The Unmasking of a Traitor

Written by Jamie MacMaster | originally published in The Landowner magazine

But I was faithful to you Mr. Blenkinsopp. I cared for you, I was loyal, and I trusted you Mr. Blenkinsopp. And all that time Mr. Blenkinsopp, you were running around behind my back with another woman… I don't care if she was your wife.

(Rose, from the British TV comedy series, Keeping Up Appearances)

There are those embarrassing moments in a man's life when ugly truths have to be faced and loyalties and confidences that you took for granted are forever shattered. Let's say your hockey-playing son had just announced that he planned to study interpretive dance at college, or an old friend turned traitor and leaked the news to the public that you once voted for Trudeau. It would be pretty hard to live those things down, eh?

Well, gentle reader, such an hour of abject shame and humiliation is now upon me. I can't deny the revolting facts any longer, and I may as well break the news to you now – before Ontario Farmer columnist Ian Cumming finds out and derives vulgar delight from the broadcasting of my personal misfortune. Okay, here it is… my dog is a Liberal. God that hurt… talk about pain.

And I wish I could claim that he is a classical liberal in the mold of John Stuart Mill or Thomas Jefferson, but nope, not my dog. He's the worst of the worst – a phony, deceitful, no-respect-for-property-rights, large "L" Liberal who probably yearns for a life in an anthropomorphic cuckoo-land as espoused by Walt Disney, OSPCA inspectors and six-year old girls: dogs should have a six-figure salary, a 3.5 hour work-month, and a retroactively indexed pension that he would no doubt claim should have kicked in about seven years ago.

I started to have my doubts about his political inclinations a few years ago. It started with chasing squirrels, or, more accurately, when he stopped chasing squirrels. You see, he never caught one, but he at least kept them away from the house and garage. Then I made the first of a series of mistakes: I shot a few one morning and gave them to him as an aperitif. I had an instant convert – instead of a hunter he became a pointer. Oh sure, he'd make the odd half-hearted charge now and then, but mostly he'd run to the window, whine, look at the gun cabinet and then at me. The damage was done, the roles in the master-servant relationship had reversed and no amount of remedial action could repair the damage. It was like asking a unionized city truck driver to pick up a shovel... it wasn't going to happen.

And then there was my birch tree. Now it's not much of a tree, but I like it because it's a tough little survivor; the ice-storm of 1998 broke the top off but it still soldiers on. I noticed that the bark around the bottom was all black and rotting, peeling away from the trunk and I wondered…until I caught him one morning with his leg raised, sneaking a leak, while all the time looking over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching. Now, ever since he was a puppy he had been trained that one of the reasons God invented forests was so that doggies could have a multitude of trees to go do their business behind. And now here he was, on my lawn, giving the finger to the fool who feeds him. Ingrate. I won't go into the ensuing disciplinary process in any detail, but let's just say I showed him a thing or two about property rights and respect while reinforcing the principles of the master-servant relationship. Yeah... right!

You see, in true Liberal fashion he picks on the weak and defenceless to advance his doggy designs. He pretends to adore Weezie. He has her all figured out. Whenever he'd like a bit of attention or food (or just simply wants to get away with something) he acts (a) cute, (b) hurt, (c) alert, (d) starved; knowing full well that he's in a line for a belly-rub, piece of cheese, fetch-the-ball, or a blind eye to bad behaviour. It's sickening to behold. Shameless, blatant and self-serving.

In mid-February Weezie doggy-sat for ten days while I was in Harrisburg, PA. I returned to find dark piles of re-processed Purina all over the lawn, laneway and flower beds. My suspicions were confirmed when I let him out the next morning and he affected numerous detours around the accumulations, all the while avoiding any eye contact with me or the evidence. Ah ha! Guilty! Time for a remedial session on respect for private property and disrespectin' da boss. I wish! Here's the final blow.

I conducted a little political allegiance test. We had a little Friday afternoon ritual going. I'd come in around five or six, grab a few Molson Ex, a bag of chips, and we'd sit in the solarium my dog and me – and we'd drink beer, eat chips, burp, talk stupid, and relax after a long week.

Last week Weezie bought herself a few Bud Lite; that fairy pee favoured by teenaged girls, Barak Obama, and Rosedale socialists (whenever there's no Stella Artois to be found). I did the old Pepsi Challenge thing: half an Ex in one bowl, half a Bud in the other. Oh, he put on this big show alright; stood over the Ex wagging his tail and pretending that it was the one he wanted... he even had a slurp or two. But as soon as I pretended to be reading one of my hunting magazines, I caught him - he was lapping up that pansy juice like no tomorrow.


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