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As another political season chock full of prickly primaries, vicious debates and campaign ads of dubious reliability wrestles to a weary end, I can confidently say I am well-informed on one fact:
For trustworthy messages, I will depend on my dog.
Let's examine one prominent political race that's been all the rage -- and believe me there's been plenty of rage. Campaign ads started with Candidate A -- let's call this person Frick -- spouting off all the wonders he or she would do if elected.
My dog would do the same.
Then the second candidate -- Frack -- aired grievances about Frick. I don't remember the content exactly. I think it was something about how Frick made fun of frogs, wanted to quadruple taxes, stole third-graders' lunch money and hated teddy bears.
My dog would never campaign like that. True, my dog frolics through mucky ditches and licks things I'm not sure I'd touch even while wearing three pairs of gloves. Draw your own comparisons between canine and candidate behavior, if you wish.
But if my dog he wanted my vote, or more to the point, a belly rub, he'd ignore all other dogs and ask for a belly rub on his own merits.
I am not endorsing belly rubs for candidates who refrain from frolicking through mucky ditches, but hey, it could be the deciding selling point to campaign reform we've been searching for, if my dog's any judge.
The only thing Frack's arrogant posturing accomplished was to make me want to vote for Frick. Until Frick ruined it by barking back:
"Oh yeah! Well Frack will devalue the worth of Matchbox Cars collectibles, doesn't look both ways before crossing the street, fed his beets to the hamster, and doesn't make his bed!"
It reminded me of when we were kids.
"Burton, get your roller skates off the stairs. And help your father up off the floor."
"But Mom, Timmy left his math book in the bubble bath." This was stated with utmost sincerity – and a touch of whining – as total justification for leaving my skates on the steps.
Most of us grow out of this sort of logic when we reach maturity, say age 6 or 7. A great deal of the rest apparently become politicians or campaign managers.
We once pet-sat, which stuck me with two dogs from different camps lobbying at my right and my left for whatever happened to be on my dinner plate.
The dogs didn't waste time calling each other cats. They each stated their own cases simply and plainly: "Arf."
If they wanted a belly rub, they just rolled over and said so.
If the trash can was emptied over three rooms, neither dog played pointer. They figured we were smart enough to figure out the miscreant on our own. (That's another difference between dogs and certain politicians – a dog caught in a misdeed will hang his head.)
Yet, many politicians think blaming the world's ills on their rivals will net them the proverbial doggy biscuit: "During my opponent's career, the Asian economy collapsed, a lot of rain fell in Texas, a hurricane plowed through Honduras and my kid failed English. Obviously, you need to vote for me. Oh, and I'm thinking of coming up with an agenda."
So when you go to the polls in a couple weeks, take along your dog and ask his opinion. He'll give you a straight message. The message probably will be that he wants a belly rub.
— For further political advice, campaign for Cole at burtseyeview@tribtoday.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook. He'll ask his dog and get back to you.