Tires and Testicles
by
Margaret Anne Cleek
I would like to spend some
time addressing the old axiom, "If it has tires or
testicles, it's going to be a problem." Now I want you to
know that I actually looked up the word axiom in my very
expensive and very heavy copy of Webster's Third
New International Dictionary to see if it was the word I
really wanted. It read, "1a: a proposition, principle, rule
or maxim that has found general acceptance or is thought
worthy thereof whether by virtue of a claim to intrinsic
merit or on the basis of an appeal to self-evidence."
Yes sir, that's the word alright, the statement is
self-evident.
The second definition read, "2: a self-consistent statement
about the primitive terms or undefinable objects that form
the basis for discourse." I figure if you change the last
word from discourse to intercourse this definition works out
fine too.
The thesis which I will
present here, attempts to validate the stated axiom.
In support of the contention that tires present
difficulties, I submit all the auto repair bills I have
accumulated over the last twenty years.
In support of the contention that testicles present
difficulties, I submit these true stories from my life with
dogs. Given
that discretion is the better part of valor, I will refrain
from any discussion of the two-legged (human or semi-human)
bearers of such that I have "known" in either the Biblical
or ordinary sense of the word.
My first dog was a toy
poodle named Smokey.
I must admit he never gave me a moment of trouble or
grief. Then
again, he only had one testicle.
I can only assume that the axiom only holds in the
plural.
My second dog was a
shepherd mix, named Duffy, who would have made a lesser
woman swear off males for the rest of her life.
I was out with Duffy in a
park near my home in San Francisco.
Duffy was off-lead, which in those days I think was
even legal.
There was a soft-ball game in progress and several folk were
wandering about the park with pooches.
Duffy met up with a bitch and the two cavorted about
a bit. Now the
owner of the bitch said she was spayed, but she was
nonetheless extraordinarily
attractive.
Unfortunately, Duffy chose the infield as the setting
for the culmination of his amorous intent.
He was in no way successful and as I recall did not
even address the correct end of the bitch for most of the
endeavor. Now,
do you want to guess what I was doing during all of this?
In an effort to remain as inconspicuous as possible,
I refrained from running onto the field.
This was possibly a prudent move.
My less than prudent move was to stand on the
sidelines loudly yelling, "COME! COME!" Someone in
the stands (a guy in possession of you-know-whats of
course), yelled back, "Give him a chance lady, he's trying!"
I was so-o-o humiliated.
The owner of the bitch intervened just about the time
Duffy and his new found friend began to engage in a certain
inverted number sequence which evoked the cheers and
adulation of ball-players and spectators alike.
Since then I have used "here" for the recall, but now
that I think about it, that may have proved more
embarrassing.
Having survived this I felt
that I was ready for a male Alaskan Malamute.
I feel compelled to inform
my readers that getting a Malamute had been my intention
from the very beginning.
I read a book as a child, titled,
A Dog so Small, which hooked me on the idea.
For all you folks scratching your head about the
title, as best I can recall, the family in the book wanted a
Chihuahua, went out to a shelter to get one, somehow became
confused on the concept, and came home from the shelter with
a Malamute. The story focuses on the child's disappointment
that he didn't get the Chihuahua until (surprise) the
Malamute wins him over. My apologies to the author for not
remembering more.
I digress.
The point is, I always intended to get a Malamute,
but in the same sense that your first set of tires should
not be attached to a Ferrarri, your first set of testicles
should not be attached to a Malamute. This is an especially
poignant point for my male readers.
One needs to ease in to such a striking set of male
circumstance, and that brings me to Kyle, (Shandael's Kyle,
CDX) my first Alaskan Malamute.
I really wanted to
include with this article a photograph of Kyle sitting
pretty for the camera, but I couldn't find one where the big
red "thing" wasn't the focus of the picture.
True, I could crop the shot at the elbow, but the
big, sly grin would still be a dead giveaway.
Without any other evidence, Kyle could prove my
argument, QED.
My systematic
desensitization to sexual umbrage was Kyle's major
undertaking in life.
Kyle's mission was to make me the most unabashed
woman in the world.
He has rendered me virtually embarrass proof, and if
the Duffy event were to occur at this point in my life, I
would probably send the video in to "America's funniest"
rather than slink off in total humiliation as I once did.
This process was
accomplished event by event.
Of course there were the usual incidents we all live
with, such as when you crawl on your hands and knees into a
large crate to straighten out bedding (or in Kyle's case
remove the shreds of what used to be bedding) and you are
mounted from behind.
You can't stand up of course or get out of the
situation, so after a few minutes of balancing on one arm
and flailing at the dog with the other, you are forced to
actually call for someone to come and help you.
I have yet to know of a single "rescuer" who failed
to spout forth a few one liners before extricating the
victim.
Kyle's efforts exceeded the
mundane. One
day he suddenly started screaming bloody murder in the far
corner of my yard.
I ran out in a panic as did several of my neighbors.
When I got to Kyle I realized the problem was he had
an erection and the prepuce of his penis (note the candor
with which I can now toss out such terms) had rolled inward
and the situation was causing him great pain.
With a few delft moves from a practiced hand, I was
able to instantly rectify the situation.
(Honest, I grew up milking cows on a farm in San
Francisco.)
Given that my neighbor had his back turned and his hand over
his mouth and his shoulders were shaking from the suppressed
giggles, I surmised that he had quickly assessed the
enormity of the situation at hand.
Everyone else was clueless.
One woman wondered at the source of my healing powers
for I could relieve such pain and suffering simply by
"touching the dog's stomach".
Old shaky shoulders lost it when she asked if there
was any "special spot" that one needed to touch.
