If you take my private parts I'll eat your table

"The thing is," Bertie told me, this morning.  "The thing is that there are eight of you girls for me to look after here.  And you've taken my wedding tackle.  How can I be alpha without my wedding tackle?"
I explained to him that he didn't need his wedding tackle anymore.  And it wasn't me that had taken it - it was the lovely people at Dogs' Trust.  They suspected that, given his life roaming the backstreets of Brum, he may already have done his bit to populate the area with funny little mongrels with huge heads and long bodies.  Furthermore, there were a number of candidates for the role of Alpha here.  Notably Delia, who keeps everyone in order. 
Bertie made sad ears so I gave him an egg to take his mind off his missing bits.

Interestingly, Spanish men call their tender parts 'huevos' - eggs.  This conjures up a picture of something fragile, precious and delicate.  In the UK they're 'balls,' to be handled, kicked, played with and shared.  I'm sure there's something profound about national character that I should draw from this...

So did Bertie eat the coffee table to vent his feelings about his missing parts?  Or was it to get at the Kong stuffed with liver paste that had wedged itself underneath?  He might tell me one day.