GROUND ZER0, New York, N.Y.--Oct. 25, 2003-- Last night I visited a dear old friend who had recently been married.   The marriage was thirteen days old to be exact, not exactly a lucky number.
       The conversation was even unluckier.
       At least, that is, for the two scruffy little dogs my friend inherited when she married the love of her life almost two weeks ago.
       It seems my friend's love for her new husband blinded her to the reality of marriage--that she would have two dogs plus one husband to love and care for.   But, the blindness of love prior to marriage made her either overlook, ignore, deny or blatantly wait in ambush for the right time and place to suggest to her new husband that his two little dogs, age four, be whisked to the vets for an operation to remove their testicles.
     "Snip-snip," she called it.  "Snip-snip!"

     Her new husband's reaction was a deep grimace and to scoop up the two male dogletts in his burly arms, hug them to his chest and respond:  "Only over my dead body!"
      Well, even if he didn't quite say those words, they were written upon his face, kind of like the close-up of the guy who had just been kneed in the groin by Alias star, Jennifer Garner.
       My friend, whom I will call Lane, deeply loves her new husband.  Of that there is no doubt.   She is a successful professional woman here in New York City.   Her husband, whom for identity purposes I will call Bill, is a "manly man," a rugged individualist persona whom the average person would not spend one minute in argument with on any issue that might raise his ire.  
       He worships Lane up to a point.   That point came to sharp edge last night when Lane asked my support in promoting the castration of Bill's two terrier male urination machines.
    

       It seems the two little Yorkshire Terriers (teacup size) like to lift their legs and mark the apartment.    In more crude terms, they pee on about anything and everything.
       Bill has been a bachelor for quite a number of years.  His job required him to work long hours, and, ala a Seinfield television script, the dogs virtually ruled the roost.    House training the dogs was low on Bill's list of priorities.
       Lane, on the other hand, has a fetish for cleanliness.    The idea that two little male dogs sneak about in the day and night searching for places to lift their tiny legs and mark the limited confines of a New York City apartment makes her shudder.
       Her solution, sprung upon the attendees of her first married dinner party last night (remember, the 13th day of marriage), was for them to support her desire to have the two male Yorkshires rendered into eunuchs.
       I was the center of the discussion.
       Years ago I had a rambunctious male Husky named Zonka.   My wife to this day shakes her head and sighs "he was such a bad dog". He was nearly 100 pounds of rabid fury, constantly raising his leg and marking everything in sight.
       Male dogs mark their territory by surrounding the things they claim as their property with a ring of urine to let any intruder--such as a Terrorist dog--know the Sentinels of Canine Vigilance are standing guard.    Urine is a dog's Homeland Security force.

      Zonka was a gift to me from my wife, Lori, many years ago.   He was the "brute" of the litter, big and tough and with an automatic leg that lifted so he could spray his Vigilance Protection on anything or anyone he wanted.
      One of the more insane stories of his urinifaction of the world legends that made me the epicenter of discussion was Zonka's trip to Dana Point Beach when he was about a year old.
      Male Husky dogs are amicable with other dogs up until the first year.  It seems after that time they tend to want to fight every other male dog to near death, and are not noted for their sociability.
      I took Zonka to Dana Point Beach in sunny Southern California where we lived at the time and let him romp with other dogs.   Humans were also at the beach sunning themselves and enjoy the beauty of a warm summer's day.
      I noted that Zonka was chasing another dog around some people about 100 yards away.   He was getting quite excited, singling out one dog I assumed might be a female.
       He was running near a couple of young women sitting on the sand.  One of them didn't have a swimsuit on, and was sitting with her friend talking when I gasped in horror.
      Zonka stood behind the woman and lifted his leg.    I froze.   It couldn't be, I thought.  He couldn't be doing what it looked like he was doing.    I let out a deep breath when the woman didn't move.  My perspective from afar made it appear that Zonka might have just been peeing in the sand.   That's when Zonka turned and lifted his other leg and took the stance of any Sentinel of Vigilance warding off impending Terrorists to his territory.
       I ran to the scene, hoping that my eyes deceived me.    I was sure he hadn't hit the mark because the woman didn't move.
       As I approached Zonka and latched the leash onto his collar, I glanced at the woman's back.  She was wearing a pink blouse.  It was soaked in urine, a kind of "Z" mark etched across her back from both a left-right double leg lift.

