Macho Animals …with Artificial Testicles

My friend Sara runs the Prevent a Litter Coalition, an American charity promoting spaying and neutering of pets, to prevent unwanted litters of puppies and kittens being born and (often) abandoned, abused, or euthanized because shelters cannot find good homes for them.

From Sara I learned about Neuticles, fake testicles for neutered pets – so that your gelded male pet can look as macho as ever, even if he acts like a pussy(cat). I find the whole idea ludicrous, but apparently the prospect of a ball-less pet is a psychological barrier to neutering for many pet owners, especially men.

This is probably a factor in the low incidence of neutering of Italian pets. Some parts of Italy, especially Rome, have famously large populations of feral cats. These are fed by “cat ladies,” some of whom are reputed to lure cats with food, capture them, and whisk them off to be neutered (though I doubt that many of these retired ladies could actually afford the cost). This supposed practice is viewed with horror by Italian men, who feel an all-too-keen vicarious sympathy with the ex-tom cats. (These are the same men who superstitiously touch their own testicles when they see a nun, to ward off bad luck; I suppose a woman who can do without men is a symbolic threat to all manhood.)

A few years ago, one of the biggest celebrities in Italy was Varenne, a champion trotting horse. His exploits on the track endeared him to many Italians who knew little about horses or racing. They were sorry to see him retire to the stud farm at age seven, but contented themselves with imagining their idol happily ensconced in a harem of mares.

Unfortunately, that’s not how it works for champion studs. The fans were dismayed to learn that Varenne would not have any actual contact with mares; like many stud stallions, he mounts a dummy, from which his sperm is collected and divided up, each dose thus being stretched to inseminate up to ten mares (if I remember correctly), at a cost of 60,000 euros each.

There was a popular uproar about Varenne’s dismal fate. After all those years of thrilling the public, surely he deserved a few real thrills himself? Varenne’s owner conceded that the stallion could have a companion mare, with whom he would actually be allowed to have sex from time to time. But the owner soon backpedaled, claiming that it would be dangerous for a stallion accustomed to the dummy to mate with a real mare: either or both of the parties might get hurt. The more likely pain would have been to the owner’s bankroll: each of Varenne’s authentic sexual experiences would have cost 600,000 euros – no horse’s sex life is worth that much, even in Italy.

Italian Law and Naming Your Baby

above: “What were they thinking?” department: This monument to those fallen in WWI in the Lake Como town of Gravedona shows someone whose parents named him “Troppotardi” – “too late”.

An article in Il Corriere della Sera points out that Italian law aims to prevent children being given “ridiculous, shameful, or embarrassing” names by their parents.

The official whose job it is to decide these things (the Public Prosecutor of the Commune where the birth is registered) sometimes has to sort out perplexing problems, such as whether to allow an Italian child to be given an American name taken from a soap opera. Good question. The other day I heard a mother in Lecco calling her small daughter Karen. She pronounced it CAHR-en – not ugly, but strange-sounding to both English and Italian speakers.

The article also mentions that it is illegal to give masculine names to females and vice-versa, which has stymied some parents who wanted to name their daughters Andrea. Pronounced an-DRAY-uh in Italian, it’s a masculine name, the equivalent of Andrew. In English it’s pronounced ANN-dree-uh, and is feminine.

An Italian colleague who moved to California discovered just how much trouble this can cause. He made a health insurance claim for a decidedly male complaint. When the check didn’t arrive, he called the insurance company to inquire. “This is obviously a fraudulent claim,” they told him nastily. “How can someone named ANN-drea have a prostate problem?”

Secondary Sex Characteristics

Enrico just came back from his US trip with a copy of Playboy magazine. Not something he normally buys, but this issue features Charisma Carpenter, a long-time favorite from Buffy and “Angel,” more or less in the altogether.

The last time I saw the inside of a Playboy was over 20 years ago – back in the days when women had pubic hair. My dad used to have Playboy and Penthouse around the house, and let me look at them. I read them for the articles – doesn’t everybody? <grin> Actually, I mostly read them for the jokes and cartoons, but of course I couldn’t help noticing the naked women.

My early exposure to nekkid pictures never did me any harm that I could tell, but I did conclude that I would never be shown naked in one of those magazines. Not because I had strong feelings against it, but because I didn’t have enough hair (on my head). All those women had thick, shiny manes, wavy or curly, heavy and rich. My own hair is thin, fine, straight, and limp. No matter my figure, I’d never be a Playmate.

Commuting Culture Clashes in Italy

On the train from Lecco to Milan the other day, the conductor came down the car, as they usually do, to check tickets. A Spanish-accented woman in the seat in front of me had a generic (distance) ticket, but had not stamped it at the station before getting onto the train, as you are required to do with all tickets. She told the conductor that she had been late and had to rush to get onto the train, and hadn’t had time to stamp it. There are two legal solutions to that problem. One is to seek out the conductor as soon as you get on and ask him to stamp it for you, the other is to write the departure station, date, and time on the ticket yourself. She had done neither. Had the conductor not come around (sometimes they don’t), she could have saved it for another journey, as perhaps she planned to do.

At first I thought the conductor was unnecessarily rude to her. “Pay 5 euros to ‘regularize’ this ticket right here and now,” he said brusquely. Which sounded odd to me; did he mean: “Pay me 5 euros to leave you alone, and we’ll both avoid the hassle of me having to write up a fine” ? But the woman vociferously refused, continuing to complain that she had a ticket, she simply hadn’t had time to stamp it. “You can pay 5 euros, or you can pay 20.46 euros as a fine,” he snapped. “Show me your ID.” (Which he would need to write up the fine.) She refused to do that, either, and was both whiny and abusive about it. “The fine is 70 euros!” he shouted. “You’re refusing to show your ID. Do you want me to call the police?”

We pulled into a station just then, and the conductor used his cellphone to call the local railway police. He may have been faking it, but his “conversation” persuaded the woman to leap off the train. She then stood on the platform complaining loudly to someone who happened to be standing there about how badly she’d been treated.

I was in two minds about this. I disliked the conductor’s manners and attitude, but I had witnessed a very similar scene just a few days before, possibly with the same conductor, and I couldn’t blame him for being tired of the flimsy excuses and bad attitude he was having to deal with. It was clear that each party went away with its own pre-conceived notions firmly embedded: “Lousy, stinking immigrants, they’re all liars and thieves,” on the one hand. “Nasty, overbearing Italians, they pick on us just because we’re immigrants,” on the other. Both sides are right. Both sides are wrong. <sigh>

Rossella and Hamish: A Love Story

^ above: “Jump? What jump? I don’t see any jump.”

video shot August 14, 2004

music copright Patrick Doyle; buy it here

May 25, 2004

“Okay, I see it. But I ain’t jumping it!”

“Whoa, did I jump that?”

“Well, might as well do this one, too.”

“And this one…”

“…and this one and this one and this one…”

girls who love horses | home for a horse

Deirdré Straughan on Italy, India, the Internet, the world, and now Australia