She was so determined to learn the secret of this
miracle of healing that I was forced to reveal the awful
truth.
At an agility fun run Kyle
paused before entering a tunnel to lift his leg on a nearby
stump. He
lifted his right leg, then he turned and lifted his left
leg, then he turned and lifted his right leg, then he turned
and lifted his left leg, then....you get the idea.
Six total rotations and then he takes a dump as his
finale. The
crowd went wild.
Kyle was also in rare form
at a Frisbee competition.
Now I was a Malamute owner and I had no expectation
that Kyle would bring the Frisbee back, much less make any
effort to get it in the first place.
But after all, it was for a good cause and no one was
entering because they were afraid that their dog wouldn't
perform. I was
like the valiant soldier that makes a hopeless charge to
prove to the rest of the troops that they too should get
their ass shot off.
I am not the greatest
Frisbee thrower. I believe it is because my chest gets in
the way when I try to throw the Frisbee.
I think this is a logical explanation and it annoys
me when people laugh openly when I propose it.
Anyway, I thought my only hope was to position Kyle
in a sit and throw right to him.
On my first shot I had the best throw of my career;
the Frisbee sailed directly at Kyle's waiting jaws, he
ducked but never moved an inch, and the crowd cheered as the
Frisbee sailed a mere one-half inch over his head.
I moved in closer, and to the extent possible, aimed
lower; the Frisbee hit him full in the chest.
He never flinched, or even looked to acknowledge the
presence of the Frisbee.
Again the crowd cheered to see such grace in the line
of fire.
At this point I decided
that the sit-stay-in-the-middle-of-the-field approach was
ill-advised and Kyle probably thought that this was just one
of my asinine distraction ploys to reinforce his obedience
stays. I moved
to plan B. If
Kyle thought this was obedience, then I would treat the
exercise like a retrieve.
Kyle was at my side on a wait, I sent the Frisbee
flying, I uttered the command, "take it" and Kyle flew from
my side and went right off in the direction of the Frisbee!
Yes! Yes! My heart soared, "This is like a damn
Disney movie!", I thought.
Kyle went right to the Frisbee.
He stopped! He peed! He ran on!
Our performance made the news folks, but they cut the
pee part.
Obviously Kyle needs to work on them.
You may find this hard to
believe but we did enter a second Frisbee competition for
the same reasons.
Before I could even make a toss, Kyle noticed that
his Vet was one of the referees and ran over to play his
favorite game, "jump all over somebody you really love".
We were thrown out for unduly influencing a judge.
Just for the record,
the boobie prizes at these events are just as good as the
first prize, and in Kyle's case they sometimes even create
on-the-spot award categories.
Kyle's tour de force was in
an open obedience competition event.
The competitor in the ring before him was a Wolfhound
bitch. Kyle became increasingly distracted as we worked the
heeling pattern.
He was totally off his concentration; when we moved
to the retrieve he totally lost it.
He picked up the dumbbell on the flat and returned to
me only to run around me and go over the high jump, then
back over the jump to me to spit the dumbbell out, then off
again to do the broad jump---all on his own.
He then started wooing and spinning and chasing his
tail. Kyle was
obviously excited when we returned to do the stays.
Of course we were already NQ.
The judge was very nice. I don't remember his name
but he had quite a Scottish Brogue.
He came over to me and said, "Yeer boy seems a bit
excited, peerhaps you best stay heere on the stays."
So as everyone else exited the ring, I was forced to
stay and endure Kyle's antics.
He did not get up, but he did a rather good
impression of Elvis the Pelvis.
He undulated during the entire sit. I was forced to
listen to moms hushing their children as the little ones
commented on the red "thing". He kept reaching his paw out
sideways trying to hook the paw of the Russian Wolfhound
next to him.
When we went to exit the ring after the downs were
completed, Kyle dove for the spot where the hound had been
sitting and it took all my strength to haul him out. I
seriously considered giving up obedience on this day.
Some months later, when I
was in a particularly bleak mood, I looked over some copies
of "Front and Finish".
Just by chance I happened to look at a sighthound
column. The
woman with the wolfhound was writing about that
trial! She said
they were qualified up to the stays and she was very worried
because they were next to a "huge Siberian Husky" (thank
heaven for small favors) that was "very unstable".
Damn, she was
talking about my Kyle!
Hell, you'd be unstable too if you were balancing on
your own erection!
She went on to say (this still makes me mad) how
proud she was of her girl because, "even though she came
into heat right after I sent in the entries" she decided to
bring her girl any way and "fortunately, no one noticed she
was in heat".
No one noticed?
Just ask Kyle.
My boy was vindicated, or at least had a damn good excuse.
Now I feel compelled to
tell you that Kyle was no slouch.
He was the winner of the Oonanick Memorial award.
He was the number one ranked obedience Malamute in
the Shuman Ratings in 1989.
I think he may be the only Malamute ever to have made
the Shuman ratings.
I say this only to provide some measure of balance
and journalistic accuracy to this presentation, not to brag
on myself and my boy--and harumph to any of you who think
otherwise.
If you think I have endured
enough you are wrong. A glutton for punishment, I went to
the airport a few months ago to pick up another Malamute
boy. Vicky
Jones assured me both testicles were in the hopper so I knew
what I was in for there.
I no sooner got on the highway with my new boy than
"KABLAM! fwapa fwapa" there went my rear tire.
As I sat on the road hoping for help and clutching my
10 week old black and white boy, subsequently named,
"Vykon's Blacktop Blowout", (look if you can't figure it
out...!) I thought, "oh damn, tires and testicles;
what an inauspicious beginning".
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