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From "Amy"

A dog that can stroll around a dungeon party with equanimity is an unusual dog indeed. Floggers thwack across backs and butts, canes whistle through the air, violet wands emit their ozone-scented science-fiction crackle, people scream and cry and giggle and orgasm. Most dogs would be huddled under the bed atremble from nose to toe.

But Amy was a perverts’ dog since early puppyhood. From the day we brought her home, small enough to hold in my cupped hands, she heard the sound of Jay’s and my lovemaking. She never learned to like it – by the time she reached adulthood, the sight of toys being removed from a toybag made her sigh, stand up, trudge to a room at the far side of the house, and doze there until all the noise was over. (I never figured out whether the loud noise simply hurt her ears, or whether she understood that Daddy was hurting Mommy – or vice versa – and preferred not to contemplate that.) But when it came to parties, her love of company overcame her dislike of S/M play, and she wandered through the crowd accepting pats and tidbits and ignoring the human goings-on nearby.

Jay’s and my parties would not have been the same without Amy there to greet guests at the door and escort them in. Like most dungeon partygivers, we always designated a human doorkeeper as a safety measure to make sure everyone entering was supposed to be there – but our doorkeeper said, wryly, “If Amy ever figures out how to work a doorknob, I’m out of a job.”