Our political leadership warns us, but we don’t listen. I remember a friend’s father, an F.B.I. agent, carefully reading through a brochure we were given in seventh grade teaching us about the communist threat. He checked that a communist hadn’t written it. Today, we are dealing with a slew of various new enemies. Some are other politicians, they say.
Someone I have known for years warned me how many communists are in the Obama administration. “The communists are back?” I asked. Her intelligence has been tested and determined to be in the upper 5 percent of the population; I saw the test results. Are we listening to thinkers like her? Well, some are and now I’m one of them.
It started on Presidents Day in my very own home; we are all this vulnerable. My three dogs tried to sit in my lap all at once. This is a democratic country, they said; we think this should be a democratic home. “Hmm,” I said. Everyone should have a say. It’s only fair, I was told. “Hmm,” I repeated and then asked, “And how do you think we should form this democracy? Is it workable?”
Sure it was workable. Sylvie, the queen bee, took the lead. We should all have a vote. One man, one vote. “And women?” I chastised. Sure, and dogs, too. “Hmm.” They all wanted a vote. Jack was smart; he offered me two votes, especially since I was taller. I knew I could win at least one of them over to my side. “OK, but a tie goes to my side.” The deal was done. Democracy won. The dogs danced and bit each other’s ears.
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The very next night, I was tired and wanted to go to bed. The dogs wanted to go outside so we voted. It was 3 to 2 and we went outside. Looking back, I’m glad they won. They really need to be out in the grass; Jack likes this one special tree.
Next morning, they wanted a dog biscuit. “In the morning?” I asked. They voted and got their biscuits. Then I poured some coffee and opened the newspaper, checking that some editor hadn’t changed my column. The dogs wanted me to scratch that spot that makes their hind legs thump. It was 3 to 2 so I put the paper down.
My first glimmer of the problem came that evening when I was walking out the front door. I was heading toward the mushroom pizza house for a beer. They wanted to go with me -- 3 to 2. I changed my destination to Publix for a jug of milk; it’s a shorter trip and they were happy with that. Then I was off to that carefree pizza place for a mug of brew. LuLu stopped me at the door and Sylvie stood behind her.
They were tired of me leaving the place looking like a slob. I was embarrassing them. When those three -- who don’t mind licking themselves anywhere, not caring who sees -- are embarrassed by me, it is time for me to straighten up. I didn’t want to give in too easily, “Isn’t it a free country?” I had to consult the mirror. The vote was 3 to 2.
I put on a new shirt and combed my hair so they let me leave. When I returned home, fortified by my beer, I called all three together determined I was going to fix this “democratic” mess. “You dogs are in control; I get no say anymore. We’re going back to the way things used to be.” We didn’t go back ... it was 3 to 2.
I had communist dogs. That’s the way they sneak in. They look like friends and sound like good Americans, but it’s only a facade. At first chance, they take control and never look back. When they have the power they never let it go.
Sylvie is like Karl Marx -- she does the thinking. Jack is the false face who can make friends with anyone. Lulu is the enforcer. She looks at you with the cold stare of a Russian gulag. The commies took my house.
The foxy leaders know who the threats are so you better listen. It’s too late for me. I just stay home, scratch bellies and wonder how it happened. Hmm ...
Tom Scholl is a resident of Macon. His email address is firstname.lastname@example.org.