It was a hot, dusty day. (I understand it is always hot and dusty on Cowboy country). The clerk looked up as a cowboy, complete with boots, stetson, neckcloth and chaps strode into the office. The clerk greeted and asked what service the cowboy required. 

He answered: "Well, howdy, you'all there. Now, I wish to apply for a marriage licence."

The clerk took a file from a shelf, opened and looked up, noting that there is no intended present. "So, with whom would you wish to get married?"

The cowboy slapped some imaginary dust from his trousers, and said: "I want to marry my horse."

"You can't do that!" The clerk had seen much, but this was a new one.

"And why not? These days men marry men, women marry women, kids identify as cats, why can I not get hitched to the only true, dependable and faithful partner I know?"

The clerk looked around for help. The instructions in the file gave no inspiration. But wait: "May I ask how old your horse is?"

The cowboy answered straightaway: "She is all of seven years old. No giddy filly, just the right age to know all her failings and good points."

The clerk closed the folder with decision. "Well, at that age you will have to bring me the written permission of both parents."

A girl from a very conservative family of my acquaintance announced, some time ago, that she was getting married to another woman. It caused some consternation, some whispered gossip in many circles of our acquaintance.

And when the couple attended an extended family event tongues wagged. The most telling comment came from a not-so-young gentleman: "Well, all I can say is that my niece has good taste in women!"

Another discussion in another jurisdiction revolved around a friend, a professional woman of considerable means, having had to show her marriage certificate to be able to buy a new car. Someone with knowledge of officialdom explained: It is to make sure the purchase does not involve drug money. So if her husband brought a few young people into the household, to help with the dishes, linen and other household chores, it would not be an issue if he bought them cars with drug money?

Which of course opens the next issue, regarding what we identify as. Now I like cats, do not misunderstand me. But I often wonder if my dogs do not have a better grasp of life than most people I know. They trained me and the other people around them well, and the most urgent priorities are to remember where the toy was dropped last, and whether the insurrectionist lizard has escaped from the pile of firewood. 

People change, people form new characters, associations, friendships and orientations.

Do we need official labels?

But cats...