A word (or six hundred) if I may.

For the first time – in sixteen months! – I’ve requested a hearing. Typically Carll begs me to pinch-hit because he’s hard up for fresh material. He fears he’ll bore you with more navel-gazing or gassing about God. His fears are justified.  The meaning of meaning, the import of his story, I don’t see how you guys put up with it. For half of what he discusses we don’t have words in Dog. The Dog-to-English translation tool may gag this time too but if I can alleviate even an iota of your election angst, why not try. We dogs are happiness buffs, which explains our popularity. You know that phrase, “water off a duck’s back”? I don’t know about ducks but dogs don’t brood, sulk, nurse grudges. For sure we don’t dread the end of the world as we know it. The world may end – or not – that’s more than we know. We just wag our tails and soon everybody else is wagging theirs or the equivalent. That’s what Hamlet’s talking about in the quote above: What will be will be, so chill.

No dog would go for Trump. He’s the only President, other than James Polk and Andrew Johnson, who didn’t keep a dog in the White House – for PR if nothing else. You remember Fala, Millie, Socks, Bo, even Checkers, even Major, who bites. Trump frets a dog will steal his limelight, a theft he promises to make a capital crime if reelected.

Bad choice – the worst – but why let the possibility spoil your day? Carll and Jane are suffering over this – I can smell it – and you guys too, based on responses to Carll’s apocalyptic ululations. The end of civilization! – Carll really believes this – and he may be right – but guess what? Civilization’s a goner sooner or later. Everything human is. That’s because (unlike sensible canines) humans construct sandcastles to defy the tides. They imagine better and worse – and gather into competing gangs who loathe each other. They grab more food than they can eat and erect mansions way too big to sleep in – for what? And this restless avidity bewilders them into asinine mistakes (though that adjective – asinine – is unjust).

Dogs keep our heads down, let sleeping dogs lie, salute friend or foe and saunter by, no big whoops. We don’t ask for more out of life than we’re given, never whine about getting gypped, don’t envy or begrudge. What will be will be, fella (or Fala): have a nice day!

Pride is humans’ problem. They imagine they deserve more – deserve! – then grouse when they don’t get it. They pant after pied pipers who pander to their pride and prod their self-pity: Make America Great Again, I mean really! They shudder they might be ripped off – or that their Pekinese daughter might bring home a wolfhound. Their greed and fear make them crazy, even suicidal. They forget how grateful they should be. Maybe a Big Dog will make all their kvetches vanish – worth a shot.

If I were Human I might be freaking too. But we dogs were made without Pride – or notion of a future – or rosy memories of a non-existent past – or conviction we deserve more than we’ve got. We never concocted a Renaissance or Democracy or High Culture which a new barbarism might erase. We’ve never had a Shakespeare, so won’t miss him when he’s suppressed.

Why screech to make things great again when what you’ve got is sweet? How’s that for dumb?