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Day 71

3/31/2017

SURVIVING TRUMP
Shun. Avoid. Ignore.
And Keep the Bleachers Empty

March 31 – April Fools’ Eve

  WE WRITE to you on April Fools’ Eve. It’s Day 71 of the Trump presidency, and by now, things can be said with certainty:
The election was a mistake. These things happen. They happen to dogs with gorgeous eyelashes. They happen to cats with low-slung stomachs. To families. To businesses. To Nations.
We do things, the wrong things, and the consequences can be terrible. Dogs see an open door and make a break for it and never come home (other dogs, that is). Cats run in front of cars (I wish). Families give their kids cell phones AND the keys to the car.
Democracies elect the wrong people.
As a candidate, Trump presented himself as unqualified, unequipped and unfit.
As a president, he’s proved it.
He is a liar.
He is cruel.
He is dangerous.

“SO WHAT DO we do about it?” Cat asked. This was earlier today, at our regular morning news meeting, and we were debating whether we should post a Special April Fools’ Edition of the blog.
Cat was totally opposed to that idea.
“Why?” I asked
“Because the election wasn’t a prank,” Cat said. “Trump is no joke. Associating Trump with April Fools’ Day makes it seem like it was just a harmless prank, which can be undone, or a joke that didn’t really happen."
Cat was on a roll.
   "The election happened, Trump won, Trump was inaugurated," Cat said. "And, as he told a Time reporter: ‘I’m president and you’re not.’ ”
So Cat and I came up with this premise:
Any rational community – a pack of dogs, a herd of cats, the world’s oldest and greatest democracy – would never put up with a disaster like Trump.
Nobody wants a president who makes things worse, who makes people feel miserable when they wake up every morning, who’s trying to cut medical research, who's hoping to foul the air, pollute the water, bankrupt the sick, hate the immigrants, wreck the economy, steal from the poor and give to the rich.
So, here’s our suggestion for The Duration: let’s have nothing more to do with Donald J. Trump. Just because he won the election doesn't mean we're obligated to treat him like an actual president, to let him enjoy his time in office. He should be shunned, avoided and ignored.

SO, IF YOU’RE a reporter, don’t bother going to his press conferences or collect his Tweets. He’s a liar, meaning there’s nothing to be gained by repeating what he says. The Washington Post’s feature that tracks presidential falsehoods, says he’s only had three days in which he hasn't lied in public: on March 1, March 12 and March 19.
Instead, reporters should cover what he actually does: sign bills and execute orders. They should report on the consequences. Dig. Work hard. Get the truth out. Call your sources. Keep at it.
If you’re a Republican, stop enabling him; so far, you’re responsible for making Trump possible. If you are a Democrat, get in touch with your inner-progressive and come up with good ideas, which you haven't done since the New Deal.
Whatever your side of the aisle: do your job as one of the three branches of government. Sit quietly during the next State of the Union speech, if there is one. No more of that standing ovation nonsense. Don’t pass Trump’s bills. Don’t approve his nominations. Skip White House dinners..
Do hold hearings. Do investigate conflicts of interest. Get to the bottom of the Russia thing. Pass your budgets, not his. Fund medical research, fight global warming, protect the water, heal the sick, feed the hungry, protect public schools, clean the air, publicize Trump’s tax returns. Make America proud.
If you’re the chief executive officer of a car company and are invited to a Washington jobs summit, stay in Detroit. If you’re a prime minister, stay in London. If you’re rich, vacation in your own summer place. If you’re an economist, keep to your ivy tower. If you win the Super Bowl again, stay in Foxboro.
Citizens, keep the bleachers empty. Don’t visit the White House. Don’t go to Trump rallies. If you are at an event where Trump is present, don’t applaud, don’t shake his tiny hand, don't clap. Do read (and pay for) the papers; watch the news; stay tuned; go to rallies; write your Senators; donate; join a party or found a movement; organize; run for city council. If necessary, if he shows up, turn your back.
   And all of us, the next time we vote, let’s be careful.

SO LET’S CELEBRATE April Fools’ Eve, and not act like the election was a joke, or worry that the joke was on us.
Trump was just a mistake, not the end of the world.
Sure it was a big mistake, a scary mistake, an embarrassing mistake. But mistakes can be corrected, fixed and repaired.
It’s what democracies do.

