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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Saint Luke

This week we were burgled. A laptop and an iPod were stolen. But a lot more would have gone had it not been for the advent and the intervention of our dog Luke. Luke who is a light sleeper, unlike the rest of the family, and is something of a sentinel heard something. Enough, apparently, to waken both himself and his protective senses. In Luke’s world something was wrong and that was annoying. Luke, who is otherwise quite a placid dog, doesn’t like to get annoyed and does like to take it out on someone when his is. In this case, fortunately for us, that meant burglars. Big brave burglars, who fled at the sound of a dog clearly on the warpath and with an appetite for a Burglar King. What they didn’t know in the darkness was that this loud and aggressive dog is still a puppy and barely taller than their shins, though, it has to be said, is clearly capable of extracting said shins. So, we were saved further loss by a very small dog with a big heart and a propensity for protection. The burglars have been caught by the police (thank you) and our goods recovered. However, we are told that there is no guarantee we won’t be burgled again. So, here’s the message and the warning for anybody thinking of burgling our place: next time, Luke will be bigger but just as annoyed.

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Going to to the dogs

I have nothing against people who dislike dogs. It’s just that many of them seem to be intolerant of those, like me, who do like dogs. I have become aware again of this Holden v. Ford chasm since taking delivery of two dogs on Boxing Day—one aptly a boxer. For my wife and I they have replaced most everything, except each other, as the loves of our lives. There is no doubt they are challenging, hair-tearing, frustrating and their toiletry habits and remains reminds one of those dreadful minefields that blight our world and history. But they are also lively, lovely, cute and adoring. Despite being different breeds and with an age and size difference they get on well together and they have taken to their spectacular new home and to us with alacrity and unrestrained joy. Our border collie is called Luke; our boxer is called Laila, after Mohammed Ali’s daughter—herself a famous boxer. Luke and Laila will offer little to you as Fryday reader but they offer a lot to me. And they are offered here as record of their presence rather than any precursor to the unrelieved tedium of my always talking about my dogs. Don’t you hate it when people do that? Almost makes you want to dislike those who love dogs, doesn’t it? No. :-)

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