Short Stories

Proposition Puppy

If you heard about me from others, you’d think I was a contradiction. For starters, my name is Setter, but I’m a golden retriever. And I don’t actually do much retrieving either—unless one counts chasing down a ball in the backyard. There’s a story about my fondness for chasing balls, and another about my odd name, but let’s start out with the greatest contradiction. I’d very much like a canine companion in my family’s one-dog home, and yet, I’d go to no end to preserve the essential humanness of our household.

At the risk of revealing my so-recent naivete, I never anticipated a problem with a second dog in the house. Of course, I knew that I might not get along with some particular dog. Everyone has his idiosyncracies, and some pairings spell trouble. For instance, a reticent barker like me wouldn’t want the company of a yapper who exercises his vocal cords every time the UPS truck blows exhaust through its undersized muffler.

As you might guess from my very broach of the subject, I have indeed endured the company of such a faux guard dog who barks at every novel noise and visitor before evaluating its actual threat potential. And as you might further guess, our pairing as the household pets spelled trouble. Now, with two correct guesses, you might contemplate a third— perhaps wondering if said dog’s inappropriate barking constituted the greater part of our disordered relationship. If so, please hold that bet while I relate a more detailed account of our unpleasant months together.

It started with a trip to the animal shelter. Yes, the animal shelter, not a dog breeder. You see, “Princess,” the younger of our household’s two daughters, had yet to complete her community service requirement for high school. Not being one to cook, load the dishwasher, or fix her own room, she had naturally enough shied away from performing menial tasks on behalf of strangers. So she put off her community service until the last semester of high school. With graduation hopefully looming for all his college-bound seniors, the principal called to explain the school’s requirements for said graduation.

The community service requirement was not a new concept, but even a short account of its remarkable history would take a story in itself, so I’ll defer that for a later tale. Suffice it to say that the current requirement could be satisfied without requiring any student to go within a mile of Section 8 housing or interact with any refugees.

Addressing the personal safety issues of the previous policy assuaged the parents, but it still left a few students who contemplated a more patrician existence wherein one is held safe from work itself. Ever the administrator tending his graduation statistics, the principal saw no reason to pull rank on those called to a life of laziness. If work triggered some of his students, then surely those students deserved an opportunity to serve their community without actually doing any work.

As it happened, the principal sat on the board of the local chapter of Paws for Pals. Animal shelters had no choice but to euthanize their many unadopted strays, and Paws for Pals made it their mission to spare the strays by encouraging adoption. The principal considered this a service to the community, and he offered credit to those students who volunteered in Paws for Pals semi-annual adoption drive.

Unfortunately, hanging posters, manning a phone bank, and mailing solicitation letters constituted work. And that was nothing compared to volunteering at the animal shelter itself. So the principal came up with something else— simply adopt a pet. After all, if encouraging pet adoption served the community, actually adopting a pet counted as well. Accordingly, Princess dragged Mom and Dad off to the animal shelter so that they could be rid of her come August.

Left behind in April’s rush to folly was any thought of my participation in the selection process. You’d think the current occupant of the family room mat would have a growl in the matter, but after the principal’s call, they left without so much as a mention of a new dog’s compatibility with their beloved pet of six years.

To be honest, I suppose it wouldn’t have made any difference if I had been taken along. There’s probably not one shelter dog in a hundred fit for a life in a decent household. Of course, I’m excluding lost dogs and those who’ve survived their masters. But I would expect the former to be claimed rather than adopted, and the latter may have been troublesome to begin with if none of the master’s neighbors or surviving relatives wanted them. As to the rest of the shelter’s occupants, troublesome is more likely a euphemism than an unflattering description of their temperament.

As to the physical description of the mangy thing they brought home, even my pessimistic anticipation would be flattering. I don’t know all my breeds, but I’ll make an educated guess that this thing was no breed at all, just an ugly mutt who inherited the worst characteristics of several.

He was the size of a cocker spaniel and had the long, hair-covered ears of that breed. Long ears are fine, and I like them both with the short-hair leatherly look of beagles and the long-hair luxuriant look of my own breed. But the hair on cocker ears tends toward excessive length and tangled curls. An analogy to humans would be that both straight hair and wavy hair with body look good, but excessively curled, tangled hair does not.

Now, with cocker ears, you’d think you’d get a cocker face. About half the cockers have a sweet face, so at least that’s something to bet on. But no, sewer sire or back-alley momma or someone up the line must have been a bulldog because this one had a smashed-in face with wide-set eyes.

The only good thing I can say about his looks is that he drips water nicely. When they came back from the shelter, Dad had told Princess to give the new dog a flea bath in the driveway. Since Dad hadn’t specifically used the word shampoo, Princess took the easy route and attached the yard-control flea killer to the garden hose. It was a sight to behold as Princess tried to establish right up front that she was the irresponsible alpha of the household.

But never discount a shelter dog. They wind up in shelters because they won’t conform to the standards of ordinary canine behavior. After Princess had finished spraying the dog from one side of the wash tub to the other, she untied him from the lift handle on the tub’s side. Then he scampered into the garage and through the open laundry room door—without even expending the effort to shake the water off his moppy hide!

A few moments of sinking his wet paws into the dining room carpet brought Mom from the kitchen shrieking, “Get out of here!” She tried to shoo him back towards the laundry room, but he ignored her frenzied hand swinging and scampered toward the family room.