Day 63

3/23/2017

DOGS GO TO WORK:
A LONE LIGHT TWINKLES IN TRUMP’S DARK SKY

March 23, 2017

AS IMPLAUSIBLE as it seems, the new administration is moving in a positive direction on at least one subject.
Here’s the top of the story as it appears today on the Washington Post’s Website. It’s so inspired that I’m going to give it to you word-for-word (Isn’t that what “copyright” means?)

In a first for the government, dogs will be welcome at the Interior Department

By Lisa Rein and Karin Brulliard March 23 at 6:00 AM
(Editor’s note: this story is so exciting we needed two reporters to do it)

The Cabinet secretary who rode a horse to work on his first day is letting his employees bring their dogs to the office.
Interior Secretary Ryan Zinke will announce in an email to employees Thursday morning the start of “Doggy Days at Interior,” a program that will launch with test runs at the agency’s Washington headquarters on two Fridays in May and September.
The new policy will make Interior the first federal agency to go dog-friendly – and cement Zinke’s status as the Trump administration’s most visible animal fan. Zinke earlier this month arrived at his new workplace astride Tonto, a bay roan gelding who belongs to the U.S. Park Police and resides in stables on the Mall.
President Trump, meanwhile, remains pet-less, a status that makes him the first U.S. leader in 150 years without a companion animal and leaves the White House without a first dog or cat. Vice President Pence and his family keep two cats and a rabbit at their Naval Observatory home, though those critters keep a relative low profile.

LIBERALS WILL COMPLAIN that this is a very slow start compared to other rush jobs like the immigrant ban or the Destroy Medical Care Act now leaving the starting gate with a House vote tonight.
(I’m predicting a big win for the Meanest President Ever, by the way, because the Freedom Caucus of Cruel Conservatives will chicken out and vote yes, since they can’t be counted on to do anything positive.)
Conservatives will cry that the Washington Post can’t write a completely positive story – note how the article quickly gets in some digs at the Worst President Ever, pointing out the lack of pets in the Dark House, noting that even Vice President Mean has two cats and a bunny.
And surely, they will complain about the inevitable “regulations” that Zinke will roll out to make sure that diseased, flea-infested, incontinent, smelly, drooling dogs aren’t included. And the story goes onto say that dog-averse workers will be allowed to work from home on Doggy Days, coddling federal shirkers that will further enrage the Cruel Caucus.
Independents will complain that Zinke apparently is leaving out other species, like snakes, ferrets, turtles, amoebas and rats (Don’t worry folks, Worst Ever has installed plenty of those already), and that the Interior Department's program is either too pro-dog or very token-dog.

CAT, who, as I have mentioned, leans pro-Worst took up that civil rights theme, noting that there doesn’t seem to by any suggestion of bring-your-cat-to-work. That strikes me as impracticable on Cat’s part.
“Ever heard of the phrase that something is so difficult that it’s ‘Like trying to herd cats’?” I asked Cat.
“No,” he said, glaring at me.
“And Phoebe, why do you even care? You never go to work, since Our Humans are both retired.”
“I happen to be qualified by a national organization as a Therapy Dog, and one of these days the Grumpy One is going to take me to a nursing home to comfort the inmates or whatever they call the people there,” I said.
“I can’t wait," Cat said. "It’s always nice when you’re out of the house,"

BLOG READERS, I don’t want you to think that we’re going soft on the president.
This is still the Make the World Worse administration. As I mentioned, the House will probably get the health program passed tonight and shipped off to the Senate. That means millions may lose insurance coverage and that thousands will die.
The president is still loving Putin, still lying nearly every day, still whipping up hatred against immigrants and “Others,” still poisoning the rivers and the air, and still cooking the coral, still getting ready for war, still ruining everything it can get its hands on with its coven of extremist advisers and conflict-of-interest opportunists who have overrun our capital.
But let’s acknowledge a nice gesture for what it is – a single point of light on an otherwise dark horizon. So thanks, Ryan Zinke. This could be the administrations single greatest accomplishment, and one program worth saving after the Worst is replaced after impeachment, declaration of incompetence, election or whatever The Force wishes.
In fact, maybe I’ll send a note to the 46th president right now.

