You wanted him… you got him!
When I was a kid, I really wanted a dog to call my own. A dog that would be my best friend,.. A dog that would fetch stuff for me, learn tricks, play with me, and just be my dog. My very own dog. I really, really wanted my very own dog.
Well, I got him. And what a dog he was. Big… beautiful. I named him King because to me, he was “The King of Dogs“. A collie. Lassies, twin I might add. He was gonna be a great dog.. He’d go with me everywhere I went. He’d be my protector (who’s gonna mess with a kid with a BIG dog?) He’d obey my every command (after all, I was the Master, don’t you know?). I’d say “Speak” and he’d speak. “Roll over”, and over he’ll roll. “Fetch” and he’d fetch me a city bus (after all, he was the KING of Dogs). I had great plans for me and ol’ King.
Trouble was, King was just that- an ol’ King, as in old. It wasn’t long before I learned the truthfulness of the old adage, “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks”. Ol’ King was anything but a king. He was an old, set in his ways, grumpy man disguised as a dog. And I learned something else. Being the Master of a grumpy old man disguised as a dog was hard work. Had to give him a bath (imagine a 50 lb kid giving a bath to a 100lb dog that really did not care for the whole bathing experience). Had to feed him. 100lb grumpy old men sure eat a lot. My every waking moment was spent feeding this hairy garbage disposal. Things weren’t going the way I had envisioned. King was suppose to be the “fetcher” but I was fetching water. I was fetching food. I sure hoped he didn’t have a need for a city bus.
He was SUPPOSE to be my protector. Yeah right. My brothers would gang up on me. Did he care? Nope, not one iota. He was just one big furry ball of indifference. Oh, he raised his head a time or two when I screamed bloody murder. That was the extent of his protection of me. I could have been mauled by a pack of wolves, but King would say something like (if dogs could talk), “Not on my watch” as he eased himself back to the comfort and solitude of his dog house. He was no protector. Nor was he a witness to my daily agonies. His only concern was “Is it time to eat yet?”
Oh, he was ferocious. Had a growl that would curl your hair. His bark, loud and constant as it was, would scare the daylights out of you. Trouble was, about the only time he growled was when I got too close to the food I, I, mind you, had just given him. He evidently failed to get the memo that says, “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you”. The worst dog bite I ever got wasn’t from a stray, or a pack of wolves. It was from my best friend. My Protector. My mutt who was suppose to be my king.
Don’t get me wrong. Ol’ King was a giver. He gave me a lot. He left piles of gifts everywhere- many of which had to scraped off my shoes, or wiped from my bare feet. And King should be given credit for inventing those “Transformer” toys that kids have today. He “transformed” my brand-new Daisy B-B gun into a… a “I don’t know what”. I don’t know what he turned it into, but whatever it was, it sure wasn’t a B-B gun anymore. With teeth that seemed to be 6 inches long, he could instantly transform good things into things that wasn’t so good. Newspaper, toys, lawn chairs, car tires (still on the car) were fair game. And stuff hanging on the clothes line. He LOVED (or hated, never could tell which) stuff hanging on the clothes line. He gave me a spanking one day. Well, he didn’t, my mom did, but I owe this particular spanking to my, yep… my best friend. Moms new sheets were hanging on the clothes line, swaying in the breeze. King took personal offense to that, and took out his aggressions on those nice clean sheets. Within seconds, King gave us a new supply of grease rags. Was Mom pleased with his gift? No… of course not. Did she discipline King.? No… it was MY fault. (How could it be my fault? She’s the one that hung them there.) Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken that little line of reasoning out loud. In retrospect, I think it was that little observation that led to my getting the daylights beat out of me. (Ok, ok, she didn’t “beat” me… but I was just an innocent victim in this whole escapade. I didn’t hang the sheets out, I didn’t chew them to shreds….
King wasn’t a king afterall. He was just a dog. But, for better or worse, he was my dog. He didn’t serve his master all that well. Not at all, in fact. Never fetched me anything. Never protected me. And the only thing he ever gave me was something that had to be scraped off my shoe and smelled awful. I complained to Mom about this ungrateful, good for nothing dog. I took him hunting and what did I get? Ticks and chiggers (man, I hate chiggers). I played with him, well, tried to, he just growled, rolled over and went back to sleep. What did I get for my efforts? Fleas. (Another lesson learned: “He who lays down with dogs…” well, you know the rest.) Yeah, discouraged that my King was just a lazy mutt (definitely NOT related to Lassie or even Snoopy), I complained to Mom. Her words, which I have never forgotten: “You wanted him, you got him”.
So… with that in mind, as we Americans head to the polls to vote for the candidate of our choice, we should remember this little story. King is just a dog. We may have big plans and high hopes, but he’s just a dog. And a politician is just a politician. They often hold a lot of promise. We have high hopes for them. We expect great things from them. But, in reality, they may not be what we hoped they would be.
So, whoever we vote for, whoever wins, we need to remember this 6 months from todays date. “We wanted him… we got him”.
The moral of the story: Don’t put a lot of faith and confidence in a King. Trust the KING OF KINGS!
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