I’ve tried to keep up with the Republican convention, but have time for only bits of the live action filled in with reliable (fake) news reports. Ticking off untruths and bald faced lies soon outstripped my abilities, but they were to be expected from this gang. What has troubled me more is the eerie similarity to public rallies in early 1930s Germany. The technology has changed but the script is nearly identical. It was widely believed by too many people then, and I fear they may again.
I shall take a mental health digression with a sappy little piece about our dog Riley and the romance, or lack of it, of suitcase trips. Word of warning, my editor is off working in her studio, so this gets published with the proofreading capabilities of my fading eyes.
Riley, our West Highland Terrier, has lived his entire fourteen years in one house with one fenced yard. His daily walks around the block defined his neighborhood of familiar sounds, sights and smells. But the lure of travel was firmly fixed in his doggy imagination. He knew suitcases meant we were getting ready to go away without him. His howls of sadness were unconsolable. Short car rides could not satisfy. They were either boring, or ended up at the vet. What he wanted was to go on a suitcase trip. Well, he’s had his chance.
We’re moving. In the last stages of belongings being packed and loaded onto a truck, we moved into a hotel for a few nights before catching a flight across country. Riley, at long last, has got his suitcase trip. I don’t know what his doggy hopes were, but doubt this is it. The romance isn’t there, he’s made that clear enough. No matter that he has the familiar smell and feel of his bed and blanket, a hotel room is not a house, and certainly not his house. Maybe it’s good that he’s deaf, nearly blind, and and sleeping is what he does best. He can’t be left alone in a hotel room, so has to go with us on each of our many last minute errands, which are never anywhere dog friendly, and always end up back at the hotel room.
He got a reprieve last night when friends let him lounge, sniff, and explore the large back yard at their farm. Alas, it lasted only a few hours.
We’re not sure what the airplane ride is going to be like, but suspect it may include a dose of doggy pacifier just to be safe. Maybe I’ll take one too. The other end isn’t going to be much of an improvement. It could take two weeks for our household goods to show up. And how many days to get the place habitable? Eventually he’ll discover the old smells and familiar furniture, out of place in a strange house and neighborhood. It’ll work out, but it’s tough being an old dog taking his first big suitcase trip, away from home, never to return.
And now, if we must, back to the convention.