Being new to the house, it took him a moment to orient himself in the family room. Then he quickly discovered that the area rug made as nice a bath mat as the living room carpet. But with Mom hot on his tail, he discovered that it too was not a welcome mat.

With the most retarded dog sense I’ve ever encountered, he finally spotted me and headed my way. By this time, I had put up stakes on my mat in the back corner of the family room. I knew we’d have a moment, and now was as good as later. I let him come up close enough for a sniff, and then I let him know he was never going to set his paws on my mat.

I have a growl that humans can’t hear, and I employ it when I can’t risk a human knowing that I’m conducting serious business. But with Mom upset about water on her carpet and floors, I saw no reason for discretion, and our shelter dog learned that any warning from me would be backed up with a lot more than Mom’s frenzied hand swinging.

Having understood the nature of my reception, he turned and accepted Mom’s herding back into the laundry room. Once inside, Mom closed the door and firmly messaged the garage environs that Princess better get in and dry her dog or it was going back before that day’s close of business.

Dad apparently heard the commotion and came up from his basement office. Mom informed him of the developments and tossed a towel his way. “That dog’s trying to make our carpets match his ugliness. And he wouldn’t even listen to me until Setter growled at him.”

Dad knelt at the opposite end of the dining room and started blotting the carpet. Without looking up from her own blotting, Mom said, “He got the area rug and the hardwood floor in the family room too. How could there be so much water?”

Of course, I knew the answer to that question, but apparently humans can’t spot an unshaken coat when they see it. Or maybe they just can’t process the thought of a dog being too undomesticated to shake the excess water off his coat before coming into the house.

To be fair to my human family, I myself wouldn’t have been able to process such a thought until this dog showed up. And I’ve only figured it out now because my family has paved the way for such an understanding by their own understanding of the incompatibilities among humans.

Perhaps neither of those understandings is presently concerning you as much as understanding my comprehension of human conversations. If such be the case, let me satisfy your curiosity.

It started during one of Grandma’s many visits. The family had lunched in the dining room, and after the dishes were cleared, they headed into the living room. At the time, I was a puppy about to enter my adolescence. I had already been trained to stay out of the dining room during meals, but I was always welcome in the living room, so I eagerly joined my human family when they sat down.

As usual, I went in there expecting only the companionship afforded a cherished pet living in a loving human household. Mom and Dad sat together on the sofa, and Grandma tucked herself into the leather wingback chair she prefers. Though Dad is not quite the master one might expect of the male, I nonetheless identify him as my pack leader, so I sat at his feet as I usually do in such environments.

On this particular afternoon, Dad wore a pair of casual shoes with suede uppers made from pigskin. I know pigskin sounds awfully tough, and I guess it is, but sueded pigskin is remarkably soft and smooth to the touch. I happened to discover as much when my whiskered cheeks incidentally brushed against Dad’s shoes.

One brush of that wonderful texture naturally called for another, and then I decided to rest my chin on Dad’s shoe top. I neither expected nor received any reprimand for this forward behavior. Instead, Dad leaned forward and stroked the top of my head. This was consistent with his normal behavior when I snuggle up in the living room, but with one difference.

Because my chin rested on his shoe, and he chose not to move his foot, he had to contort himself to reach down to pet my head. The resulting mild stress from his contorted position transferred to his petting motion. While not rough, his petting stokes pressed downward with more force than normal. You might say he was heavy-handed in a literal sense.

The greater pressure applied during the petting strokes slightly pulled the skin on the top of my head, and this in turn tugged my ears ever so slightly. As you know, a golden retriever has pendant ears which fold over the ear opening. With movement, fold-over ears flop around, and the flow of sound waves into the ear opening slightly modulates. Normally, this is of no consequence to a retriever’s hearing and probably resembles what a human wearing a loosely hooded sweatshirt experiences with his hearing.

However, on this afternoon, the slight modulation of sound waves was coupled with affectionate petting. In fact, it was caused by the petting, and as I felt the gentle disturbance of my fur, I heard the modulated voices of my family.

Based on what I have subsequently learned, I’d say I initially experienced what a man might at a barbershop as the barber presses a comb against the side of a man’s head near his ears to lift the hair as his scissors clip it to length. Repeated gentle stroking of the hair coupled with the clip, clip, clip of the scissors. Men have described it as so relaxing, they almost enter a trance.

Of course, I’m not sure of the human experience, but my own was indeed trance-like. There I lay with my head on Dad’s shoe, feeling the soft suede underneath and the massaging petting strokes on top. Endorphins pumped through me from the combination of physical contact and emotional bonding. In this state of both heightened sensitivity and dreamlike indifference, as my earfolds were intermittently tugged into sound-modifying positions, single human words wisped into my ears and mysteriously activated the voice recognition center of my brain.

As my ears were indirectly tugged, I intermittently heard single words I may have never heard before, yet I immediately understood their meaning. These were not the simple words of command normally directed to a dog, but words such as home and family and outsiders and safety. These and other words sifted through my brain, overwhelming my consciousness with concepts a dog instinctively understands but never associates with the many jumbled sounds of human speech.

On the first afternoon of my awakening to human speech, I only absorbed single words. But Grandma— being both a widow and the family babysitter— was a regular at the house, and conversations in the living room were almost as regular as her visits. And with each of those conversations, I was introduced to more and more words until one day they finally congealed into sentences.

