Hands Off!

Karen and I with our homemade signs. Karen hand-lettered hers. I suggested she make the "P" stand for "Poopyhead" but she didn't go for it. I did NOT hand-letter mine, but I did draw and watercolor the penguin.

Making good trouble in downtown Santa Rosa, Calif., today as our little part of the "Hands Off" rallies happening in some 1400 cities across the country. Hard to estimate how many turned out, but we filled the town square and the sidewalks on both sides of three city blocks. Maybe a few thousand? Not the hundreds of thousands who demonstrated elsewhere, but a nice group of witty people with a lot of positive energy. 

We ran into several friends because we know quality people. Someone on Facebook cautioned about posting photos of people at these events without their permission and, while I'm not that paranoid, isn't it a shame that we even have to give a thought to the government rounding up protestors and shipping them to secret prisons? That's why we're there. Anyway, I won't out them in this post, but if you were one of those friends it was great to see you.

Look: I have no illusions that a few thousand people in my hometown are gonna change the world. That's not the point. Community, fellowship, letting other people know they're not alone and we have their backs--that's the point. Pebbles make an avalanche.

Makin' trouble. Woot. I pointedly wore my red, white and blue Fourth of July shirt to reclaim its iconography for the good guys. RIght-wing fascists don't get a monopoly on patriotism or the flag.

My view for most of the event, across the street from the park at the center of town, Courthouse Square.

A long shot down Third Street. I was standing on the right side of this street about halfway down when I took the previous shot; Courthouse Square is out of sight to the left. This was just a fraction of the folks who came out today.

250 Words on the Leader of the Pack

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

I carefully observe my little dog, Riley, trying to figure out how her brain allocates its resources. 

It’s around 50 percent food and treats, 25 percent pee, 15 percent poop, 5 percent guarding her territory from any bicyclist or cat that wanders past, and 5 percent a sense of affection for the apes she allows to love her on her terms.

That deal’s OK with me, but I try not to fool myself that it’s more than it is.

I often recall my writer friend Mike Peterson’s observation that a dog’s extraordinary sense of smell must make the world feel like being on psychedelics all the time. Riley and I have totally different experiences walking around the block.

I got one insight into Riley’s mind a few years ago, when I helped a neighbor close her broken garage door. My fingertips momentarily got caught between the hinged panels, and I let out a yelp before yanking them free. From a couple hundred feet away, Riley rocketed down the street like a fur-covered torpedo, ready to fight demons by my side. 

“I’ve got your back, boss!”

That kind of courage and loyalty earns a lifetime of unrequited belly rubs.

I do tell Riley how much I appreciate her many contributions to the team. Dogs are dogs and people are people, and anthropomorphizing doesn’t do either of us any favors. But as inscrutable as her mind is, I’m certain we’d both fight fiercely for our pack. I’ve got your back too, pal.

* * * 

NOTE FROM BRIAN: I wrote this essay a while ago and randomly assigned it to post today; it is a very sad coincidence that Riley died last week following a bout of congestive heart failure. She was a month shy of 13. Riley was a terrier mutt that someone had left tied to a bus stop when she was a pup, and we gave her the best home and family any dog could have had. 

My wife, Karen, read today’s essay and told me to edit it to read, “Riley devoted 50 percent of her brain to loving her Mom.” That sounds about right, if not low. 

George Carlin said that getting a pet means "you are purchasing a small tragedy," and here we are. For being such a small dog, she leaves an enormous hole. 

* * *

PLEASE SUBSCRIBE! I am sharing these little "250 Words On" essays via Substack, which will email a new one to your In Box every Tuesday morning. Just follow this link and enter your email address. It's free, and I promise to never use your address for evil purposes.