We certainly don’t have anything against dykes on bikes. Hey, they’re hot, they’re cool and whoa, are they ever sexy. But do they deserve to lead the Pride Parade every year? We know we will receive no end of flak about this because it’s an institution right across North America for dykes on bikes to lead Pride parades. But queers are known for challenging institutions and it’s time for a change. As the crowds line the avenues this August, craning their necks for that first glimpse of queer magnificence, we want them to be rewarded by that truly representative feature of our community: dykes with dogs and faggots with frufrus!
They say that if you’re really good in this life you get to come back as a dyke’s dog. We think we’re really lucky to be dykes with dogs. We dedicate this column to Ann’s beloved dog Charlie who recently passed away after 14 years of heaven.
But hey, don’t let us sway you about the Parade configuration for sentimental reasons. Instead, we urge you to join us in examining the facts about queers and canines. Our central finding is this: our dogs loved us before queer was cool and they continue to love us whether anyone else does or not. Beat that, biker-lesbos!
Vancouver’s two queer neighbourhoods seem to take different approaches to pets. Humans seem to have two theories on their dogs-they need big yards and so should live in the Commercial Drive area or they need daily runs on the beach and so should live in the West End. But as anyone who has looked for an apartment in the West End knows, virtually all building managers say No Pets. So where do all those dogs live? Like queers, dogs have often had to hide their true identities, pretending to be people in fur coats. Say, isn’t that hot little number in the leather jacket actually a dog? Around Commercial Drive, dogs lead a more open life, waltzing unaccompanied down the sunny streets in search of food-that-dropped-from-some-schmuck’s plate.
Bubba has always wanted to produce a series of calendars called Dogs of Tahiti, Dogs of Italy, etc, a clever plan that would enable her to travel the globe seeking the illustrious and downtrodden canines everywhere. In her research so far, it seems that dogs are not the same everywhere, and yet, certain patterns recur. For example, lesbian and gay dogs, while often subject to social prejudice, are largely happier and better groomed than straight dogs. It is less common for perfectly nice, albeit much maligned breeds of dog (rotweillers, pit bulls, and whatever happens to be the macho dog of the year), to be transformed into the violent alter- egos of their owners when in queer hands. Indeed, gay dogs are much more likely to be boy-magnets-the silly bows in their hair draw men to each other in anticipation of fabulous conversations about interior décor-and lesbian dogs are goddesses and eunuch boy-consorts who can do no wrong.
One dyke said to us: “Sometimes I wish more than anything that my dog could talk. But then I think about it seriously and thank my higher power that she can’t. She’s seen everything and one of the wonderful things about her is that she doesn’t share my secrets with anyone.”
The real reason we propose dykes with dogs and faggots with frufrus as the opening to this year’s Pride Parade is that, for lesbians, it’s hard to get a date without a dog. Face it, biker chicks, that’s just how it is. Gleaming chrome and leather pants are hot, but the dog is the way to the dyke. Simply spend some time at Trout Lake Park in the Eastside and you’ll know exactly what we mean.
One woman reported falling in love as an after-effect of becoming smitten with the woman’s dog. Things ended badly but the superhero of the lesbian community-the dog-was there to ease the pain. No heartbreak is so great that the love of a good dog can’t provide comfort and ultimately, as you walk around Trout Lake, an opportunity to meet someone new and better than the woman who broke your heart by sleeping with your best friend!
On to the fags with their frufrus. Dykes may have some difficulty relating to those iddy biddy things that yip yip yip. But like their owners, these little puff balls suffer unwarranted attacks on their masculinity. Just the other day, Bubba saw a rather unpleasant looking straight guy walk up to a queen and his miniature poodle and say, “What’s wrong with you guys? Why don’t you get real dogs?” It was the little “puffball” who provided the strongest retort in defense of his queen: the little yipper leapt up and bit the guy, quite close to his you-know-what! It’s time for queer canines to get up off the sidewalks and lead us through the streets! What the Fuck!
* For our next column, we ask you: What if television was all queer and the hets had a specialty channel? What would your favourite show be?