Fix is their verb for it, both Jane and Carll, which they try to utter casually, as if to say, “We’re all adults here – this is practical, sensible, no big deal.” That phrase, I’ve noticed, “no big deal,” tends to signal its opposite, meaning “I don’t want to discuss it, if you’d be so kind.”
Both lexicon and intonation betray us. “Castrated” would have been too clinical, I suppose, conjuring scalpels and Abelard; “neutered” too heartless. Plus, “neutered” misleads. I’m not “neither” – neuter’s Latin forebear – I’m a guy who’s lost his you-know-whats. Is a guy who’s lost a finger or ear not a guy anymore?
Fixed, though, is a curious term for the “procedure.” (“Procedure” is another of those no-big-deal words.) Are we talking repair here, as if nature produced me broken? Or are we talking in a tight spot – as “in a fix”? Or maybe malevolently tricked – the game “was fixed”?
Call it what you like, I get the rationale.
In Thomas Hardy’s words, “we are too many,” we dogs, so many that roughly 670,000 of us are euthanized in America each year. (“Euthanized” is another no-big-deal dodge.) Imagine if 670,000 people were thus dispatched – genocide! – but with dogs it’s different. We exist for people’s pleasure, like pigs and cattle, only we’re cuddled not cooked. In this hemisphere, at least, dog’s not on the menu. Instead, we’re wasted, tossed like garbage, “done because we are too many” (note to self: reread Jude the Obscure), dumped into landfills with the plastic, as if that were more merciful. I’m no animal rights activist, trust me – it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there – luck rules – but I’m all in favor of right-sizing the dog-supply to equivalate demand. The world does not need me to engender more cockapoos or whatever my mongrel mutts might be tagged. Neither do I require paternity for self-fulfillment. I don’t have a “self,” for starters, none that I’ve noticed: I’m a dog like any, no worse. Plus, in dogdom, paternity lasts no longer than impregnation demands, which isn’t long. After that, it’s the bitch’s job – for a couple of months maybe – then they skedaddle too. Offspring in our species were sprung to fledge – the sooner the better – not fuss over. This seems hard for humans to understand. They swoon over “family” as if their posthumity somehow justified or excused their behavior while alive: “I’m doing this for the kids.” Screw that. I live for me now, not them tomorrow. I’d produce as many mini-Henrys as opportunity presented – it’s fun – but for sure neither I nor the world crave that increment. Clip me, I’m OK with it, makes sense.
Other reasons given for investing in this surgery (the cost of which isn’t covered by Medicare, Medicaid, or any agency, unless I’m missing something):
a) It reduces the risk of testicular cancer. Duh. So I’ll die of something else.
b) It disinclines me to meander in search of carnal satisfaction. Another plus, as I see it. Too often human guys find direction in their erection and it doesn’t work out. The stories you hear! One of their candidates for President raped a chance acquaintance in a pricey department store fitting room, if that’s not fake news (which I’m pretty sure it isn’t). I mean, really. Do dogs ever do anything that stupid? And if we do, shouldn’t we be stopped?
It is also argued – I suspect by sentimentalists – that absence of this urge makes us guy-dogs more devoted to our proprietors. Could be – but I’m pretty fixed on Carll and Jane already. They feed me. If that isn’t worship-worthy, what is?