again. Failure evolved into a self-

fulfilling prophecy. The more I worried about per-

forming my husbandly duty, the less I was able to

relax and do what had always come naturally. I

quashed all signs of physical affection lest I put

ideas in Jenny’s head. I began to live in mortal fear

that my wife would, God forbid, ask me to rip her

clothes off and have my way with her. I began

thinking that perhaps a life of celibacy in a remote

monastery wouldn’t be such a bad future after all.

Jenny was not about to give up so easily. She was

the hunter; I was the prey. One morning when I

was working in my newspaper’s West Palm Beach

bureau, just ten minutes from home, Jenny called

from work. Did I want to meet her at home for

lunch? You mean alone? Without a chaperone?

“Or we could meet at a restaurant somewhere,”

I countered. A very crowded restaurant. Prefer-

ably with several of our coworkers along. And

both mothers-in-law.

“Oh, c’mon,” she said. “It’ll be fun.” Then her

voice lowered to a whisper and she added, “To-

day’s a good day. I... think... I’m... ovulat-

John Grogan

ing.” A wave of dread washed over me. Oh God,

no. Not the O word. The pressure was on. It was

time to perform or perish. To, quite literally, rise

or fall. Please don’t make me, I wanted to plead

into the phone. Instead I said as coolly as I could,

“Sure. Does twelve-thirty work?”

When I opened the front door, Marley, as always,

was there to greet me, but Jenny was nowhere to

be found. I called out to her. “In the bathroom,”

she answered. “Out in a sec.” I sorted through the

mail, killing time, a general sense of doom hover-

ing over me, the way I imagined it hovered over

people waiting for their biopsy results. “Hey

there, sailor,” a voice behind me said, and when I

turned around, Jenny was standing there in a little

silky two-piece thing. Her flat stomach peeked out

from below the top, which hung precariously from

her shoulders by two impossibly thin straps. Her

legs had never looked longer. “How do I look?”

she said, holding her hands out at her sides. She

looked incredible, that’s how she looked. When it

comes to sleepwear, Jenny is squarely in the baggy

T-shirt camp, and I could tell she felt silly in this

seductive getup. But it was having the intended

effect.

She scampered into the bedroom with me in

Marley & Me

pursuit. Soon we were on top of the sheets in each

other’s arms. I closed my eyes and could feel that

old lost friend of mine stirring. The magic was re-

turning. You can do this, John. I tried to conjure

up the most impure thoughts I could. This was

going to work! My fingers fumbled for those

flimsy shoulder straps. Roll with it, John. No

pressure. I could feel her breath now, hot and

moist on my face. And heavy. Hot, moist, heavy

breath. Mmmm, sexy.

But wait. What was that smell? Something on

her breath. Something at once familiar and for-

eign, not exactly unpleasant but not quite entic-

ing, either. I knew that smell, but I couldn’t place

it. I hesitated. What are you doing, you idiot?

Forget the smell. Focus, man. Focus! But that

smell—I could not get it out of my head. You’re

What was it? Stay the course! My curiosity was

getting the better of me. Let it go, guy. Let it go!

I began sniffing the air. A food; yes, that was it.

But what food? Not crackers. Not chips. Not tuna

fish. I almost had it. It was... Milk-Bones?

Milk-Bones! That was it! She had Milk-Bone

breath. But why? I wondered—and I actually

heard a little voice ask the question in my head—

Why has Jenny been eating Milk-Bones? And

besides, I could feel her lips on my neck... How

John Grogan

could she be kissing my neck and breathing in my

face all at once? It didn’t make any—

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