Dear Madame President,
I am a sweet dog, who lives in Newport, R.I. and one your biggest fans.
Michelle, if I still can call you that, I am writing to see if you can find it in your heart – an enormous heart, for sure – to continue the pioneering program begun in the previous administration by Interior Secretary Zinke, whom I hope you will reappoint.
Because the world surely needs all the therapy we can provide, now that our long national nightmare, to borrow a phrase … .

Day 54

3/14/2017

An Empty Bowl,
Our Early Spring,
Trump & the Truth

March 14, 2017

“HEY, Cat, want to share my food?”
Cat was at my side in an instant. This took some doing on the big guy’s part. He’s “not young.” And he weighs “a lot.”
Also, Cat’s stomach – how can I put this delicately – doesn’t clear the floor, so there’s always a certain amount of drag that slows Cat’s progress.
It’s a touchy subject, no pun intended. Cat doesn’t deny that his substantial undercarriage “sometimes” makes contact with a floor he’s traversing; but he says it’s not always the case.
“It really depends on the height of the floor,” Cat explains. Of course, this makes absolutely no sense, since there are no variables: his stubby little legs are always the same length, so whatever flat surface over which he’s walking (or, rarely, running across), his stomach is always the same distance (zero) from the floor. Actually, I never argue the point. Even a cat needs his dignity.

ANYWAY, when Cat heard the words “share my food,” he took immediate action, especially since he knows that I NEVER share my food with him or anyone. (I know, it’s a shock, given my reputation as a “sweet dog.” But food is food is food, to paraphrase Gertrude What's-her-name).
“What? There’s no food in this bowl,” Cat said. “This bowl is empty!”
“Seems so,” I said.
“But you asked me whether I wanted to share your food,” Cat said, coming as close to tears that I’ve seen him.
“I didn’t say there was any food. Or that I was going to share it,” I said in my best Sean Spicer briefing room voice. “I just asked you whether you wanted to share my food.”
“But the bowl is empty,” Cat said, still shocked.
“As empty as Trump’s promises,” I said.

“POLITICS again?” Cat howled, wounded as much by having been suckered by a trick question, as by his disappointment in finding an empty bowl.
“Do you not think about anything else, Phoebe? You are one ugly, disturbed dog, no matter what people say about your ‘gorgeous’ eyelashes. Morning. Noon. And night. It’s ‘Trump this. Trump that.’ He won the election. It’s a fact: Donald J. Trump is president of the United States of America. Get used to it.”
“I can’t,” I said.
“Can,” Cat said.
“Can’t.”
“You better.”
“Won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because of the lies,” I said.
“What? You haven’t gotten used to the lies?” Cat said, incredulously.
“No, I haven’t gotten used to the lies,” I said. “In fact, it worries me that the other reporters who cover Trump seem to be adapting to his lies and starting to lose interest.”
“That’s because the guy lies all the time. Always has; always will,” Cat said. “I would think that you’d have figured that out by now. The people who voted for Trump figured that out. They just didn’t think that made him different from any of the other Liars-in-Chief.”
“Like who?” I said.
“You mean like whom?” Cat said. “Like: Barack ‘You like your healthcare plan, you can keep your healthcare plan” Obama. Like: George “Weapons of mass destruction” Bush. Like: Bill ‘I didn’t have sexual relations with that woman’ Clinton. And like: George ‘Read my lips: no new taxes’ Bush.”
“But Trump lies all the time,” I said. “He lied about his healthcare plan, better, cheaper, blah, blah, blah. But that plan is not better, not cheaper, and it’s not even his plan, it’s Paul Ryan’s plan. And thousands of people will die if they don’t get medical help. He’s lying about the phone taps at Trump Tower. He lied about the millions of fake votes. Lied about fake news.”
“And your point is?” Cat said.

“MY POINT is, there is no point to having a president who never tells the truth. Really, a president’s only job is to talk; to give speeches; and nowadays, to Tweet. And if nothing, not one word he says or Tweets, is the truth, what’s the use?”
“The answer is this," Cat said. "Get a life. Look on the sunny side. Look out the window. Spring is right around the corner. Spring is almost here. In fact, Phoebe, spring actually is here."
I looked out the window, just as Cat suggested. But the glass was covered with snow and sleet, so I could hardly make out the fake chickens on the deck. We were right in the middle of one of the worst March winter storms in memory.
“I see what you mean,” I said.
Cat disappeared. his stomach dragging silently across the floor, leaving me with my empty bowl.

