don’t they get a parrot?”
“I’m a pure pedigree bulldog,” said Kinnear, puffing out his chest with pride. “The masters have got the certificate to prove it. We bulldogs used to kill bulls. Imagine that. Real bulls, with horns, the kind who hate red rags. We used to be fast and feisty and bold. But those days are gone. Over the generations the breeders have bred all our aggression out of us. We don’t need to fight anymore to prove that we’re dogs. We get along with all other dog breeds—and even with parrots and cats and rabbits and sheep. And we certainly wouldn’t mess with a bull. We’re not wild, we’re tame. We’re docile. We’re obedient. We’re correct. We’re the perfect family pet.”
Furgul scratched himself. He felt more miserable than ever. “I try to be docile, I try to be obedient, I try to be not wild. I even try to be correct. And I’m still not a good pet. I’m just a failure.”
“Don’t say that,” said Kinnear. “You didn’t have my advantages in life. You haven’t got the right—erm—background. You haven’t got my breeding.”
“I know,” said Furgul. “I’m not pure.”
“But even the likes of you can learn the rules of a good pet—if you work hard at it.”
“The problem is,” said Furgul, “I don’t want to be a pet at all, not even a good one.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want to be free. I want to find the Doglands. I want to go back to Dedbone’s Hole and set my mother free.”
Kinnear didn’t say anything. He just looked at Furgul with pity.
Furgul said, “And I’ve failed at all that too.”
After this conversation Furgul kept hearing the Grown-Ups use the word “vet” at the same time they used his human name, “Rupert.”
“VET, blah, blah, RUPERT,” they muttered. “RUPERT, blah, blah, VET.”
This made Furgul nervous. He became even more nervous when Harriet—wearing rubber gloves and a paper mask that covered her mouth and nostrils—trapped Furgul in thekitchen and ran her fingers over his balls. Furgul didn’t like it and snapped at her hand. When Harriet had gone away, Furgul asked Kinnear what was going on.
“Ah, you’ve reached that time of life,” Kinnear explained. “In fact you’ve got away with it longer than most. All pet dogs have to face it sooner or later, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. And once it’s done you’ll appreciate the benefits.”
“The benefits of what?” asked Furgul.
“Well,” said Kinnear, “it stops you from torturing yourself about girls, which, believe me, is a greater blessing than you can imagine. It results in less aggression, which—if I may say so—is just what you need, my boy. And—listen to this—it produces a ninety percent reduction in the tendency of dogs to roam. All your restlessness—all these feelings of failure that you’ve been having—will just disappear. In short, it will make you happy.”
Kinnear was never more pleased with himself than when he was showing off the breadth of his general knowledge. His cheeks wobbled with pride.
“It
can
cause an unfortunate gain in weight—which is why your rude comments about my belly are so unfair. But, on the whole, the effects are positive for everyone concerned.”
“They don’t sound positive to me,” said Furgul. “For a start, I like roaming. I haven’t even started to roam. I haven’t had the chance to. I haven’t had a chance to torture myself about girls either. But you still haven’t told me what
it
is.”
“Neutering, of course,” replied Kinnear.
“Neutering?”
“They’re going to pay the Vet to cut your nuts off.”
Furgul stared at him for long enough to realize that Kinnear wasn’t joking.
The smirk on Kinnear’s face told him it was true.
“Cut my nuts off?” gasped Furgul. He looked down at them. He licked them twice a day to keep them clean. He was very fond of his nuts. And they were his.
“What if I don’t want all these benefits?” he said.
“Well,
“I’m a pure pedigree bulldog,” said Kinnear, puffing out his chest with pride. “The masters have got the certificate to prove it. We bulldogs used to kill bulls. Imagine that. Real bulls, with horns, the kind who hate red rags. We used to be fast and feisty and bold. But those days are gone. Over the generations the breeders have bred all our aggression out of us. We don’t need to fight anymore to prove that we’re dogs. We get along with all other dog breeds—and even with parrots and cats and rabbits and sheep. And we certainly wouldn’t mess with a bull. We’re not wild, we’re tame. We’re docile. We’re obedient. We’re correct. We’re the perfect family pet.”
Furgul scratched himself. He felt more miserable than ever. “I try to be docile, I try to be obedient, I try to be not wild. I even try to be correct. And I’m still not a good pet. I’m just a failure.”
“Don’t say that,” said Kinnear. “You didn’t have my advantages in life. You haven’t got the right—erm—background. You haven’t got my breeding.”
“I know,” said Furgul. “I’m not pure.”
“But even the likes of you can learn the rules of a good pet—if you work hard at it.”
“The problem is,” said Furgul, “I don’t want to be a pet at all, not even a good one.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want to be free. I want to find the Doglands. I want to go back to Dedbone’s Hole and set my mother free.”
Kinnear didn’t say anything. He just looked at Furgul with pity.
Furgul said, “And I’ve failed at all that too.”
After this conversation Furgul kept hearing the Grown-Ups use the word “vet” at the same time they used his human name, “Rupert.”
“VET, blah, blah, RUPERT,” they muttered. “RUPERT, blah, blah, VET.”
This made Furgul nervous. He became even more nervous when Harriet—wearing rubber gloves and a paper mask that covered her mouth and nostrils—trapped Furgul in thekitchen and ran her fingers over his balls. Furgul didn’t like it and snapped at her hand. When Harriet had gone away, Furgul asked Kinnear what was going on.
“Ah, you’ve reached that time of life,” Kinnear explained. “In fact you’ve got away with it longer than most. All pet dogs have to face it sooner or later, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. And once it’s done you’ll appreciate the benefits.”
“The benefits of what?” asked Furgul.
“Well,” said Kinnear, “it stops you from torturing yourself about girls, which, believe me, is a greater blessing than you can imagine. It results in less aggression, which—if I may say so—is just what you need, my boy. And—listen to this—it produces a ninety percent reduction in the tendency of dogs to roam. All your restlessness—all these feelings of failure that you’ve been having—will just disappear. In short, it will make you happy.”
Kinnear was never more pleased with himself than when he was showing off the breadth of his general knowledge. His cheeks wobbled with pride.
“It
can
cause an unfortunate gain in weight—which is why your rude comments about my belly are so unfair. But, on the whole, the effects are positive for everyone concerned.”
“They don’t sound positive to me,” said Furgul. “For a start, I like roaming. I haven’t even started to roam. I haven’t had the chance to. I haven’t had a chance to torture myself about girls either. But you still haven’t told me what
it
is.”
“Neutering, of course,” replied Kinnear.
“Neutering?”
“They’re going to pay the Vet to cut your nuts off.”
Furgul stared at him for long enough to realize that Kinnear wasn’t joking.
The smirk on Kinnear’s face told him it was true.
“Cut my nuts off?” gasped Furgul. He looked down at them. He licked them twice a day to keep them clean. He was very fond of his nuts. And they were his.
“What if I don’t want all these benefits?” he said.
“Well,
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