As I mentioned earlier, these living room sessions had so perfectly blended the physical and emotional aspects of human contact with the modulated sounds of their speech that I entered a trance-like state. One by one, and then by the dozens, mesmerizing words wisped into my ears and into my consciousness. And then, one afternoon, by chance or mere exhaustion of subjects, their conversation turned to me.

Of course, every dog knows his name, but I’d just heard mine in a trance-like state of absorbing new human words. Instead of alerting for a simple dog command or a moment of praise, my mind opened to a new reality. As the endorphins of human bonding flowed through my body, the mysteries of human speech flowed through my brain. As if in a psychedelic world, I— a dog— heard sentences and followed conversations!

Grandma had referred to me by name. Rather than addressing me, she spoke about me, and I— mysteriously or miraculously— was swept into the conversation as a silent participant. No longer just the dog bonding through the physical stimulation of petting, I was now the loyal, silent companion eager to understand whatever concerned my human family.

When my mind first opened to this new reality, they were talking about my breeding. I learned that golden retrievers were bred both for their field ability and their loving disposition. We didn’t become loving, easy going house pets by chance or by peculiar training, but by the genes bred into us.

Grandma said that genetics had created similar differences among humans. But instead of this occurring intentionally and over a span of decades, it had occurred as a result of geographic separation over the course of millennia. And that was why human races could not be mixed with the expectation of compatibility. Their genes disposed them to behaving differently and to creating different civilizations.

During the early months of my awakening to human conversations, Grandma often talked about France. She said France was being overrun by invaders, and parts of Paris were not even open to actual Frenchmen. Despite both the topic and human conversation itself being new to me, I immediately understood her concern as it integrated with those first words I comprehended— home, family, outsiders, and safety. All dogs understand those concepts without need for the words, but now that I had the words, I realized that humans can be taught to ignore them. Remarkably, humans can degrade their civilization to live below the level of dogs!

The destruction of French society was inevitable, Grandma said, and the immigrant invasion was not by chance. During her college year there in the 1960s, French culture had already been captured by cosmopolitan anti-French forces. The difference was that they didn’t openly declare themselves as anti-French. Instead they promoted degeneracy as a mark of intelligence and sexual deviance as a mark of sophistication, and then claimed the degeneracy and deviance as indicators of French superiority.

With respect for common sense abandoned, the cosmopolitans had full rein to re-characterize Frenchness as anything they wanted, and it turned out they wanted the massive invasion of non-Whites. With that, France became a country for the non-French, a country not for its own race but for those whom the ruling cosmopolitans would bring in to replace them.

Mom, being Grandma’s daughter, had grown up with her lectures about the French elite using degeneracy to destroy the French nation. As raptly listening to many human conversations over these last years has taught me, children of opinionated parents either rebel or double down on their parents’ beliefs. Mom had followed the latter script. She accepted Grandma’s French analysis and proffered her own American analysis.

America had been given the magnificent Statue of Liberty by France. Cosmopolitans promptly subverted its symbolism by branding it with the poetry of Emma Lazarus. Her sonnet The New Colossus proposed a new nation. Instead of Liberty enlightening the world, it became cosmopolitans inviting the world. America was no longer to be a land for the American nation itself, but for whatever tired, poor, huddled masses the cosmopolitans could bring in to replace the American people.

Sitting there as a dog absorbing these many conversations, I was amazed at the complex relationships humans had devised for themselves. I, of course, was thrilled that they had taken my species and bred my own line, and now I was the beneficiary who could live in a wonderful human household serving their instincts for loyalty, companionship, and beauty. But I was baffled that the very species that bred mine for such traits could so blindly destroy its own.

Of course, it was clear that anti-White forces promoted the destruction. What had been evident in France and America at the time of my aural transformation eventually appeared in every White country. Now, nearly every White country trended for demographic replacement, and every one of those countries was ruled by an elite which punished Whites for objecting to their replacement.

Dad’s own reticence cast some light on the matter. Every time Mom spoke of cucks, Dad reminded her that he’d lose his job if it became known he shared her opinions. My own instincts allow me to appreciate the human role of breadwinner, so I understand the occupational pressure elites apply to their White populations. However, the elites intend to exterminate their White nations, and my canine instincts could not abide meekly surrendering my pack’s survival.

Once again, I must ponder if White civilization has degraded below normative canine sensibilities. Perhaps, as Grandma observed, those who’d lead a race to self-destruction first destroy its morality by casting deviance and degeneracy as indicators of superiority. The resulting hedonists then rationalize their own material satisfaction as superior to generational survival.

As I observed, Grandma’s wisdom had passed to her daughter. Mom, in turn, had favorably molded her elder daughter Gwen who had now grown up and worked as a medical technician. When Gwen visited, three generations harmonized as she recounted tales of refugees and second-generation immigrants who repaid the kindness of taxpayer supported healthcare with physical assaults on their naive caregivers.

Ah, but then, there’s Princess. Her name’s actually Melissa, but Dad’s fond of the royal moniker— I think originally as a way of doting on her, but now more in resignation of the somewhat spoiled and irresponsible child he’s stuck with. Well, stuck with until she ships off for college in August. And, as I mentioned in the beginning, that’s how we ended up with her refugee dog.

If naivete properly describes those who can’t see the danger posed by invaders, Princess was merely biding time for her ascension to the throne as Queen Stupidity. She had apparently not only chosen the ugliest dog at the shelter but the one deemed most in need of a special, loving home.

