Our dog Mister seems to be in the doldrums of late, as evidenced by some dramatic changes in his behaviour.
Mister doesn’t have near the appetite as other of our past pets have had, dogs who would probably inhale food, especially human food, till they threw up if we let them. (The roast beef we had the other night was apparently underdone for Mister’s taste).
Mister has established unprecedented guidelines for playing ball in the backyard, having decided that “fetch” is a misnomer, that “chase” is the operative word, and that the new rules dictate it is I who should pursue him and his ball around the yard, ignoring, of course, the distinct possibility that such a reversal of roles could send his “dad,” a recently-installed member of the 70-plus club, and a long-time tub, to the nearest coronary-care unit.
Instead of taking extraordinarily lengthy naps in front of the wood stove in the evening as we watch Netflix, Mister barks constantly in apparent protest of our choice for television viewing, especially when we watch the eighth straight segment of “Bosch” or when we take in non-stop an entire season of “Fleabag.” (Mister let me know that he believes the latter is overly crude and full of gratuitous sex scenes.)
“And your point is?” I asked.
“You’re watching that sinful stuff on a television set only 100 yards from the Catholic Grotto in Flatrock,” Mister responded. “And God is watching; He’s not watching ‘Fleabag’, of course, but He is watching you watching ‘Fleabag,’ and you’re going to hell.”)
In any case, we’ve come to a conclusion: it is not really “Bosch” or “Fleabag” that has put our beloved dog in need of anti-depressants; rather, it’s the ubiquitous presence of another character on television during the past month, in particular, that has Mister contemplating an official complaint to the SPCA about human cruelty, and, not coincidentally, has nearly sent his “Mom and Dad,” as well, to the pharmacist for some heavy duty drugs, or me to the liquor store for my first drink in almost 40 years.
And I’m talking about that shallow clown to the south of us, Donald Trump, whose daily press briefings have reiterated for the entire world why global citizens with even half a sense of reality and sensibility cannot grasp why it is that millions upon millions of Americans continue to believe this self-centred, xenophobic, shockingly inarticulate nincompoop is the person they wish to see them through this incredible tragedy.
(Sitting beside me and my computer, and reading along, Mister just barked in agreement of my theory for his depression).
Our dog Mister seems to be in the doldrums of late, as evidenced by some dramatic changes in his behaviour.
I’ve tried to stay clear of CNN whenever Trump is set to deliver one of his rambling rants, or to switch the channel once he opens his trap to view something more stimulating — re-runs of “Gilligan’s Island” or “The Beverly Hillbillies”, for example. But it’s as if the journalistic ambulance chaser has taken up position in my noggin, that I’ll have missed something if I don’t watch the latest Trump train wreck.
It’s a given, though, that a fair number of logically thinking Yanks believe Trump is certifiably off his rocker, and that he does an immense disservice to his country’s reputation and to its residents, people like Maryellen Donnellan of Falls Church, Virginia, who has never been to Newfoundland, but was deeply moved by the Broadway play “Come From Away” and wrote to The Telegram to apologize for Trump’s decision to withhold medical equipment from Canada.
I’ll try to remember there are reasonable, intelligent people like Donnellan (and others I happen to know personally in the States) whenever I have an urge to condemn the entire U.S.A. for its inexplicable, continued support of an ass with the IQ of a boulder on the Gander Lake shoreline and the moral compass of a rodent (with apologies to the permanent residents of the Robin Hood dump).
Mister just booed.
Even as Trump has cemented his image and reputation throughout this pandemic catastrophe as a destructive sociopath, an irresponsible moron, and one of the most non-empathetic presidents in American history, there are many others here in Canada and in Newfoundland, politicians and non-politicians alike, who’ve displayed the leadership skills required during these abnormal times.
Locally, for instance, I wonder whether Health Minister Dr. John Haggie has regretted his decision not to compete for the Liberal leadership, now that his star has risen as he takes to the microphone day after day with sound advice and no-nonsense analysis of Newfoundland’s status in this now scary world of ours.
Haggie has even gotten understandably saucy, at times, and taken to task the scattered lame-brain trying to circumvent society’s new rules for keeping us safe and sound.
Mister just put his paws together and applauded.
Bob Wakeham has spent more than 40 years as a journalist in Newfoundland and Labrador. He can be reached by email at [email protected]
