Frosty’s Thanksgiving
Charlie Earl
Frosty, as
you may know, is my beloved Golden Retriever. He is sweet and intelligent but
lacks common sense (assuming, of course, that some semblance of sense is common
among canines). Although he is loyal and obedient to his constitutionalist
master (me), I suspect that Frosty is a latent liberal/progressive/socialist.
Frosty, I fear, is a “Forty-seven percenter.” He is a moocher, a beggar and an
entitlement mind-dweller. In his defense … he is not a looter. Frosty does not
steal food from people or other dogs. He expects it to be given to him as a
matter of course.
Frosty’s
courtesy may be a result of cowardice or fear (he lacks certain essential
man/dog parts), or it may spring from an innate confidence that what he needs
or desires will be provided by others … namely me. He is a nearly perfect
metaphor for a large portion of our U.S. society (and global, as well). Frosty
is nice. He is polite and loving, but he never hunts for his own food. He
rarely barks or growls when potential danger approaches. He merely eats, sleeps
and expects to be fed. I love Frosty, and I love many people whose attitudes
are similar to his. I long, however, to b*tch slap the living crap out of them
if I believed that it would do any good. I think of my approach as a “survival-based
intervention.”
Most of us
are familiar with the concept of intervention. We see a loved one tumbling into
the depths of addiction and despair, and we must confront them, correct them
and support them without enabling their destructive lifestyle. Sadly…although
Frosty has a rather large reservoir of words that he seems to understand, a
discussion of the harsh realities of dog life seems to spin him into a fearful
depression. The ideas that I promote during the danged doggy down-and-dirty
intervention seem absurdly alien to him. He cannot agree with my observations
because he doesn’t understand the reasoning supporting them. His entire life
with me has been one of reliable dependence. He cannot imagine that the gravy train
has a terminus, therefore a discussion of his need to be more self-reliant and
independent strikes no chord. I may as well discuss the merits of the Tooth
Fairy riding a unicorn to Santa’s Workshop in the North Pole located just past
the Shangri La exit on the intergalactic freeway. He doesn’t get it and never
will.
And so … I
must face the stark reality that Frosty is, and always will be, my dependent …
despite his talents and potential. Alarmingly, I understand that my benign and
undemanding treatment has caused Frosty to settle comfortably into his cushy
life of “gimme.” My failure to say “No” has fostered his sense of entitlement.
My weakness has led to his inability to fend for himself. My misplaced kindness
has morphed into cruelty because Frosty cannot survive through his own wiles
and effort. I have vowed, therefore, to begin the fateful path of leading
Frosty back to self reliance. He must stay at home on Thanksgiving Day.
Pat and I
will be traveling to Carey, Ohio, where my sister is hosting (hostessing?
Twinkie-ing?) our family dinner. If time allows, we will also go to Heather and
P.J.’s where they are entertaining Heather’s clan, but Frosty must stay behind.
His expectant look and drooling lips will not be present as we consume our
tasty meals. His subtle little whines will not intermingle with the chatting
and laughter of the family conclaves. His wagging tail and eager little hops
will be absent as we thank God for our blessings and each other. No … Frosty
will spend the holiday of thanks alone … although he’ll probably be comfortable
while snoozing on my bed. Hey! It’s a start. I’ll incrementally wean him from
his dependent life. Eventually generic dog food and fresh self-caught game will
replace the “Beneful” and the tasty treats. A pile of straw in the barn will
have to suffice in lieu of my bed, his comfy pillow and the sofa.
It will
happen. Soon. Someday, but not right now. After all … Christmas is coming, and
what kind of cold hearted person would make someone he loves and who loves him
… sleep in a barn. Really?
Charlie Earl
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