While we do indeed have a loving home, it’s more ordinary than special— being centered on the common pattern of love and loyalty both given to the household dog as well as expected from him. Being receptive to displays of physical affection nicely demonstrates the reciprocal duties. I come to one of our family when I want to be petted, and I come to one of our family when he or she wants to pet me.

Non-reciprocal duties include my requirement to obey common dog commands and to follow the rules of the house. Among the latter, I know that I’m not allowed in the dining room during meals. Another rule which sounds complicated but is actually instinctive for a dog requires treating visitors to the house with the same level of respect the family affords them.

Princess, however, had managed to curse our house with a dog who lacked the normal canine instincts. Instead of treating visitors with the same level of respect shown by the family, “Little Ugly” barked at all of them, the only distinction being his obnoxious loud bark for ordinary visitors, and his nasty snarling bark for those he deemed most vulnerable such as Grandma’s sometime shopping companion. Need one wonder how such a dog wound up in a shelter?

If vocal hostility wasn’t enough, he chewed on the shoes of visitors. And on women’s handbags resting on the carpet beside them as they sat. And on the fingers of any hand dangling off the side of the sofa. When chased out of the living room for such behavior, dear Princess ran to his side with the affection she said would transform him into the perfect little person he was meant to be.

Yes, according to the delusions of Princess, an ugly, ill-tempered mutt who wouldn’t even conform to minimal standards of domesticity was just a little person with fur who only engaged in such minor mischief because he hadn’t been sufficiently showered with love.

Naturally, no one in the family shared the delusions of Princess. But as she became more deluded in her defense of the household decivilizer, she also became more aware of her power to protect her dog. One day, in exasperation at the latest offense followed by Princess’s misplaced sympathy, Mom had unthinkingly betrayed said power by referring to her dog as Melissa’s Diploma. Though I prefer Little Ugly, Mom’s epithet was commonly used by the adult family members among themselves. But when Princess overheard it, she knew they’d never send her dog back to the shelter.

With immunity comes impunity, and intolerable behavior multiplies until the innocent is either broken or develops a spine. Alas, it seemed the former as May brought the pedant rite of passage, and yet no one spoke a word about the dog’s repatriation. The weeks of intolerable behavior dragged on, with the family taking no action except to decide that the pets should enjoy the seasonable weather in the back yard when visitors stopped by.

I like the back yard, and some of my fondest memories are of playing fetch with Gwen when I was a puppy and an adolescent. In fact, I not only fetched, I also learned to catch Gwen’s tennis ball, and I mastered the ricochet catch off the fence— holding the runner at second, as she said.

But the lure of the back yard is self contained. I enjoy it for its own sake, and certainly not for its availability as a place of banishment from family activities. Most especially, I don’t want to spend non-sociable hours out there as the family converses in the living room.

I like the back yard, but I love the living room. There, I once discovered the amazing world of human conversation, and there, I now keep abreast of my family’s concerns— concerns known to me only because of my unique ability to understand speech, but once known, those concerns trigger my instinct for loyalty— something I cannot live without.

My family may have surrendered its will to an expedient solution, but my situation admitted of no compromise. If my family wouldn’t act, then I had to. Nothing was going to keep me out of the living room.

I chose my time. During the third week of June, Princess left for a three-day orientation at Dear Old State. By this time, she had become near impossible in rewarding her dog’s bad behavior with love, and I could only wonder if her return would showcase a full-blown SJW who’d protect to the death anything capable of destroying civilized behavior. I decided not to wait.

Mom had taken to sending us out to the yard when she left the house as she didn’t want to risk any surprises when she returned. Even though it was unfair to treat me the same as Little Ugly, I didn’t mind the outdoor time if no one was around inside. In fact, I grew to like it because it allowed me to observe Little Ugly’s behavior and formulate my plan.

The most important thing I noticed was his consistent response to the sound of the UPS truck. In the house, he always barked at it, and when both the laundry room door and the overhead garage door were open, he tore after it, expertly cutting it off as it curved through the cul de sac.

The back yard was fenced with the front part of the fencing sealing off one side of the front yard and the longer rear stretch running along a moderately busy road with a 45 mph speed limit. The UPS truck didn’t come into our cul de sac every day, but when it did, Little Ugly always ran to the front fencing to bark for the entire time it took to complete the delivery.

The rear passing of the UPS truck was of course much faster than the time spent for a delivery in the cul de sac. However, it occurred every weekday, and whereas Little Ugly may have been shortchanged by nature with a lack of looks and intelligence, and an even worse temperament, he was blessed with excellent hearing. In fact, he routinely heard the approaching UPS truck a full second before I did.

As fortune would have it, the UPS truck had a regular delivery schedule, and its passing on the busy road behind us coincided with Mom’s shopping schedule. Accordingly, I spent the better part of a month observing Little Ugly race to the back fence and chase along it while barking at the unseen passing truck. Since I had previously observed Little Ugly tearing after it in the cul de sac, I could make an educated guess what he would do if not for the fence.

Fence work, of course, is well beyond the capabilities of a pawed creature. But opening gates is another matter. With sufficient motivation, most big dogs can handle the typical latch on a gate, and I don’t think I need to further impress you with my motivation.

It came down to timing. I wanted to give Little Ugly his freedom beyond the gate just as the UPS truck approached. If he got out too soon, he might wander far off and miss his chance to cut it off. Of course, he might instead foolishly cut off another vehicle traveling at 45 mph, but that was a gamble I didn’t intend to take. I knew what he’d do to the UPS truck, and I knew that the truck driver could barely avoid him at cul de sac speed. I had to play those odds.