Day 49

3/9/2017

Confronting the Trump Quandary:
First the Chicken? Or the Egg?

March 9, 2017

This is Cat.
I don’t want to be an alarmist (Isn't that why we have a president?).
But Phoebe has been acting kind of goofy.
She's really stressed; keeps mumbling about the “chicken and the egg;” or the “egg and the chicken.”
All day, she paces back and forth, hardly notices the Maillady; stares out the window of the sun porch, ignoring the old people with their walkers and canes outside, an affront that usually has her barking her small-brain dog head off and setting off a chain-reaction of dog alarms all over the neighborhood.
Now it’s "the chicken or the egg.” Or "the egg or the chicken.”

SO TODAY, I actually gave up part of my morning nap and came downstairs to look for her. She was curled up, fetal style under the dining room table, and she barely raised a gorgeous eyelash when I asked her what was the matter.
I also pointed out that she’s been missing-in-action on the Blog. It’s not like there hasn’t been anything to write about: the “Obama bugged me” business; the “new” immigrant travel ban; the cheaper-and-better-healthcare rollout. And not word one from Ms. KnowItAll.
“It’s getting too confusing, Cat,” she told me. “Is it Trump? Or is it the people who voted for Trump?”
“I mean, do Trump’s voters really want a liar as the leader of the Free World?” she said. “Or is Trump some kind of hypnotic fabulist that people can’t help but listen to and follow?”

WHEN Phoebe gets into these kinds of funks, I try, just like any highly trained psychotherapist, to let her talk, which not only helps her sort things out in her own unique way, but also gives me a chance for some extra shuteye.
But I felt that I had to provide some gentle guidance, nudging her into a productive course of self-discovery, while nurturing her self-confidence and sense of trust that she’s in a safe space:
“Listen, you witless, spoiled little Muttface, quit your mooning and self-pity, and get a grip. Scram. Out from under the table. Up on your own four feet! Get back to you window. Bark. Howl. Growl. And the next time the front door opens, get out of here and find something to kill. Be a Real Dog!”
Phoebe simply shrunk more tightly into her fetus-curl.

"IT MATTERS, Cat,” she said, her voice nearly breaking.
“Do Trump voters want to be lied to? Every Single Day? Do they really hate immigrants? Do they want kids torn from their parents’ arms? Do they want the Hounds of Hell set loose on Jewish cemeteries, schools and community centers? Do they want dirtier air, filthier water, stupider students, poorer poor people, sicker sick people, more homeless people?”
“So, Cat, I’m wondering if it’s my fault. Maybe I’m just not thinking clearly. Maybe I should be asking the Big Questions. And once I’ve answered those, I’ll be able to understand the Trump Thing.”
“The Big Questions?” I asked.
“Yeah, like: What is good and evil? What is Newton’s Third Law? Life on other planets. The Virgin Birth? Verizon or Sprint? And the Big One: Which came first: the chicken or the egg?”

"LET'S JUST take these one at a time,” I said in my most Freudian purr.
“Okay,” Phoebe said.
“Chickens hatch from eggs. So you have to have an egg before you have a chicken. But to get an egg, you have to have a chicken to make the egg. So there you have it.”
“Meaning?” Phoebe asked.
“Meaning that the chicken came first,” I said.
“Cat, you are brilliant! Thank you so much. I feel so relieved. Now I can get back to barking at the lame, the halt and the Maillady,” Phoebe said, scrambling out from under the table and taking up her perch at the sun porch windows.
“Just one more question,” Phoebe said.
“Shoot,” I said.
“Is Trump the chicken... ?”
Before she could finish, I had already disappeared up the front stairs to my hideout on the second floor, an imperceptible lump under a down quilt.

Day 41

3/1/2017

Stumped by Trump's 'Nice' Speech?

March 1, 2017

"DO YOU you feel better?” Cat asked me this morning.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“You know exactly what I'm talking about,” Cat retorted. “Trump’s speech last night to Congress. The BIG Speech.”

Of course I knew what Cat meant. But I was hoping that he wasn’t going to crow about what everyone said was a clear win. In fact, I figured Cat had skipped the talk. The Nice One, saying that she just couldn’t stand to hear the man’s voice, went to bed right before he came on TV. And Cat, who always tries to play nice to Our Humans, had followed her upstairs.

