Good Fryday and bad times

This is not the Fryday I intended to write. Nor is it a Fryday I wanted to write. Perhaps it is not even the Fryday I should write, but you must be the judge of that.

Earlier this week I lost one of the two dogs my wife and I owned. The dog was eight years old and succumbed after a protracted battle with cancer, lasting many months. When she was diagnosed we were told that even with the best treatment, we could at most expect her to have another year with us.

Death is the domain of decisions.

Our first was not to subject her to invasive chemotherapy for the sake of a year. We instead opted to put her on medication that would for a time protect her from the worst excesses of cancer.

For many months the medication did just that and was only recently--the last few days--that her deterioration became evident and inevitable.

It was then that I took a second decision: to take her off the medication and have her die as peacefully as she could at home.

When her last day came, I think she knew it. There were a few things out of character: a slow circuit of the property boundary stopping to watch the sheep on one side and the children playing on the other. There was an attempt to get back to the house, but she never made it more than half-way. My wife and I carried her the rest of the way and put her in her bed next to ours. It was there she died that night.

I have lost dogs before, but it never gets easier. And I don't wish to single out dogs--all pet-owners feel the same range of emotions and have to deal with them and can be excused for dwelling on them.

And nor is it just pets. I spoke to a farmer about this and he said that he feels the same about every working dog he's owned.

Laila led a charmed life. Her world was one of adventure. She was a boxer, named after the most famous female boxer in the world Laila Ali. Our Laila charmed most who met her and made everybody, even those she couldn't charm, feel that they were the most important people in her life.

She loved going to the vets and being poked and prodded--even in those last days when she could barely wag her tail, her whole body shook with pleasure as we entered the vet clinic.

Yes, she had issues. Boxers tend to have a few--ask any owner.  She was never good around smaller dogs. Yes, she stole apples from our tree so frequently that we had to let it go and turn a blind eye.

And, yes, she did adopt an air of "It's all about me". And, of course, it was.  However, as long as she could also make you think it was all about you. That was okay too. You had to love Laila for that.

And we did.

For that...and a whole lot more.

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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Now playing: Traveling Wilburys - Congratulations
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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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Now playing: Eric Burdon & The Animals - Anything
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