It will come down
to dogs.
It won’t be his
womanizing, nor his collusion with the Russians, nor his belief in lies,
tissues of lies, that there is no lie that he won’t marinate in his child-mind
until it spews into public, elevated to the false altar of a sacred truth.
No, it will be his
distaste for dogs that will be President Trump’s undoing.
If fixer Roy Cohn
were alive, he would advise his one-time protégé to be seen with a dog, playing
in the Rose Garden. A photo op with his new pet.
“For God’s sake,
Donald,” Roy would bark. “F—ing Nixon had a dog. Checkers.”
It’s hard to
imagine the name that Trump would choose to call his dog.
He couldn’t fathom
one that would thoroughly reflect his magnificent glory – and, of course, not
in the least upstage him.
If he had a sense
of humor, how about Vladimir? Who is the pet of whom, right?
Sessions would be
funny. So would Stormy. Mueller.
(Imagine Lou Dobbs
if he were to get wind of a White House mutt called Mueller? Such a
self-satisfied smirk you couldn’t get out of your head no matter how you tried.)
A boxer looks a
lot like a sour-faced Trump. But I wouldn’t foist that on such a majestic
breed.
The boxer, that
is.
Dogs stand by you
through thick and thin. You value loyalty, Donald? Get a dog.
Trump adopts a dog
stranded by the calamity that was Hurricane Florence (and calls the bitch Flo),
and he wins his Supreme Court nominee fight, tees up the GOP to win both the
House and the Senate in the midterms.
That is, if Roy
Cohn were alive. He’s dead. So is the likelihood that any of this is going to
happen.
Rather, Trump’s son
is trash-tweeting the woman who came forward to out the high court nominee for
sexual assault during the latter’s high school years.
Better a dog,
Donald, than attack dog Donald Jr.
Next: Running for Your Life: Pursuing Happiness
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