A Brown Dog Democrat

My dog, Dixie…excuse me..Svatchime is rapidly becoming a nuisance. This morning, even before I had coffee, she pounced on me with a political discussion.

“Donald Trump must leave the race”, she solemnly intoned as she executed a very aggressive crotch sniff.

“What?”, I asked.

 “Donald Trump simply must get out of the primary race. He insulted a war hero, and frankly, I am offended” She said as she raised her head a little, and sniffed the air a bit. “I smell bacon”, she added.

“You’re going to jump off the Trump bandwagon because he talked disrespected Senator McCain?” I asked incredulously.

“I have never supported Donald Trump, and what in the hell does Senior McCain have to do with it? Is it the Mexican thing again?” she hissed. Again she sniffed the air, “Someone is cooking bacon.”

I didn’t even know dogs could hiss. “What do you mean you never supported him? If you didn’t like him in the first place, why are you saying that he must drop out? Why do you care?” I asked, somewhat stunned.

“Trump is a money grubbing capitalist real estate mogul. He represents everything that is wrong with this country. He glorifies and personifies greed. He offends me on so many levels. He is a duopolistic liar. He has made millions on dirty little backroom deals with foreign despots all across the world. He is an privileged autocratic monster with absolutely no empathy for the common man. He seems to be politically tone deaf, and has zero in the way of political accomplishments” , Svatchime explained just before she began attending to a urgent personal hygienic matter.

No one can sound quite as smug and condescending as a chocolate Labrador who has recently acquired the gift of speech.

“So, just so I understand….You say Donald Trump is a man you have never supported, and whom you say personifies everything you are against. You say he must withdraw from the primary race because he said something that offended you? Have I got that right?, I asked.

“Yes. Do I smell bacon?”, came the reply.

“So, your position is that any politician with whom you have disagreements should not be running for office”

“Finally, you get it! We simply cannot have a cold, soulless, ego-maniacal power freak running the country.” Svatchime said.

“So”, I asked, “Who are you supporting?”

“Hillary”

Attacked By My Own Dog

I am distraught.

My chocolate lab, Dixie whom we have raised from a pup, came to me this morning and informed me that due to the racist connotations of her name, she will no longer answer to that name, preferring to be addressed as “Svatchime”.

“What?  Why are you offended?  Did someone mistreat you?”  I asked as I scratched her behind her ear.

“Someone told me that I was named after a horrible racist song that glorifies slavery and oppression and that I have always been horribly oppressed my entire life by the man, you bigot”, she growled.

“Who told you that?  Was it Isadore?”, I asked as I offered her a piece of bacon.  Isadore is a mean little terrior/poodle mix who lives behind us.  She doesn’t like me and barks a lot.

Dixie nodded as she devoured the bacon, and paused just for a second to ask "What's a song?"

Of course, I was shocked, and not just because my dog speaking with me, or because she was offended by her own name, but also because of her new name.  “Svatchime” is what conservative radio host Bud Grant used to call Mario Cumuo when he was governor of New York…it’s Greek for “The Impotent one”.

“Do you know what “Svatchime” means?” I asked

“No, but I like it and Isador says that it can mean whatever I want it to mean”, came the reply.

While trying to wrap my brain around all this, I heard a loud ruckus erupt outside the house.  I looked out the window, and small but loud band of feral cats were in the front yard singing ‘Dixie’, and waving dead mice and Confederate flags.

“Who are they?”,  I asked.

“They are your allies, you hateful bigot.  Can I have some more bacon?”, came the reply.

“No more bacon for you.  Why are they here?”

“Isadore invited them”, Dixie replied. “She said that you racists should hang out together.  I really want some more bacon, fascist pig.”

“They are feral cats, you stupid dog, and I’m not a racist!  No bacon for you.” I reminded her.

“You’re a mean spirited, white supremacist racist zionist because you won't give me more bacon, Look at your friends and look what you named me, you race baiting skunk!” said Dixie angerly.

Using my Airsoft rifle, I persuaded each cat to leave.

I knew Dixie was angry, but I was too.  I pointed my Airsoft gun at Dixie and said softly “They are not my friends, Dixie is your name, and …”

“SQUIRREL!”, Dixie screamed as she leaped at the sliding glass door and began to bark madly.

Insanity isn't about a talking to a mad dog.  It's about trying to reason with one.