         She glared at me.
       "Oh, my God, I'm so sorry," I begged.  "Please, let me pay for your blouse."
        The young woman just sat there, her face frozen in disgust.  "No thank you," she harrumphed.   Red-faced, I skulked away with Zonka in tow, not quite believing what had happened.
        Later, I was to assume that the young woman had just experienced the worst week of her life.   Perhaps, I conjured, she had gone to work and found a pink slip at her desk, ending her job.   Later that day her boyfriend must have called her and told her he was breaking up with her.   And, perhaps the IRS had sent her an audit request the same day.  In desperation of a horrible day in her life, she went to the beach to sit with a friend and enjoy a respite from life's cruel nature, only to have a dog come up behind her and urinate, not once, but twice on her.
        Her lack of reaction must have been a sign of ultimate resignation to the world's cruelty.  Why else would she not have jumped up, screamed, shouted and demanded satisfaction.
       "Cut off that dog's balls!" She could have screamed with ultimate justification.
       I thought of that story as Lane urged me to tell Bill how Zonka's nature as a urnination machine had shifted once he was castrated.
       I looked at Bill.
       Poor Bill, I thought.  Here, just thirteen days into his marriage, his new wife was urging him to lop off the testicles of his two dogs.    It was not unlike she was asking him to cut off part of himself.
      I looked at the Yorkshires.  One of them was shivering in my lap, as Yorkshires shiver when they sit on anyone's lap.  Their tiny bodies seem vulnerable, innocent, unless you're Lane watching them lift their legs on pieces of furniture, or stalking your beautiful pillows to turn the pure silk coverings into stinky yellow stains.
      Castration was a radical alternative Lane threw out in my direction.  I wanted to duck the issue.    Bill looked at me, man-to-man, to rally against Lane's diagnosis that the problem of the two little dogs peeing on everything in sight could be ended by a vet's deft "snip-snip."
      My throat went dry.
      Lane has been a close, close friend of our family since she was a little tyke.  She knew all about our family history, and especially about how Zonka's nature changed once I had him "snip-snipped."   Of course, the reason I had Zonka fixed was whenever a female dog in the neighborhood went into heat he escaped over the eight-foot fence I had built and turned into a neighborhood serial dog rapist.
       He was also dangerous to human beings during mating season.  His eyes would cloud over as though he were drugged by the scent of lust.   He would howl endless and often threw his massive body against the garage door like he was a battering ram.  If you got in the way of his desire to break free, he would bowl you over. He could even hurt you in his frenzied attempts to escape.

       We had named him Zonka after watching Larry Csonka in a Superbowl.  The huge linebacker crashed through other people like a raging bull, and our Zonka was not unlike him.  Thus, when Zonka was anywhere near a female dog in heat, he was a canine bulldozer.
        I looked at the fluffy little Yorkshire's, their tiny bodies shaking and wiggling about, about as far from a pair of serial canine rapists as I could imagine.
       "Well, Cliff, back me up on this snip-snip subject.  Tell Bill how castration helped calm down Zonka."
       Lane was all but glaring at my silent face.   I stumbled out a few words about Zonka, but as I spoke, I saw Bill's face scrunching up.  It was as though we were all talking about having his testicles snipped.    Even as I tried to support Lane, I felt a sharp pain in my own groin.
       Alas, the dinner was great but the conversation not so glorious.    On the subway home, I laughed at the scenario.  Here, on the thirteenth day of marriage, our old and dear friend Lane was facing the Urine Terrorists.    They were threatening her sense of order, sense of cleanliness, sense of femininity.
        Poor Bill, fiercely in love with Lane, had faced a great dilemma: Love of Lane versus love of his dog's testicles.
        It was, without question, an evening of Terrorization.
        Lane obviously slept with one eye open, keeping her mind tuned in the darkness to the sounds that might signal a tiny Yorkshire leg lifting to spray urine upon some precious artifact she brought to the marriage.
       Then, there was Bill, sleeping also with one eye open, fearful that Lane might rise in the dark of night and "snip-snip" his buddies' balls, or steal them out of the apartment to the all-night, drive-through vet.

      Bill has a good argument against the radical surgery of removing his dogs' four testicles (two each for those who are counting).   His point is:  "No snip-snip until I'm convinced there is scientific evidence the castration will eliminate the marking."
       Unfortunately for Lane, I have to agree.
       Emasculating the dogs without any assurance their "marks-a-lot" behavior will change seems, without question, an extreme act.   So, I'm tempted to research the issue and offer my evidence, weak or strong.
      But, I've decided to duck the issue.
      I know that Vigilance require more Courage than Fear, more Conviction than Intimidation, and more Right Action than Complacency to battle the Beast of Terror and stand victorious.
      However, the Yorkshire Urine Terrorists leave me little choice but to assume the role of a Fearful, Intimidated and Complacent friend about taking sides on the issue.
      One might castigate (that's different from castrate) me for ducking and running on the issue.   But, I figure, this a Terrorism-Vigilance issue better left to be resolved between Lane and Bill.  

       It means that sometimes we all have to face the fork in the road.  Do we take the Lane Road or the Bill Road?   Do we advocate for the castration of a couple of dogs in hopes they will stop lifting their legs and fouling the new nest Lane is trying to arrange "urine free," or, do we skulk away in the night when no one is looking and run like hell away from the battlefield?
       I remember the scene at Dana Point Beach.  I remember running away from the woman with the urine-soaked back.
       I wish today I would have gotten her phone number.
       I would give it to Lane.    There are people who can live with Urine Terrorism.
       And me.  Well, in this case I can swallow a big squirt of Complacency.   
       

Oct. 23--Who Has The Right To Kill A Child?

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