Progenitors

Fiction“The Robert” began to model himself after the president who single-handedly saved the country from itself.

For a kid his age, he watches more that his share of C-Span.

He doesn’t care about wonky issues but he likes to study powerful people. He’s especially impressed by how they call people names and use outrageous lies to humiliate them.

The boy kept his hair long so when he decided to sweep it across his forehead, all he needed was hairspray. At the same time, he began to pretend he didn’t hear kids when they called him Bobby.

I’m “The Robert,” he insisted. When a seventh-grader used his old name, he made up rumors that destroyed her. It felt good.

Strutting and bloviating – “everyone loves me” – he came to dominate his school.

As they did every Sunday, his family went to his grandparents. His aunts, uncles and cousins hooted with laughter when he launched into his Trump routine.

“Aunt Caroline’s a fat slob,” he announced as potatoes were passed. The Robert told his cousin she was a H-U-G-E loser. “Jason wimps out during gym.” He reproached his father for not having an advanced degree and taunted the housekeeper with a fake Guatemalan accent.

After dinner his grandmother invited him into the living room. She’s an adoring woman and each of her nine grandkids believe they’re her favorite.

When they were alone she pulled Bobby close and held him long enough for it to mean something. She took a step back to look at him, paused briefly and then she slapped him hard, but not as hard as she could have.

“The Robert” began to model himself after the only man powerful enough to save the country from itself.

For a kid of his age, he watches more that his share of C-Span.

He doesn’t care about the issues but he likes to study powerful people and how they control others. He likes how President Trump calls people names and uses outrageous sarcasm to duck questions.

Everybody laughs. Sometimes they cheer. “He’s authentic!”

The boy always kept his hair long so when he decided to sweep it across his forehead, all he needed was hairspray. At the same time, he began to pretend he didn’t hear people when they called him Bobby.

I’m “The Robert,” he insisted. When a seventh-grader used his deprecated name, he made up something ugly about her. He was surprised at how nicely it vaporized her. Like she never existed.

“Everyone loves me,” he would tell everyone. Strutting and bloviating, he came to dominate the entire school.

As they did every other Sunday, the boy’s family went to his grandparents. His aunts, uncles and cousins hooted with approval when he told them he was The Robert. They begged him to do his Trump routine during dinner.

“Aunt Caroline is a fat slob,” he announced as potatoes were passed. Everyone laughed because they were fed up with WOKE correctness. Besides it wouldn’t hurt Caroline to loose a few pounds.

The Robert told his cousin she’s a huge loser — H-U-G-E loser.

“Everybody makes fun of Jason during gym,” he informed the gathering. He reproached his father for not having an advanced degree. He taunted their housekeeper with a fake Guatemalan accent.

After dinner his grandmother told the boy she had a gift for him. She’s a thoughtful woman, barely five feet tall, an adoring grandmother. She has each of her nine grandkids believing they are her favorite.

She invited the boy into the living room. When they were alone she pulled him close and held him long enough for it to mean something. She took a half step back to look at him, she paused just briefly and then she slapped him hard, but not as hard as she could have.

They weren’t dog people. They weren’t cat, gerbil
or goldfish people either. They were simply parents with two children.

They lived in a part of the world where dogs are seen as source of companionship rather than protein, and where conventional wisdom holds that dogs teach compassion and responsibility to children.

You can see where this is going.

The parents bought themselves a year or two of delay by going to Barnes and Noble and buying a book with a breed of dogs featured on each spread. Every evening the man and his daughter studied those pages. They invented a game where he would cover the text and she would recite the provenance and personality of each breed. Once she had learned them all, she called in her chits.

She and her mother phoned from the SPCA shelter to describe the prettiest, nicest, smartest, (I-will-walk-him-everyday) dog in the world. He’s got a schmushed-in nose, she told her father.

The family talked it over that night. A Japanese Chen (without papers) would be a fine choice. They would pick him up first thing next morning.

But it turned out that the prettiest, nicest, smartest, (I-will-walk-him-everyday) dog in the world was nowhere to be found. The staff said he may be at another shelter, he may have been adopted, or even, ugh, you know…

The mother stayed while the staff searched databases. The man took the kids to a hot-dog place, preparing them for all possibilities.

When they came back the mother offered some hope. Yes. Maybe. The dog might be in the burbs, Expressway traffic was favorable that Saturday morning — they needed to get there before Cruella.

“It might be the one in aisle F.” the manager said. They looked into cage after cage. There was one dog that fit the profile exactly, but no, it wasn’t him. They had come for nothing. All was lost.

But then way down an aisle, through her tears, the girl saw him. There he was, looking out at her, and he was even more perfect than yesterday. The clerk opened the cage and released him. He spun around three times to sanctify the solemn moment — and then he defecated on the floor. That’s when they knew he was the dog for them.

On the drive home snorting and licking, tail doing seventy in a 55-mph zone, the animal took command of the family sedan and family in it. He ran back and forth exploring his new home. The backs of sofas were to his liking. There were places in the sun to nap and watch animals.

They gave him the name of “Sumo” and it stuck.

Japanese Chins are referred to as cat-dogs and were cultivated to live in royal cages. His new owners could spoil him shamelessly without having to worry about his character. He would learn tricks but he felt performing was beneath his dignity. “I’m not a pug, you know.” But the truth is that he would sell his soul for table scraps.

Sumo almost never barked so it was a surprise when some kids from different cultures would jump up on their chairs during dinner, terrified that a dog might touch their legs.

He was everybody’s pet and he was almost never left alone The family walked him 3 times a day, taking turns. After dark, runners would freeze in their tracks, mistaking him for a skunk. He and the boy spent even more time together after his older sister became a teenager.

The family had never said goodbye to a pet before and, maybe because they weren’t dog people, they weren’t prepared for the intensity of their loss.