Posted on 06/17/2003 7:04:09 AM PDT by Squawk 8888
Licence to marry my sheepdog not so easy to come by at City Hall
PRO BONE: As some may recall, I married my sheepdog in a January 2001 column. Dog, man or woman, we each never found anybody we like as much. Lovely wedding. Reception in the creek. It couldn't be better. Thanks for asking.
But back in those dark, old dog days, a guy-mutt hookup wasn't Official.
Sure, we were life partners. But where was the Marriage Licence? Thanks to our forward-looking Ontario Court of Appeal, our union can now be legally recognized. Sanctioned. Acknowledged.
"That line over there," says the City Hall security guard, when I go to get the licence. It's a long one. Not unexpectedly, most of the line is in pairs. Guy-girl. Girl-girl. Guy-guy.
"I think you need your life partner with you," suggests Holly, holding hands with a smiling, middle-aged woman named Nancy. "You know, to sign and everything." They're ahead of me in line and notice I'm solo.
"My buddy can't hold a pen," I alibi. "He's writing-challenged. And besides, they won't let him in the building. I had to put him back in the car."
"Excuse me," says Brad, a man with a goatee. "Did I hear you say they won't let your partner come inside? Sweet mercy, how long must we bow before petty tyrants? Go get him! I'm a lawyer. Stand up for your rights! I'll handle your case pro-bono."
"It would be more like pro-bone," I nod. "He's a dog. A wonderful dog. We've been together for years."
Brad looks puzzled. Gus, the twit he's with, snickers.
"Hey!" I bark. "You got a problem? Me and my dog just want what everybody wants: Warmth, a good heart and a paw to hold. Trust and faithfulness. Meaty Bones and commitment. Now we want the licence, the municipal dippety-do paperwork."
"No offence," says Gus, suddenly sheepish. "I thought you were kidding."
"I wouldn't kid about my dog, pal," I grump. "We're simpatico, connected, soulmates. We've both had our shots, got birth and kennel club certificates. Whose business is it if we get another piece of paper or not? I'm not rubbin' anybody else's nose in our life, am I?"
"I'm sorry," he says. "You're right. This is 2003. Times are a'changing."
"The man-dog thing can be beautiful," agrees Brad. "Just look at Streisand and what's-his-name. Hillary and Bill. J-Lo and Ben."
"What's your dog's name?" asks Nancy.
"Oh," I tell her. "Like the letter that comes after 'N' ..."
"Male or female?" asks Gus.
"Male," I nod. "All my sheep-dogs have been male."
"Oh!" grins Gus, exchanging a knowing wink with Brad. He totally got the wrong idea, okay? It's not like that.
"I haven't read the ruling," admits Holly, "but I just assumed that if marriage rights extend beyond traditional heterosexual couples, the appeals court was talking about human beings. Common-law relationships ..."
"Am I not in a totally committed relationship?" I ask her. "Do my dog and I not have a comprehensive pre-nup? No catting around on each other? Separate dinner dishes? His own RSP? No good-looking visitors after midnight? No haggling over bones? Sounds like marriage to me."
"Excuse me," says the woman in line behind me. "Does the appeals court ruling only extend to living things? Can't you marry anything you sleep with? Am I wrong on that?"
We all look at the shoe box she's holding.
"Manolo Blahnik pumps," she says, reddening. "I bought them two years ago. They're my favourites. I love them. Truly, deeply, madly."
"My," says Brad, pulling a flimsy piece of footwear from the box. "I don't blame you."
"Hooker heels," snickers Gus. I hate that guy.
"You can't marry a shoe," sneers a sullen guy who looks like he'd kill to be anywhere else. "Marriage is a sacred event. It's in the Bible, the Koran. The Charter of Rights does not guarantee that you can marry your dog or your shoes. Or anybody but a member of the opposite sex."
"Is there licking involved?" asks a matronly sort. "Because that's disgusting. Only a man and a woman should be allowed to do that."
"Have you ever lived with a dog, ma'am?" I ask. "Licking is definitely part of it. Okay, sometimes we touch noses, too. But who asked you to watch?"
"I'll come back later," says the woman with the shoes, squirming towards the door.
"The man with the dog hookup is a wingnut," says an older gent towards the rear. "Nobody would ever try to marry a cat. Beat it, wingnut."
I left before things got ugly.
You can't reason with bigots.
Not that there's anything wrong with that . . . .
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