Getting your leg over

If I recollect correctly, hedgehogs, when I was young, would curl up on the road when faced with an on-coming vehicle. Most would therefore die—a fact the more observant and learned of the species learnt from. These days, they keep running. Similarly, the pukeko, within my lifetime considered a flightless bird, has learned to fly, albeit somewhat ungainly. But fly it does and it lives. I believe this is called evolution. Whether it is a divine consequence or just a consequence of pragmatism, I cannot possibly comment. But, whatever the reason, it has happened in a remarkably short time.
I have another example of recent evolution but this one can certainly not be attributed to a whim of God or even practicality; it just seems to have happened. When I was young, male dogs inevitably and with considerable élan, lifted a hind leg to urinate. These days they don’t—well many don’t. Have you noticed that? My own male dog, Luke, is a fine upstanding dog, except in one respect: he doesn’t stand to urinate. Rather he squats like a female. And he is not alone in this. I have seen this with many male dogs and I am drawn to the conclusion that some canine social engineering is at work here and that male dogs like male men (tautology) have succumbed to the pressure to adopt many of the traits of more dominate females of the respective species. As any married man will tell you it is the only way we can live the quiet life to which we males aspire. Dogs are obviously no different. They have to turn to their feminine side to stem the tide of the feminisation of the race. Men learnt do this in the 60s, when—as any old codger was fond of stating—men and women became indistinguishable. The nadir was the unisex toilet and I wonder from that how on earth the wall urinal has survived.
So my dog is a squatter. I didn’t think that much about that, least of all be bothered by it. Not until earlier this week when I took Luke to the vet. There we were—Luke and I—waiting outside in the sun when a Jack Russell and its owner approached us. The owner and I entered into a light conversation, which included inevitably admiring our respective dogs. Of course I detest Jack Russells but this was not the time or place. Nor was it the time or place for said Jack Russell to lift its leg and piss on my boot. But it did. The owner was shocked and apologised profusely. I was shocked as well but more about the lifting of the leg. It occurred to me suddenly that I hadn’t seen that from a dog in ages. Even Luke looked quizzical—is that how it’s done? Well, yes it is Luke, or it was. That was the way it was done. At least in the old days. Just leave out the boot bit. Luke I guess just metaphorically shrugged because he has never attempted to replicate the Jack Russell’s deed. No need I think is his view.
I love both my dogs dearly and equally and that will never change. But at this time when I am acutely aware of the passing of generations (see last Fryday) I hanker after the old days. Days when men were men and women were out the back. Days when men did it in front of a tree, and women did it behind a bush. There was a penile pride at play in those days. Not these days.
Haunted by those thoughts, I sometimes look at Luke and I think—Mate, as much as I love ya, can’t you stand up and be a man just for once? Just for me. Just for old times.

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