The Three-Pound Dictator

The downfall of civilization rarely arrives with trumpets. More often, it limps through the front door half blind, completely deaf, and smelling faintly of old carpet.

The catastrophe began yesterday when I brought home a three-pound rescue dog from the streets, a creature assembled by Nature during what must have been a particularly distracted afternoon. The little brute cannot hear, can barely see, and yet possesses the tactical instincts of Napoleon crossing the Alps.

At first, there was hope. He only relieved himself in the house twice, which in rescue-dog mathematics qualifies as remarkable progress. Folks congratulated me as though I’d negotiated peace in the Middle East instead of merely limiting indoor urination to single digits.

But tyranny never announces itself all at once.

By nightfall, the animal had claimed strategic territory around the house. Because his eyesight is poor, he has adopted the sensible policy that everything moving nearby is an invading army. He now guards my chair, my side of the bed, the couch, the table, and possibly mineral rights beneath the property.

This morning, Mary made the near-fatal mistake of entering the bedroom and approaching the bed where His Majesty had stationed himself. The response was immediate. The tiny insurgent launched himself into a barking assault so fierce that Mary retreated before becoming the first known casualty of a three-pound domestic uprising.

Poor Buddy fares even worse.

Buddy, who possesses the temperament of a retired Methodist pastor, has already been disciplined twice for approaching the food dish without written authorization from the new administration. Later, Buddy was peacefully asleep in the big chair, minding his own affairs and likely dreaming of a kinder America, when the little terrorist climbed aboard and unleashed such horrifying growls that Buddy evacuated the chair and fled outdoors like a refugee escaping political unrest.

The beast has discovered a new amusement now. Whenever Buddy settles comfortably anywhere, the dictator orders him removed. It is less a game than an ethnic cleansing campaign.

Meanwhile, the creature sits near me as I write this account, staring with those cloudy little eyes that may or may not actually see me but unquestionably control me. It bends my will without sound or language. It is how Congress works, I suspect.

I can already feel the transformation taking place. The household no longer belongs to its human occupants. We are merely the administrative staff serving a tiny, deranged emperor with physical problems.

People say dogs bring love into a home. This one has brought regime change.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, the small tyrant has summoned me by placing one paw against my leg with the quiet authority of a tax collector, and experience has taught me that resistance only leads to more barking.