On the first day of Princess’s orientation, Mom stayed home all afternoon, and we never went out back. But on the second day, Mom returned to her routine and put us in the back yard before she left for shopping. I sensed that this was a little later than usual, so as soon as I heard her SUV drive away, I went to work.

I had opened the latch numerous times when I wanted to romp in the field down the road. So I was surprised when I found it not wanting to give. It seemed every time my unlatching paw hit it just right, my pushing paw was too slow to take advantage of the split-second opportunity. However, after more frustration and self-recrimination than it probably warranted, I freed the catch and the gate swung open.

Prior experience had taught me about the gate’s spring closure, so I positioned my body to stop the gate before it fully closed and relatched. Then I lay down with my body holding the gate just beyond the latch point.

Little Ugly had initially followed me to the gate, but luckily he’d lost interest while I fumbled with the latch. Besides not wanting him to escape too early, I also didn’t want to growl him away from the gate as that might dissuade him from promptly returning at the sound of the truck.

I held my position at the unlatched gate for perhaps ten minutes. During this time, I kept my gaze on Little Ugly. He’d hear the truck before I would, and I wanted to spot him alerting as soon as that happened so I could immediately swing the gate wide open. If I didn’t open the gate in time, he might immediately run to a regular fence section and not even realize there was an opening until it was too late to make his rendezvous with wheeled civilization.

As it happened, I had no trouble keeping an eye for Little Ugly’s alert. He had chosen to spend his last minutes sprawled out on the patio while he chewed the legs of Dad’s favorite Adirondack chair. Undomesticated to the end.

And then he sprung to his feet. I, of course, hadn’t heard anything, but I wasn’t waiting even a second. I reflexively hit my feet, and I was backing the gate open as my own hearing picked up the approaching truck. Little Ugly spotted the opening gate as he started to run, and I turned my head toward the road so as not to challenge his right to come my way. A few seconds later, the barking menace tore past me, leaving the yard.

I immediately scooted into the yard, making sure to get out of the gate’s path as quickly as possible to eliminate any chance of slowing its spring-loaded closer. Successful, I watched the gate slam shut and heard the latch click.

Several seconds— or maybe just one. Barking, then a screech of brakes before, or perhaps after, a thump— which itself may have been before or after a squeal.

Through the closed gate, I heard the truck driver’s voice, recognizing it from the times she delivered a package at our house. She was either talking on her cell phone or to another driver who had stopped. After a bit, I heard her truck start up, and a minute later, it pulled into the cul de sac in front of our house.

I presumed the driver dropped off the remains and a note, and given her friendly manner, I presumed she felt bad about the accident even though the victim had once bitten her shoe during a delivery and had previously challenged her braking abilities in the cul de sac.

It was at least a two- hour wait for Mom’s return, and I can’t boast that I handled it well. Strange things go through your mind during a stressful wait. Since I hadn’t actually seen the remains, I started having doubts about the success of the operation. What if Little Ugly had only been injured, and the UPS driver had taken him to a vet? If Mom got home first, she’d have a three-letter conversation with the vet: DNR. But if Mom stayed away too long, Dad would see the message, and who knows what he’d do to keep Princess happy.

Despite the worry, Mom made it home before Dad. I don’t know the order of her actions and discoveries, but it wasn’t long after hearing her SUV pull into the garage that she came out back for me. She was already on her cell phone giving the news to Grandma. Not to my surprise, she was asking Grandma over for a celebration cocktail, one of those umbrella-trimmed concoctions they enjoy on special occasions.

Having just liberated our family from its disruptor, I hated to delay Mom’s celebration, but there remained a matter for her immediate attention. Princess would want to know how her bundle of love had gotten into the busy road, and Dad might not be able to hold up his end of the deception if he knew the truth. So I had to get Mom to disguise the truth. And quickly.

While Mom was leading me through the garage, I picked up a claw-like garden tool. After she opened the door to the laundry room, she turned back toward me and saw it in my mouth.

“What on earth?” Mom said blankly. Still on the cell phone with Grandma, she then said, “You won’t believe this, but Setter wants me to dig a grave for that beast. I don’t even know how he understands that it’s dead.” Then she laughed. “You think I can tell him the driver took it DOA to the vet where it’s going to be cremated?”

Ah, to hear but not speak. I started whimpering and pawing at her shoe. Mom understood this as my call for attention, but she misinterpreted the message. She reopened the back garage door leading to the yard and then headed herself back toward the door to the laundry room. I whimpered and pawed some more and picked up and dropped the claw at her feet.

A mix of this befuddling communication continued for minutes until she finally accepted the claw and followed me into the back yard. Then I spent more minutes getting her over to the fence. At that point, I picked up the claw and dropped it next to a fence board with a missing knot hole about a foot above the ground.

Mom was still bewildered, but luckily she was still having a good time relaying my charade to Grandma. To help things along, I scratched on the fence board at the hole. Then I ever so gently set my teeth to it. I didn’t want splinters in my mouth, and that’s the reason why I had left this job for Mom. But would she understand?

Mom never figured it out, but Grandma did. With a voice I could hear over the cell phone, she blurted out, “Use the claw to chew a hole in the fence! He’s giving you a cover-up for Melissa.”

With Dad due home soon, Mom said goodbye to Grandma and went to work, furiously clawing bit by bit off the board until she had the lower end of it removed and a sizable chunk of the adjoining board as well. It was an escape hole fit for the little beast who would be said to have made it.

