I was thinking about gates, doors, and walls as I went walking with Sadie on a sunny Thursday morning. We typically walk along the sides of streets. I let her wander onto the edges, but not onto other people’s yards or very far down their driveways. Often there are gates, much like our own gate. If the gate is closed and isn’t too far from the road, I often let her walk up to the gate. The gates are there both to prevent us from entering someone else’s property and to signal us not enter the property. I could, if my life depending on it, scale many of the gates, but that’s clearly asking for trouble. The gate is meant to keep people out, not as a challenge to overcome. Sadie generally couldn’t get through the bars of the gates. Of course, a gate is no barrier at all to birds, rabbits, mice, rats, lizards, snakes, raccoons, butterflies, or bees.
A door seems to me to offer more security than does a gate. While a gate may prevent me from entering, it’s quite easy to see through or around most gates, to hear the noise from the other side and to smell what’s on the other side. It’s true that one may listen through a door but the sound is typically muffled. Loud music or yelling creeps through to the outside but a conversation normally stays private.
A door also helps the inside stay warmer or cooler than the outside air. A gate has no such function.
Among places dogs leave olfactory messages for each other, boundaries are high on the list. This includes hedges, curbs, and gates. Sadie “controls herself” well now, but when she was younger, she would often pee at the boundary of a social event. Specifically, when someone—especially someone new or someone she already liked but hadn’t seen for awhile, she’d pee. She also seems to understand what I mean when I say, “Sadie, we’re going for a ride in the car. You should go pee first and then we can get in the car.” I don’t think she “parses” the sentence and accesses the meanings of all the individual words. Nonetheless, she quickly pees and then goes over to get in the car.
A wall is a kind of transition as well. A gate is much more permeable than a wall and a door may be opened or closed or ajar. Often walls, such as castle walls have one or more gates or doors. People on one side of a wall almost always want to get to the other side, at least occasionally. At the very least, they want to be able to move information and goods from inside to outside and vice versa.
Why walls? The walls of a house keep you in a more easily controlled environment. A wall can provide a level of protection. That’s mainly what castle walls are for. Of course, they often fail as well. Invaders climb the walls or tear down the walls or burrow under the walls until the wall collapses. Of course, castles were also subject to sieges. Eventually, the defenders inside would run out of food. Primitive machines were constructed to hurl firebrands and large rocks in to wreak havoc and kill defenders.
The Greeks were unable to defeat the Trojans by destroying their castle. Instead, they famously made a large wooden horse as a “tribute” to the courage and tenacity of the Trojans. Overjoyed that the long siege was over, they opened the gates and led in the giant wooden horse and began to celebrate. Once everyone was drunk or sleeping, the soldiers hidden inside the horse snuck out and opened the gates to the much larger Greek army waiting outside.
Today’s technology is much more sophisticated of course, but walls, gates, and doors still exist. The defensive capabilities now include guided missiles, aircraft, submarines, and aircraft carriers as well as the threat of nuclear retaliation. During the so-called “Cold War” America and the USSR engaged in an “arms race” to develop the best weapons and more of them. Looking back on all the wasted energy and time on both sides, I think, “Imagine what could have been done if we had instead spent all that resource on preventing climate change, curing disease, and sponsoring science and education.
Of course, it’s not an easy problem. One side in a standoff can only stand down unilaterally if they trust the other side. Meanwhile, none of the amazing and exorbitantly expensive weapons, walls, doors, and gates we’ve developed are worth anything at all if we accept the modern Trojan Horse.
Social media, the press, the television, and nearly half of the political candidates spew misinformation on a daily, even hourly basis. We’re locked in a political race and one of the two candidates for President is himself a Trojan Horse. Like the ancient Trojans, all our walls and armaments will be useless.
The threat to America is, in many ways, worse than the threat to ancient Troy. The Trojan Horse that endangers us? It’s a steady steam of lies designed to induce Americans to kill each other.
No number of fighter jets; no cache of assault rifles; no armada of submarines; no hordes of fighters will save us from the Trojan Horse. The Trojan Horse is armored with something far more powerful than iron, steel, or depleted uranium. The Trojan Horse’s armor is your own mind.
Only courage will work to save you. It is not the courage to face an army. It is the courage to admit that you’ve been conned; that you were wrong; that you have been led down a garden path that leads nowhere near where you ever wanted to go.
“I never took a test. There’s been a mistake. I’m a supporter.”
“Shut up or I’ll break every finger. Capiche?”
The guard grinned a moon of bloody teeth and pushed his nightstick against Bob’s lips. Hard.
