Friday, January 1, 2010

Pretty old for a dog ... Very old for a republic

Everything has a lifespan.

She's 14. Pretty old for a chow.
She's almost 235. Old for a republic.
She limps and staggers when she walks, making it maybe 6 feet before breathing hard and laying down.
She staggers like a punch drunk boxer but the handlers keep the smelling salts handy hoping for a few more hits before collapsing.
She sleeps somewhere around 22 hours a day.
She sleepwalks through the day. The night brings on the unconscious attempts to reconcile a failed awakening. Sometimes dreams, sometimes nightmares.
I keep an eye on her, checking to see if she's still breathing, having to look closely because the breath is shallow as she sleeps.
We check the pulse each day, looking for a sign of improvement or a signal of the nearing end.
She doesn't require much affection. A rub, a hug, a scratch every now and then. Her eyes return the favor.
The affection of the people for our republic, our country is always there. The problem is that it so often doesn't go the other way. The republic's leaders throw us a bone and hope that we see it as love.
She like kids. They perk her up and get the tail wagging. I think she sees them as special.
The kids are to be indoctrinated and used for purposes of the state. Special? Only as far as they can remain debtor slaves.
She's family. An extension of our being. A full fledged member without conditions.
Our republic is also a family but often dysfunctional where division is the tool for control.
We know she doesn't have much longer but we deny the inevitable, instead only focusing on the time that is left and trying to make the most of it.
Are we also nearing the end of our republic and denying the consequences of our actions and inactions? Some will say the end came long ago. Others will insist that there is still a chance to save it.

The outcome for sure is that nothing lives forever. The only options we have is to try and extend the lifespan or do nothing and speed up the process towards the end.

1 comment:

  1. Real men barter and trade face to face and do so effectively, without resorting to gunplay. That said, A 'crushing blow' is sometimes good;
    The grzzliest and meanest wounded gunfighter would wag his tail in appreciation of first aid rendered, if he had one.