Spring is in the air, that fecund season when a young dog's imagination turns to thoughts of love, inspiring his master to ponder the question of Gus's sexuality. I admit it's a controversial topic. In my first column, for referring to Gus as a "spayed" male I received a correction from an alert reader to the effect that "spayed" refers to bitches and that the correct term for males is "neutered." (What a cruel terminology for the sexuality of dogs. These people need sensitivity training.) Similarly I am bound to hear from some Trappist monk under the illusion that only bitches go into heat.

In both cases I beg to differ.

Having known Gus several months now, I say to you that he is anything but neuter. The dog is all man; indeed, if the procedure has had any effect on Gus's heterosexuality, it has been to expand its horizon -- to members of the opposite sex of whatever species.

For example: We are cruising the park in the long light of a winter afternoon. I'm tossing the kong or catapulting a tennis ball, which Gus joyously fetches and drops at my feet (he loves an errand) -- until there's a woman in sight.

She can be way across the field, on the sidewalk, doesn't matter: like the groom's chess partner I am instantly forgotten as "my" dog tears off in her direction to plop our toy at her feet. Then the upward tilt of the amber eyes, the lopsided, boyish grin, the extended tongue, velvety and pink, the small squeak of pleasure -- and she is his. "What a nice dog," she says without so much as a glance in my direction. "What's his name?"

Resentfully I bend down at her feet to collect my spit-slick sphere, knowing that she will get the next throw, and the one after that. "Gus," I reply, flushed with pride and envy as he is treated to a sensuous scratch behind the ears: pride because Gus is my associate; envy because no woman on this sidewalk is going to scratch his associate behind the ear and say what a nice fellow he is. Suddenly I feel like the college nerd with the handsome roommate who plays varsity.

Having repeatedly witnessed Gus in action I find that, rather than "neutered," a more appropriate description is the popular euphemism "fixed" -- not in the sense of "fixed for good" but in the sense of repaired or improved. No longer must Gus endure that horrifying transformation into a walking erection, a blundering mass of bewilderment, urgently humping inappropriate sex objects like a drunk assistant manager at the office party. Thanks to surgical enhancement, Gus has left the singles bar forever. His sexuality has transformed into a more diffuse, less possessive, more all-embracing sensuality, an openhearted willingness to rub up against the whole wide world and give its face a good lick.

Bear with me. I would be the latest person to recommend a trip to the vet for those of us in the human species (although for some of us it might be a good idea). But it occurs to me that men have something to learn from Gus -- especially those of us who find ourselves playing the final season of this situation comedy called Life.

If you will excuse the human potential term, it behooves the middle-aged male to adopt a less goal-oriented stance in his sexual behaviour. There comes a time when it is not appropriate to pursue copulation per se, in the manner of unfixed dogs; a time when to do so makes you the office embarrassment -- compulsive, humourless, entirely lacking in dignity, ashamed the next morning, like bumbling St. Bernards with capped teeth, silver ponytails and a vial of Viagra tucked under the chin.

To paraphrase Tom Marquis: Be beautiful, boss, and let mastiffs be macho -- good advice from your furry friend Gus.

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