Today’s post is NSFW (for those of you who are behind on your Internet jargon, that means “not safe for work”). So if you’re reading this while at your desk, stop now and wait until you get home. Otherwise, you may get fired.
It was hard to choose the theme song for today’s blog entry given the difficult subject matter, but I found two tracks that are particularly à propos: “Boys Don’t Cry” by the Cure and “Emasculate the Masculine” by the Unicorns.
Now that I am starting to overcome the initial shock and trauma of my surgery, I can reflect upon the experience of the last few days without whimpering. So here’s my unvarnished take on recent events.
I thought that maybe my human parents decided to let me keep my jewels. That is, until I heard my snarky teenage human sister, Chloe, repeatedly exclaim, “His balls are huge!” Those words, which she cried with perverted frequency, served as a daily reminder to my human mom that it was almost time for my neuter surgery, an event she looked forward to with barely suppressed glee. She naively believes that the surgical removal of my gonads will stop my humpy puppy nature and my resource guarding in their tracks. Boy, she is sorely mistaken.
I have now been a castrato for two days. The worst part of the whole experience is the ridiculous cone my vet and my human mom are obsessively making me wear. Let’s just say that I feel great empathy for what Hester Prynne went through. All hope of keeping my altered state a secret has been dashed now that I must wear this obscene accessory everywhere. The stupid thing screams, “Hello, World! It Is I, Your Friendly Neighborhood Super Truffle, Minus Testicles.” It’s humiliating.
Mom couldn’t wait to schedule my emasculation. I found out she did it months ago. The only reason she waited so long was because the breeder contract stipulated that neutering couldn’t take place before nine months of age. She would have done it on the day of my 9-month birthday if human dad hadn’t been traveling that week. Can you believe the gall? Imagine that: “Happy birthday, Super Truffle. Oh, and by the way, instead of celebrating with a bone, we’re having you neutered!”You know what else is humiliating? I spent the first couple of days bumping into everything. You don’t appreciate peripheral vision until you don’t have it anymore (fun fact: did you know that we dogs have 250° vision while you humans only have 190°?). I’ve ricocheted off of at least 30 trees and shrubs, several walls and a few doors. I’ve become the canine version of the Three Stooges, rolled into one Super Stooge, except unlike Larry, Moe and Curly, I’m not doing it to elicit guffaws.
When my human mom tells people what befell me, they frown, hunch their shoulders, nod their heads in complicity and exclaim “Poor Truffle!” Such frauds. They have no idea what it feels like to have the essence of your being viciously removed. No idea. The only one who seems to genuinely sympathize with my plight is my human dad. Every time he looks at me he instinctively tries to shield his privates. We men need to stick together.
I will not be defeated, however. The moral of this story is once a Super Truffle, always a Super Truffle. I will be back to my humpy puppy self in no time. Even if I am no longer capable of creating mini-Super Truffles. So there.