Trump'sTerrifying, Tumultuous,Trying & Tiring First Week
"WHAT'S YOUR excuse going to be?” Cat asked.
“What do you mean?” I said,
“What are you going to say about not writing about the president – not one friggin’ word –for the last four days?” Cat replied.
“Can’t you read?” I retorted, but regretted right away that I was getting into it with Cat, since he isn’t fond of dogs. When Cat starts a conversation, it never ends well.
“There was an Editor’s Note at the end at the last posting,” I explained with my cultured Lady-of-Newport, Rhode Island, voice. “It said that Phoebe had the day off. Even a catbrain should figure out that I won’t be writing on some days.”
“Must have missed that,” Cat sneered. “Like the president, I don’t usually make it to the friggin’ end of anything in the gosh-darn Meanstream Media.”
I have to apologize once again to readers for Cat’s language. It’s not really his fault. He came from a shelter in nearby Massachusetts. It’s no picnic living in shelter, especially in that part of Massachusetts, and he’s trying hard to learn Newport manners. So please cut him some slack.
“It’s MAINstream Media, Cat,” I said patiently. “And the reason I don’t write every day is that I need to spend time with our family.”
“You call sleeping all day on the sunporch ‘spending time with our family?’” Cat said, raising his voice while doing that squeezy thing where the claws start to poke out of his paws.
“Not the real reason, is it, Muttmouth?” he continued. “You just can’t stand that President Trump is rip-roaring to make America great again. Sure, you can listen to him for one or two days.
But not every day. Not day after day after day after day. You just slink off to your couch on the sun porch and hide your adorable head under a pillow or stare hopelessly out the window.”
“You shut up, Cat. You don’t know anything,” I said.
“I know a fraidydog when I see one,” Cat said. “Fraidydog. Fraidydog is scared of Trump. Fraidydog.”
“You shut your hole,” I screamed. “You don’t have any idea. How could someone with such a small catbrain know anything. Just shut the f--- up.”
HE HAD ME again, just like I worried he would.
It’s only been a week since the inauguration. And it seems like every hour, on the hour, the president comes out with something mean, cruel and dangerous.
“He says he’s going to build “The Wall.” Make the Mexicans pay for it. Maybe he’ll tax goods made in Mexico. Maybe he won’t. One way or another, he’ll make the Mexicans sorry.”
“His lackey calls the New York Times, tells the media keep its mouth shut."
" Trump says he’s all for torture, except his defense secretary told him not to. So maybe he won't.”
“It doesn’t stop. Somebody says it’s only been a week, but it feels like a year. And you know: he’ll go after Social Security and Medicare.”
“The news was getting so bad, so relentless, so mean, so terrible, so exhausting. that one of our humans, the Mean One, actually turned off NPR. shouting that he just can’t take it any more. He tells the Nice One that a friend, A JOURNALIST, says she’s on a “news diet,” to limit the amount of awful things she hears and reads so she won’t go crazy!”
“So, yes,” I told Cat. “Some days I just can’t write. Can’t think. Need time off. I know I can’t let Trump wear us down. And every morning, I say I have to keep trying. Today is one of those days.”
I COULD SEE that Cat was actually listening. Then he said, sounding genuinely curious: "Rewind the tape to the part about Social Security. You’re a dog. Why do you care about Social Security?”
“Our humans get Social Security and Medicare. Take those away, and they can’t pay the bills, and they’ll get sick and die. And you know what that means.”
“No, Phoebe, tell me what it means,” Cat said, looking a little sad.
“The street,” I said. “We’ll be on the street. Maybe you’ll be sent back to the shelter? Would you like to be sent back to Massachusetts?”
Cat didn’t answer right away. He was on the stairs, heading for the second floor, where he usually camps out, following the path of the sun from room to room.
“No,” he said. “Not really.”