And not a moment too soon. Through the open back door, I saw Dad’s car pull into the garage. Mom looked that way and then quickly threw the claw to the far end of the yard. Then she turned to me and smiled. “Did Gwen teach you how to shake?”

I sat upright and extended a paw.

* * * * * * * * * *

31 October 2016

Finding My RAT Brain

Ketchup replacing sweet and sour sauce on a RAT McMuffin! Ingredient assault in the seat of a golf cart!

Even if you haven’t been following the news, I don’t think I need to tell you who’s behind such vile behavior. Of course, it’s Donald J. Trump.

All summer, everyone said how vulgar that man is, and how he violates the norms of civilized behavior. But all summer, I held my nose and pretended the smell wasn’t so bad. Being a loyal Republican, I felt I had to support the party’s nominee. Yes, I had heard men such as Mitt Romney, Speaker Paul Ryan, and Senator Mike Lee begging me to take a sniff. If ever there were men who know the smell of a RAT, surely it’s them.

So why didn’t I listen? I guess it’s just that I’d been denouncing Hillary since the 1990s, and I felt compelled to support any Republican candidate running against her. But now there’s the tale of the McMuffin, and I’ve taken a sniff I can’t tolerate.

As some of you already know, this ketchup scandal goes back to that same time—the 1990s—when I and so many other conservatives started hating Hillary. But what we’re now learning demonstrates that Hillary is not so bad after all.

If you remember the Saturday Night Live reporting from back then, you know that Bill Clinton took office with a weight problem. In fact, he had a rear protuberance somewhat enlarged and rounded to the shape of the feminine. Hillary—being a very tolerant person—did not object to this gender ambiguity.

Hillary, however, was concerned about Bill’s health. She feared an old age where Bill slurred his words or one of them had to be dragged to the car like an old rag doll. So Hillary was obsessed with healthful eating. She even told critics that she wasn’t one of those women who baked cookies.

As we remember from her health plan, Hillary believed in the government’s food pyramid which stressed a low-fat, low-protein diet. So she was adamant about Bill cutting out the greasy food he devoured at fast food joints.

At this point, you probably recall the SNL reporting done by Phil Hartman. Sadly, Phil eventually became one of those Clinton commentators who developed an attraction to lead. Unfortunately, to confound our understanding of this fatal attraction, the said distributor of Phil’s lead is claimed to have consumed the leftovers for herself.

For his investigative scoop, Phil reported how Bill got around Hillary’s restraints on his diet. Bill pretended to go jogging. Then he quickly ditched into the local DC McDonald’s. Not one to openly defy “she who must be obeyed,” Bill didn’t actually order anything at McDonald’s. Instead, he merely rescued uneaten food from the trays of other customers.

This all worked because Bill asked Hillary if she wanted to go jogging with him. He knew perfectly well that she’d refuse because the one time she went, the paparazzi plastered pics of her decidedly imperfect legs all over the tabloids. It was brutal. After 12 years of mocking Barbara Bush’s lumberjack legs, they said that big-timber, clear-cutting Republicans had left the country with tree stumps.

Bill, however, liked to show off his legs. Besides having a big, rounded rear, he had soft, porky legs with a shape not unlike the Photoshop job one might see for Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner. Naturally, with that kind of bare skin flashing past sanitation workers in DC, the wolf whistles and catcalls echoed through the avenues. Bill thought they were coming from Rosie-the-Riveter affirmative action women, and the Secret Service didn’t have the stomach to tell him otherwise.

Despite Bill’s delusions about his sexiness and the restraint of the Secret Service agents assigned to him, the President was still open on another front. As a politician, he naturally hobnobbed with other people of power, such as business tycoons. Those business tycoons view politicians as tools to advance their own interests just as readily as politicians see it the other way around. So neither side has a great deal of respect for the other even though each pretends otherwise.

One of Bill’s backscratching friends was none other than Donald J. Trump. While that much was previously known, the newest revelations show how early that relationship developed and how decadent was Trump’s influence on Bill. The newest revelations, of course, come from a reliable source formerly with the CIA. The source’s codename was Cueball.

How the CIA got involved is a story unto itself. The first thing to remember is that Bill only used jogging as a subterfuge to get away from Hillary. He wanted to indulge his craving for fast food, and he wanted to indulge his delusion about having a sexy bod.

Since jogging was but a subterfuge, Bill naturally used it for other important state business such as taking bribes. As we know from the recent scandals involving Hillary and the Clinton Foundation, that type of activity would normally be covered up by the FBI, not the CIA. However, the master triangulator that he was, Bill knew how to play off one against the other.

During this period, Bill Clinton was busily working with Boris Yeltsin to loot the assets of the former Soviet Union. Between them, they transferred ownership of those assets to a half dozen oligarchs. With apologies for the redundant characterization, the oligarchs were fronts for international bankers, organized criminals, and a special foreign power. Reportedly, when Bill explained all this to Boris through their interpreter, Boris smiled knowingly and uttered the single English word, “Crooks.” Bill patted Boris on the back while correcting him, “You’re supposed to call them Harvard economists.”

According to Cueball, one of the meetings between Bill and Boris took place at a park in the DC area — although Cueball himself admits he didn’t actually witness it. But Cueball claims that he was part of the Presidential jogging entourage that visited a known dead drop site in Fort Marcy Park. But that day’s expected rendezvous with Boris Yeltsin never occurred.

