DESEXING CURLY SULLIVAN
In June this year an eight-week-old, red and tan kelpie pup came into our home and so ended life as we’d previously known it.
We named him Curly Sullivan (long story) and promptly fell head over heels in love.
Long stretches of time were spent staring in wonderment at Curly sleeping, Curly yawing, Curly going to the toilet, Curly attempting to make friends with Coco the cat (no joy) and Curly creating havoc in our previously well-ordered and spotless home.
You’d think I’d given birth to him myself going by the number of photos I was (am) taking and my Facebook wall now exists primarily as a Curly Sullivan fan page: look how cute he is yawning, how adorable he is in this blue stripe jumper, in his new Driza Bone, herding the sheep (all three of them), blah, blah, blah. You get the picture.
I thought my friends would have staged a Curly intervention by now but apparently you can never post too many pictures of a cute dog. Sadly, our cat never got this much attention.
To my great surprise, I love his smell (dog), let him lick me, and have not had a nervous breakdown because he has taken over my favourite arm chair, scratched virtually every one of our lovely limed and polished floorboards and is systematically destroying a new, hand-woven floor rug that I was given for my birthday.
It seems that where this dog is concerned, there is no limit to my love and tolerance – and, to be honest, I believed his nutso behaviour would be a phase that would be cut short by the cutting off of his, well, nutsos (that and some sessions with a dog psychologist).
I’ve always believed desexing to be the cornerstone of responsible dog ownership (why else would the council give you a discount on registration for desexed dogs?) but apparently some people (okay, some men) don’t agree.
Bring up the subject and you’d think their ‘nads were next.
A dear friend with whom I rarely disagree equates desexing to playing god and, in a textbook French put down, even said it was petit-bourgeois.
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