Bob grunted but said nothing; decided he’d bide his time for now. This will all get sorted later.
It didn’t get sorted. Why would it? Along with tens of thousands of other “supporters” the only thing Bob got for his support? A free one-way ticked to the burn pits. He’d been beaten enough that when his time came, he jumped of his own accord.
When facts are hidden, the imagination blossoms. The facts of meetings between the former guy and Vlademort Putrid are known. You may have forgotten. I have not.
What we do know is that the former guy’s body language consistently shows that Putin is the dominant of the two. The former guy often looks a lot like a whipped dog. His eyes are downcast. His head is down. His shoulders are hunched. He contorts himself to look lower than Putin.
His statements about Putin (and other dictators) consistently show his admiration for brutal, cruel, murderous dictators. That is in contrast to his statements about democratically elected heads of state and American politicians, including those in his own party.
We also know that the former guy was born rich; lost a fortune; then begged his daddy for more. The former guy was not daddy’s favorite child, at least initially. TFG’s mother was often sick. If the American public knows this, you can be sure that former KGB officers knows it as well.
What follows is fiction. It is fiction in the sense that American citizens have no way to find out what actually happened in the secret meetings between Putin and the former guy.
Here is a link to a series of four fictional stories. As time goes on, however, it seems more and more probably that something like this may well have happened.
“No, Mister President, don’t worry. I can speak some English. And I have my translator here. Given that you’re such a smart guy, I’m sure you probably picked up few words of Russian. You know word for yes, da?”
“Yes, President Putin. I mean, da!”
“Good. Excellent. I don’t understand how the people in your country fail to realize how lucky they are to have someone as competent as you. And realistic. Not hung up on silly abstractions. Don’t you agree?”
“Da! Da!”
“And, just as you get a lot of unfair criticism, so do I. It’s jealousy. People in other countries are jealous Russia’s strength and progress. So, they tell lies about people I supposedly murder. You know it’s all lies, right?”
“Da! Da!”
“You know, it’s odd. Your English slang word for father, ‘Dada’ sounds lot like the Russian words for ‘yes, yes.’ And, that reminds me. I heard a rumor that your dada favored Fred Junior. But you got the good genes. Eventually, your dada figured out that you were the smart one—the one destined for greatness. Isn’t that right?”
“Da. Da.”
“By the way, did you know my people call me ‘Papa Putin’? Wouldn’t it drive liberals and your other detractors crazy if you called me Dada?”
“That’s a great idea! It would drive them nuts! Serve them right, Dada.”
“Yes, indeed. I know some people may try to rein you or make you behave like normal President. Don’t do it! Keep acting cra—unique. Keep acting unique. Different. That way, your fans have no way of knowing where you stand except by listening to you that day. And when you say something crazy—unique, I mean, like ‘pollution is good for you’ your fans will instantly repeat it. They will vie for most followers or most likes and for retweets by you—best prize of all. And liberals? They’ll go nuts. And you know what they’ll do? They will also repeat what you say! It’s amazing. They’ll say:
You know what crazy guy just said? That pollution is good for you! How stupid do you have to be to think that pollution is good for you? It kills! Ridiculous to think pollution is good for you!
“And, so Donald, do you know what people who delude themselves that they are independents will remember from those antics in three months time?”
“Yes. I mean da. Da. Da! Dada. Pollution is good! Pollution is good! Which is also a good excuse to give tax breaks to the rich.”
“My God, Donald, you are smart! Too bad your people don’t realize. Well, many do of course. Eventually, once you gain power, the rest will join your ranks. Everyone will know.”
“Da! Da! Dada! I should get you something! What would you like?”
“Donald, do you remember how cool it was when you were kid and it was America versus the USSR? Olympics! UN! Foreign wars! Two sides! To USSR, you were evil. To us, you were evil. Wonderful times. Now, you’ve got these terrorist groups, lots nations with H-Bombs, and for what? It’s hell for everyone. See what I mean?”
“Da. Dada. I do.”
“And, you know, we’re like favorite band that split up. We just want to get back together band. For instance, part of Russia we call ‘The Ukraine.’ It’s actually part of Russia as you know. You do, know that, right, Donald?”
“Da! Da!”
“Good, well don’t forget in case—they are just sort of people incite us to war. We might have to liberate Russians inside Ukraine. You are smart man. You will know enough to back us up. Right?”
“Da. Da. Dada.”
“Donald, you know what? You are favorite among all world leaders. We’ll rule together long time.”
