Katie's column this morning is about the liberal in her household—"a cuddly white Bichon"—who, according to Katie, is "a pleasure-seeker in full moral meltdown." While Katie used the occasion to poke fun at her dog, and by extension liberals, it was the cause of sober refection by Spotty, let him tell you, boys and girls! Before going any further, though, let Spot present a little photo gallery:
Bichon
Katie, of course
Now if this little tableau doesn't suggest the yin and the yang of moral constipation to you, boys and girls, you aren't paying attention. Cuddly white bichon, curly, not cuddly black Katie. Full moral meltdown, frozen stone.
Spot's first owner was a lot like Katie. Here's how Katie describes her dog, Fischer:
Fischer's decadence is unrestrained. His vice of choice is a glorious gluttony. He has refused to mend his ways, despite constant exhortations about the importance of self-discipline and moderation.
Katie goes on to describe the feats that Fischer performed over the years to steal food.
The first owner of Spot was a conservative Christian, too, a real Calvinist type. Appearances were very important to her. She got dressed up to take Spot on walks, and it was important for her to have a dog that reflected her tight-arsed asceticism. That meant Spot had to be svelte, really svelte. Spot was hungry all the time. He used to try to steal food whenever he could, too. It always meant a scolding—or worse—but it was the only way to keep the hunger pangs at bay.
Katie talks about Fischer's enablers: her kids. Yeah, Spot had enablers, too. Also the kids. They were in a similar position to Spot in many ways: subject to the iron will of the mistress and trying to fit into her mould. They could understand what Spot was going through. But finally, Spot couldn't take it any longer.
When the kind stranger saw Spot cowering in the ditch one night, dirty and cold, he took Spot home. Spot was gaunt and had a haunted look. Spot is ashamed to say it, but he was mistrustful at first. It was obvious to the man that Spot needed compassion—and some square meals—which the man provided in abundance.
As Spot convalesced, the man tried to figure out what to do with Spot. Spotty had broken his collar, so there was no way to identify Spot's first owner. He did check the newspaper and the utility poles in the neighborhood to see if anyone had reported losing Spotty. No one had, so the man had to decide whether to put up his own notices: Dog Found. In the end, he didn't, perhaps sensing that Spotty would not want to leave the liberal care that he had been given by the kind man.
And so, the kind man became Spot's new owner, and Spot has taken hundred of walks with him and chased countless tennis balls for him. He'll do it as long as he can.
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