If only my man were an animal…

Men are better men when they are animals. Don’t believe that? Read on

It’s a man’s world—but not so in the animal kingdom. This is my grouse: If one has to be a woman, you should be an animal. No, no, I think I have put this wrong, men are better as animals. There I go again—I can almost hear the women think: What are you fretting about, men are animals. Trust me, ladies, men are not animals. In the heat of passion, and angst and betrayal, do not call that infidel creep an animal. The male animal is wow. Well, and truly wow. Let’s begin with the physical—don’t get intellectual, and new age, and tell me the physical doesn’t matter. I mean, wouldn’t you choose a John Abraham over a Rajpal Yadav(no offence, no offence) or a Tom Hanks over a Jay Leno….(no offence again) right? Look at the male of the species across the animal kingdom, Homo Sapiens excluded: It is the men who glitter and dazzle, minus all the pain and the paint the female human must go through. Let’s start with the Lion King—it is lion whose face is framed by a glorious mane, it is the tusker bestowed with a gleaming white tusk, and it is the stag among the deer whose head wears a crown.
I baulk at mentioning the avian society—so telling is the contrast between the X and the Y factor. The cock is such a grand being, blessed with vivid colours, the hen a dowdy, dreary thing—but for all that she rules the roost. Look, just look at the peacock—with his sapphire blue neck and a brilliantly hued tail that he spreads wide, swaggering impressively before the drabbest creature you ever saw. And she isn’t even bothered, barely giving him a glance as she continues to peck for worms and such like in the mud. Legend says that she doesn’t give him the time of the day, and the magnificent male sheds copious tears from which spring the young. This, of course, is not backed by science, but well, it suits the story to a Tee.
My heart bleeds too when I think of the times I have had to drag the man of my life kicking, or rather shuffling and screaming to the dance floor. Yours would too, if you had seen the male Sarus crane (or any other crane species for that matter) courting; the male, pursuing the female ardently, dancing with rhythm and grace around its mate. He bows, circles his wings, throws his crimson head back—his bugling call filling the air as he cajoles her to set up nest with him. Eat your heart out, women, this one pairs for life…pining away—not jumping on the next available bed err, bird-when his mate dies…
The sunbird is an ardent lover too, thrusting its tiny little body into the air in all manner of acrobatics, darting from flower from flower and tree to tree, wooing its mate with passion, singing sweet little ditties. There are risks too in this game, for his brilliant display may or may not charm his prospective bride, but it may attract the attention of a predator on the lookout for prey. It don’t matter. He is a fool in love.
It is the weaver bird which takes the cake, though. He looks suitably handsome dressed in a yellow coat with black tie, and I could write paeans about his work of art—weaving and shaping from leave and twig and grass a beautiful nest that look not unlike inverted a wine glass. He is quite the perfect gentleman, true to his love, toiling incessantly over his hearth, and building another..and another till it meets with his lady’s approval. In case he fails to satisfy Her Majesty, she simply moves on, to the next suitor.
My final word on the superiority of the beastly babe is the giant wood spider, or most spiders for that matter. She is the proverbial Black Widow, or the ultimate femme fatale; and those who are sucked in her web of desire, must pay with their life. She doesn’t have just one, no sir, you can see her, the Queen Bee at the centre, a huge creature while three or four diminutive males hover around, toward her, toward death. They meet, they mate—and then she devours them. The male, a mere disposable sperm. Think about it, mate.