Sunshine was one of my reasons for moving to San Diego. It wasn’t the most important, but it was important and I appreciate the Sunshine. For the past week, however, Sunshine took a long-awaited vacation. Apparently, Sunshine was running some sort of scam on the weather forecasters, calling up and saying, “Hi! It’s Sunshine! I’m feeling so much better today! I’ll be at work as usual tomorrow. You can count on it.
And then, when daybreak arrives the next day, it doesn’t. That is to say, when it should arrive, it doesn’t because Sunshine has overslept. Again. I suspect it might be because of all-night partying last night on the other side of the world.
You would think that the weather forecasters would catch on. You might even think that they would have seen the famous “Charlie Brown” cartoon meme in which Charlie Brown’s frienemy Lucy, promises him, year after year, that she will dutifully hold the football and not pull it away—not this time. And, dutifully, year after year, Charlie Brown decides that this will, or at least might be, the year that Lucy finally does the right thing.
But of course, she doesn’t do the right thing. And, Charlie falls flat on his back every time. Lucy smiles.
So apparently, this week, did the Sunshine. Taking vacation elsewhere and not showing more than a stray ray or two in San Diego allowed for the deluge. Other places farther north had it much worse, in terms of rainfall and damage. Worldwide, what we now call extreme weather may, in many places, become more “normal” and extreme weather will become deadlier.
In any case, I am have been just as foolish as the weather forecasters and Charlie Brown. Every day, my phone app has said the rain would be over in a day or two. And, then, two days later…same forecast is dutifully presented. But not the promised reality.
Sadie, meanwhile has been very patient about the fact that our walks have been typically much shorter all week. She has also been patient about not being allowed to dig in the dirt. More accurately, she wasn’t allowed to dig in the mud. There was no “dirt” around. It’s not idle digging. She hears and smells gophers and goes after them. Unsuccessfully. Every time. She’s dug for gophers more than the San Diego weather forecasters trusted Sunshine’s repeated false assurances that tomorrow the rain would end; indeed, even more often than Charlie Brown has over-trusted Lucy.
She persists. She enjoys the process. Maybe the weather forecasters enjoy knowing that they made everyone feel hopeful that could play tennis in a few days (or have a picnic or mow the lawn or harvest their fruit in sunshine). Maybe Charlie Brown enjoys being the kind of person who would give another one more chance to be good, even if they never take that chance than to be more cynical and realistic.
I can’t say what the motivations are for Charlie Brown and the weather forecasters, but I am sure Sadie enjoys the digging. She certainly has little care for how dirty her paws get or whether she spews mud on my shoes. My philosophy may be a mixture of Charlie Brown and the San Diego Cabal of Sun Predictors. I believe Sadie should spend some time “just being a dog.” In other words, she should be in at least partial charge of what she does and be allowed to follow her “instincts” unless it poses a true danger and not just because, say, she tracks mud into the house.
As I was watching Sadie dig, and I was sliding sideways to prevent becoming inundated with wet dirt, it occurred to me that I too, had some years of “just being a dog.” My parents, I think, thought of it as time for my “just being a kid.” In some cases, I heard adults say, “Oh, it’s just boys being boys” when we played in the dirt, fought with sticks, or had “rock wars” wherein we literally threw rocks at each other.
Not all adults were on this plan 100%. My own parents would let me play in the dirt often times, but they did not want me to participate in rock fights or stick duels. Evading those restrictions was trivial. We weren’t trying to be bad. But we knew our friends would not to try to blind us with sticks or stones. We believed implicitly that since we weren’t intentionally trying to blind each other, it wouldn’t happen.
Though there were local variations in the strictness of restrictions, we were always able to do some version of “just being a kid” which truthfully, was not all that different from “just being a dog.”
I had just as little care about muddying my shoes or fingernails as Sadie does about muddying her paws. I’d say my “dog years” were mainly between six and thirteen. Before six, my parents or other caregivers wouldn’t leave me alone long enough to get in real trouble. I mean, I managed all the usual little things like peeing into electrical outlets, throwing stuff down the “registers” (heating vents) to see what would happen, and writing in books and on walls, but there was no opportunity to have rock fights or get muddy from head to foot.
From ages six to thirteen, however, I spent a lot of time outdoors unsupervised. Plenty of time to be a dog. A few years later, however, it dawned on me that girls might find me more attractive if I were less muddy. My mother might have planted that suggestion.
There’s no doubt that many of the “instincts” I had were not very effective guides. They weren’t as effective as the knowledge that science and society had developed over centuries. On balance, I still believe having some dog years is a risk worth taking.
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