I somehow can’t get over the fact that National Dog Day just happened to occur right in the middle of the Republican National Convention. Ironic? Perhaps. My own dog, Rosie, celebrated her day by eating two bowls of dog food, napping, peeing and pooping. Pretty much the way she celebrates every day. She is a […]
I somehow can’t get over the fact that National Dog Day just happened to occur right in the middle of the Republican National Convention. Ironic?
Perhaps.
My own dog, Rosie, celebrated her day by eating two bowls of dog food, napping, peeing and pooping. Pretty much the way she celebrates every day. She is a dog of simple pleasures.
She did agree to record “Animal Planet” so that her mother and father could watch the convention, albeit through clenched teeth and disbelieving winces. And frankly, Rosie was rather enjoying seeing the new rose garden now that all those pesky flowers and trees have been removed, taking note of all the great places to partake of her previously mentioned favorite things to do outdoors.
She lapped up most of the plaudits to the President offered in almost every speech. Or maybe I was just hearing her lap up the remnants of the beef stroganoff my wife and I had just consumed. Either way, she lapped.
It was all good. The Giants had become must-see TV, so we were flipping channels between the Republican love fest and the national pastime. There was some commonality there, too. Both were trying to score big.
Then somewhere in her laconic preparation for National Dog Day, Rosie was startled and ran from the room, tail between her legs and unable to change the channel because she has no thumbs to push the remote buttons.
Rosie has always had an inbred fear of Cruella DeVille (see “101 Dalmatians”), and the very sight of Kimberly Guilfoyle in a red dress screaming at her (and the rest of America), forced her to flee in fear of being adopted by her and Donald Trump Jr.
We told Rosie we’d find something nicer to watch on television. We settled on Shark Week.
Conventions in and of themselves are often more a case of molding the candidate into someone who you just want to say, “I like that person,” more than they are about how things might go once the election is over. It’s that over-used buzzword: spin.
Joe Biden is not really a doddering old man, just look at him having a “keep it real” conversation with rapper Cardi B. And talk about compassionate. Kids, dogs, stutterers, military people, fellow politicians and even the odd aardvark offered testimonials. Actually, the aardvark politely declined, saying he was with Kanye West until he knew for sure he’d dropped out of the race.
And how about what a great guy Donald Trump is? A wonderful caring dad, devoted husband, a compassionate man, a guy who puts others’ needs ahead of his own. It’s got to be true, I’ve been hearing it all week. And if former Heisman Trophy winner Hershel Walker tells me what a good boss he was, then sign me up.
This is just the beginning. Since each candidate has been created in the image of his own spin doctor, the true spirit of the election process can begin.
Now we’re really down to it. This should test the old football theory that a good defense will beat a good offense. I don’t think there’s a question in this election as to who’s on offense (read thrust) and whose job it is to play defense (read parry).
All the while, we continue to live in a masked surreal world, natural disasters are rearing their ugly heads everywhere and the pandemic looks like it’s sticking around at least until the holidays.
Politically, it’s onto the debates. And Rosie has agreed to watch them with us as long as that woman in the red dress doesn’t yell at her again.
Barry Tompkins is a longtime sports broadcaster who lives in Marin. Contact him at barrytompkins1@gmail.com