I had stayed down in the living room, with the Grouchy One, who is, if nothing else, a masochist. He’s not exactly getting any younger, and you’d think he would make better use of his remaining years.

As for myself, I had to watch it, given that I’m a working journalist - obviously.

“Miserable,” I said, finally answering Cat’s question. “The speech made me feel miserable.”

“You’re kidding!” Cat retorted. “I’d thought you would welcome the New Trump. You get so upset with his attacks on immigrants, on the media, on America’s allies, on the CIA, on Nordstrom, on federal court judges, on POWs. None of that last night. Nada. No mean Tweets. Zero insults. No mine-is-bigger-than-yours comparisons,” Cat said.

“Almost everyone described it as a kinder-and-gentler Trump," he said The Punditry went crazy. They said Trump was ‘presidential.’ He gave the best speech of his life. He’s already headed to reelection in 2020.”

CAT'S ENTHUSIASM astonished me, and I have to admit, he caught me off guard. But not for long.

“You mean the part where he invited relatives of people killed by illegal immigrants to sit in the House gallery, so he could use them as foils for his campaign to demonize all undocumented peoples as criminals?” I said to Cat.

“And how Donald-Draft-Dodger used the widow of Ryan Owens, the Navy SEAL killed in Yemen, as another prop to boast about the ‘success’ of that mission, only hours after he blamed the generals who he said ‘lost Ryan?’ “

“And worse, as the TV camera focused relentlessly on the woman’s face, Trump said to her: ‘Ryan is looking down right now – you know that – and he’s very happy because I think he just broke a record,” meaning the long stretch of applause (for which Trump took credit). Yup, Mr. and Mrs. Owens are really happy.”

“You are such a cynic,” Cat said. “You know what I think? You’re in shock because the guy didn’t give you a brand-new ‘outrage’ to rant about in your stupid blog or on Facebook.”

Cat was on a roll. He’d sure done his homework. The polls were out, he said, showing that it wasn’t just the pundits who liked the speech - lots of people did. Trump even sent the stock market soaring.

“And how about that opening?” Cat said. “Trump knew that it was the end of Black History Month, and he said how upset he was about Jewish cemeteries being desecrated, and that there’s no place in America for bigotry.”

“Right, Cat,” I replied. “Trump read that opening with all the conviction of a schoolyard bully forced to read an apology in front of the class, but planning to beat the crap out of the kid who squealed on him at recess.”

“FACE FACTS, Liberal Fuzz Brain, you were outmaneuvered,” Cat gloated. “Just like during the campaign. And it scares you.”

“You keep thinking that Trump is going to self-destruct. That eventually he’ll say something, do something and there will be that elusive ‘Last Straw Moment’ that will drive him from office, with him being impeached or hauled off to the funny farm.”

“Not going to happen,” he said, flashing what passes for a smile on his fickle feline face, which is not unlike the sort of grimace Trump manages occasionally in lieu of a smile.

“Trump’s a survivor,” Cat said, going for the kill. “If you want to get rid of him, you’re going to have to work at it.”

“You’re going to have to organize. You’re going to have to come up with the right programs, and the right messages. You’ll have to talk to people who don’t like you, but who maybe will work with you. And, by the way, you’re going to have to win some elections.”

“But rest assured, Pal,” said Cat. affecting a TV anchor's deep voice of Authority. “Donald J. Trump is not simply going to go away.

A "sweet dog" and a smart opossum consider a nation at risk.

The writers

PHOEBE, a "sweet dog" who came to Rhode Island in 2010 as a stray puppy from Missouri, was a political agnostic until Trump's catastrophic election. She tracked his presidency in a blog, which she decided to resurrect it this year when it became obvious that Republicans are committed to Trump's destructive policies

MR. O, an opossum, showed up in Phoebe's backyard somewhat mysteriously. He turned out to have genuine insight into political matters, and he agreed to assume co-author duties of the blog after Phoebe's previous writing partner, Cat, a cat, died.

CAT

Day 71

﻿Day 63

​DOGS GO TO WORK:A LONE LIGHT TWINKLES IN TRUMP’S DARK SKY

Day 54

​An Empty Bowl, Our Early Spring, Trump & the Truth