No baby Squinches

Squinchy got his balls cut out today.  I know, I know, we call it neutering, or getting fixed.  We have nice words for lots of things that make me sad in my stomach.  Collateral damage.  Pre-emptive strikes. Passing away. Hydraulic Fracturing.  Ethnic cleansing.  If you think this is interesting, read George Orwell’s “Politics of the English Language.”  It’s the most chilling essay on clear writing I know.  That doesn’t sound as emphatic as I meant it to.  But you see, word choice isn’t just for nerds.  It riles us up over nothing.  It civilizes barbaric acts.

But neutering is for the good of society, you might be thinking.  I know, I know.  I took Squinchy in for the operation.  I even paid someone to do it.  However, many barbaric things are done “for the good of society,” for instance, eugenics, and the War on Terror.  And no, snipping my dog does not equal the war in Afghanistan.  I’m just saying.  There is something weird about something that calls for euphemisms and broad sociological justifications.  There is something weird about taking a healthy creature and cutting out one of its organs.  Especially when that creature would have had really cute babies.

I also want to say, if Squinchy had knocked some bitch up, I totally would have paid puppy support.  But it’s too late now.  The deed is done; c’est la vie. Squinchy will have to leave his mark on the world through some non-genetic means.  Urine, squirrel intimidation, and platonic interspecies love, for instance.

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