Fort Marcy Park, of course, now connotes a sardonic connection to the term dead drop due to the tale of Vince Foster—another of those lead-loving Clinton associates. And that may indeed be the reason Yeltsin failed to show for his meeting. However, the more likely reason is that Yeltsin was too drunk the day before to catch his secret flight to DC.

Yeltsin’s no-show left Clinton with unexpected time on his hands before being driven to his greasy reward. So he decided to get in a little genuine jogging in the hopes his legs would attract the attention he craved. As chance would have it, no female park visitors gave more than a glance at Bill and the Presidential entourage. And Fort Marcy Park is out of DC proper, so the opportunity for blue-collar wolf whistles was also absent.

Or so it seemed. On that day, Clinton, the Secret Service, and Cueball had jogged but a couple of hundred yards when a nasal New York voice called out, “What a pig! Lose some weight.”

Everyone in the entourage turned back toward the voice, and there was Donald J. Trump approaching them from behind in a golf cart. Trump had apparently been penciled in for a meeting with Clinton later that day. He was using his free time before that meeting to cruise the park looking for girls with hot legs. Only by chance did his path cross with the Presidential entourage, and when he first saw Bill from behind, he thought he was looking at an ugly woman.

Presumably, after his initial crude remark, Trump realized his mistake. Indeed, when some of the Secret Service agents gave him a dirty look about the porcine epithet, Trump reassured them. “Not you guys. I love law enforcement. I was talking to the big chunky one with the butch hairdo.”

That elicited snickers from a couple of the less composed agents, but otherwise no one paid him any more attention. The agents themselves knew Trump from his prior meetings with Clinton, and they were under strict orders never to interfere when a wealthy person interacted with the President.

Clinton himself would normally have parried Trump’s insult and shot back with one of his own as he was renowned for being quick on his feet. Unfortunately, however, that was in the figurative sense. Literally, Bill could hardly maintain his eleven-and-a-half-minutes-a-mile pace without going into cardiac arrest. So just as Jimmy Carter was unable to dodge the instincts of an attack rabbit while jogging, Bill Clinton was breathlessly unable to fend off the barbs emanating from the stalking golf cart.

Realizing Bill’s breathlessness, Trump shot a few more his way. “Maybe you can come out on the Ellen show. Win an Emmy for your groundbreaking role. First President to say, ‘You didn’t ask, but I’m going to tell.’”

Bill threw his hands up in defeat. Stopping for breath, he watched as Trump pulled up beside him. Unable to even execute his famous lip quiver, he slouched against the golf cart. When he partially recovered, he climbed into the seat beside Trump and said, “I need something to eat. How about a ride back to the limousine?”

“That’s small time, Bill. So pathetic. Let me show you something really fantastic.”

Trump got on his cart phone and radioed for his helicopter. Clinton coordinated with the agents, and twenty minutes later, a Trump-branded helicopter hovered overhead. Set up as an aerial crane, a system of cables hung down from it. At the end of those cables was a platform covered with a bulletproof bubble. After the platform was gently set upon the ground, a groundcrew slid open an entrance door in the back of the bubble, and Trump drove the golf cart inside. After a few lockdowns, they lifted off.

A short but eyepopping ride later, they were set down in the middle of a large avenue which had just been cleared by the Secret Service. The door in the bubble was opened, and Trump backed the golf cart off the platform. Then it was a two-block ride for Trump and Clinton to a nearby McDonald’s.

After entering the parking lot, Trump rode up the handicap ramp onto the sidewalk and headed for the outdoor play area. He honked until some kids got out of the way so he could claim a shady spot next to the jungle gym. Then he laid steady on his golf cart’s horn in an apparent call for a server to come out and take their order. “No need to go inside, Bill. They’ll do anything for a celebrity.”

“Or a President,” Clinton said in one-upmanship. “But the problem is that I can’t order. I have to go inside and pretend to mingle with the people so I can swipe food from their trays.” When Trump snickered at the obvious cowardice, Clinton added, “If you had to listen to Hillary’s screeching, you’d understand.”

By this time, Trump’s steady honking had brought out a server, and Trump said, “Three Egg McMuffins with ketchup, extra large fries, and a large diet Coke for our super fantastic President here.”

“I usually get sweet and sour sauce on my Egg McMuffins,” Clinton said helpfully.

“You’re my guest,” Trump said with narrowed eyes. “Ketchup on the Egg McMuffins.”

“Or barbeque sauce—”

“Ketchup!” Trump said while pushing a button on the cart’s flat dashboard. A lid popped up and revealed an otherwise hidden compartment. Inside was the unmistakable binder of a three-to-a-page business checkbook.

Clinton’s eyes froze on the checkbook. “I…I…I…” he mumbled, seemingly wanting to restate his objection to ketchup but overpowered by the financial instrument before him.

Trump said nothing more and just left Clinton in his helpless state. Several minutes of silence passed while the VIP order was prepared and brought out. When the server approached the cart, Trump signaled her to his side and took the tray.

Trump smiled coldly as Clinton’s eyes darted from the checkbook to the food and back again. After allowing moments of this cruelty, Trump steadied the food tray with one hand and reached toward the compartment with the other. Without saying anything, he methodically lifted an edge of the checkbook. Underneath it were a half-dozen small foil packets. At first, no markings were apparent on the packets.

With a determined hand, Trump reached in and grabbed at the packets, not even attempting to control the number he seized. In the process, packets were turned various ways, and the front labels of some showed. They read Ketchup!

