Grampa's Little Angel II - Von Trump and Things

I was going to start hatching my Plan C and finally be rid of that ridiculous kitten they call Wilson. But it seems the good folks of the house are in a stuttering fury over someone they call Von Trump. Most times the man's name gets stuck in Grampa's throat. Giving him the appearance of one who is about to regurgitate his morning feast of prunes and oatmeal. Not a good look on a human. I've often been in a state of regurgitation, and am somewhat amazed at what comes up, because I don't always recall what went down. I’m quite frenzied in my ravenous  approach to the dinner bowl, you know. I recall the incident with the pigeon leg. I was surprised as anyone when it showed itself during one of my upheaval sessions. I certainly didn't kill it. I'm not that ambitious a dog. I'm more the country squirish sort. I would certainly pay someone to kill a pigeon, having it served to me with a lovely grouping of sauteed asparagus, but I most certainly would not take knife and fork to one of the road-kill variety. Mongrel though I am, I do have standards. And skunk, possum or squirrel ain't on the menu either.

Pardon me my digression. As I stated earlier, my owners are having a snit-fit over a chosen leader called Von Trump. A leader of the pack you might say. Goodness knows we'd never have such a thing in the dog-world ever again. As revealed to me in my ancestral bible, we gave that up the day one of our immortal leaders showed up after an excursion to find a new homeland and, instead, was roped and taken in by a family of hut dwellers. And thus the legacy began with these words:

After thy twelfth week of divine domesticity, I said unto my flock, “Do not fear the two-legged walker! For not only will they feed thee, as well they will pick up thy loathsome dung droppings and scratch behind thine ears!“

My two-legged walkers do not expect this Von Trump leader to be scratching behind anyone’s ears anytime soon.  But the two-legged creatures are not dogs. They are a more independent lot. Yet, they love being led.  Why do they do it? I’m guessing they do not know themselves. Elsewise, why gather en masse in ridiculous hats to praise a chosen one, no matter the chosen one’s disposition? Hater. Lover. Zealot. Deceiver. Dreamer. Demagogue. Libertarian. Snake.

If you’ll pardon me a minor colloquialism, I’m glad I ain’t one of ‘em. I’ll take a dog’s life any day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to start hatching my devious plot to put an intrusive kitten named Wilson out of its misery. I’ve even written a song to put me in the mood.

Kitten, oh kitten
oh, where are you kitten
I’ve got something special
to show you
so please close your eyes
it’s bound to surprise
I’ve carved a wee hole
for you to fall through

When next you hear from me, I shall once again be the master of the pet-dwellers around this house. Till then, adios amigos!

Photo credit: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Boss_Trump.jpg