In an instant, without asking for consent or even pausing to consider an objection, Trump went into action. Like an octopus, with hands everywhere, Trump unwrapped Egg McMuffins, checked for ketchup on the egg side, flipped them over, lifted the bottom of the buns, tore open packages of ketchup and pressed out the insides onto the Canadian bacon.

It happened so fast, Clinton was mesmerized, effectively lacking the legal capacity to object to the extra ketchup. For painful moments, he watched the assault on his food, enduring it with a quivering lip. Then, summoning the last of his defensive instincts, he mumbled, “No…No…. This isn’t right. No…. It should be sweet and sour sauce.”

Trump ignored the pleas. When he finished desecrating the third sandwich, he held the tray in front of Clinton. Bill submissively reached down and picked up an Egg McMuffin. “I’m only doing this to end world hunger,” he said in protest before submitting to his fate.

It took Clinton five bites for that and each of the others, as he decided to put them down as quickly as possible to shorten the experience. In between bites, he gobbled the french fries and washed everything down with the diet Coke. Repeatedly, he mumbled “No…No…,” but Trump was unreceptive to any objections.

When the frenzy ended, Bill sat there in shame. Though having eaten his mid-morning snack, he was as empty inside as the leftover Coke cup and sandwich wrappings. Beside them on the tray were the discarded ketchup packets, torn through the little U with the circle around it. Bill sat in silence as his rosacea reddened nose flared from the experience.

As is often the case, this incident of ingredient assault was never reported. Bill was probably afraid that Hillary would forever look upon him as defiled, but even if not, there would have been hell to pay for disobeying her orders to stay away from places where things like that might happen.

And so, Bill suffered these past decades without the healing that comes from public disclosure. Without the MSM publicizing the injustice, and SJWs ensuring that perpetrators are shamed, shunned, and bankrupted for their unacceptable behavior, the victims of ingredient assault withdraw into themselves, left to playing sax solos on the Arsenio Hall show or confessing their underwear preferences to teenage girls on MTV. How many times did we hear Bill say, “I feel your pain,” and not realize the source of his empathy?

Now that I know this, I can no longer support Trump. Yes, I was one of those people who cheered when all the Republican candidates were loyalty-shamed into supporting the eventual nominee. Like everyone else at the time, I thought Trump had no chance of winning, but he appealed to enough of those crazies who say offensive things to mount a third-party candidacy that would throw the election to the Dems. So I supported the pledge as a way to ensure eventual victory by one of our respectable conservatives.

Then Trump’s trash talking triumphed, and I had to choose. I know the pundits who speak for the GOP on television developed an immediate case of amnesia about their support of the pledge. But they’re sometimes made fun of for their lying — like the way they lied about Iraq’s WMD. Other times, they get away with their challengeable assertions because they’re saying the same things as the Dems. So how was I to know which way the winds would blow on this one? Reluctantly, I decided to ignore the GOP pundits and support Trump.

But now, I’ve been so shocked by this latest revelation of Trump’s misbehavior, I feel freed of my miscalculated support of the pledge. Surely, no one in the media will call me a bad name for changing my mind after this new revelation.

Most importantly, this revelation comes from a reputable CIA source. As Cueball warns us, Trump is not only vile, he’s an authoritarian. We all knew the former even if it took Cueball’s revelations to let us know that Trump actually committed ingredient assault on Bill Clinton. But how many of us had previously considered the danger of Trump’s authoritarianism? This is a man who might bullheadedly create American oriented policies without even considering their effects on Goldman Sachs and foreign interests.

Only a CIA source could really understand how a dangerous authoritarian principle like America First will harm the global community. With such a principle, Trump would foolishly negotiate with Vladimir Putin under the authoritarian premise that WWIII with a nuclear power would be disastrous for America.

Cueball has taken his courageous stand because he knows nothing should be off the table. How will the current global order survive if authoritarians close the door to nuclear war with Russia on the flimsy excuse that it’s none of our business who governs Syria or Ukraine?

Who can support America First when it might mean passing up the opportunity for a war that the media thinks we should have?

I used to think nuclear war was a bad thing. But now there’s Cueball with his CIA experience worrying more about Trump’s nastiness than Hillary’s foreign policy belligerence. So I decided it was time to rethink.

Just suppose President Hillary Clinton provoked a nuclear war with Russia. Even if we won, that would lay waste to several of our large cities and destroy much of our infrastructure. Of course, I wouldn’t welcome that.

However, a devastated America would be a lot less attractive to immigrants. As you know, a President Trump would keep out immigrants by building a wall and reducing the H-1B visas they use to take American jobs. But I can’t support those things because the media says they’re racist.

If President Hillary Clinton provoked a nuclear war, however, immigrants wouldn’t want to come here. And the ones already here would leave by the millions. Most of our remaining industry would be destroyed, and the economy would be too weak to pay the benefits that immigrants use at a much higher rate than Whites. So right there, America’s biggest problem would be solved. And best of all, no one could call it racist!

As every White man knows, being called a racist is a fate worse than death. Accordingly, having our country adopt racist policies is a fate worse than nuclear annihilation. Without Cueball’s critique of Trump, I might never have realized this obvious truth. And I might never have realized the thinking behind all those trillions of dollars of globalist policies. But now, come what may, we’ll never be called racist.

Once upon a time, Hillary used to say, “It takes a village.” But with my newfound RAT brain, I like to say, “It takes a Cueball.”

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