Yet on Independence Day, in many places, America itself still works.
Wow. What a day. I awakened filled with dread. That makes it a normal day for me. I trudged (the road of happy destiny) over to my office above the garage. Just as I reached the top of the stairs, my wifey came out of the house in her robe and said, “Zelda has died.”
Zelda was our poor, pitiful German short-haired pointer who was terrified of men. She had supposedly been owned by a man who abused her horribly and she cowered whenever a man came into the room. She was emaciated and poorly trained, but when I was lying down and not towering above her, she was affectionate. She mainly loved my wife and hung out with her constantly.
When we played ball, she ran for the ball eagerly. When she could pry it out of the mouth of my Julie Goodgirl, she would drop it into the pool and wait for me to retrieve it and then she would run for it.
Just a few weeks ago, she attacked Julie Goodgirl for getting to the ball first and took to biting Julie on the nose. Julie’s poor nose bled and bled and still has dreadful scars. (I do put Neo Sporin on it consistently and that helps.)
We rescued Zelda about two years ago. Shortly after that, she showed signs of weakness, and we brought her to the vet. He diagnosed Addison’s Disease, the same ailment that afflicted JFK. We had her treated with what the vet said was right, hydrocortisone, and she seemed to be doing well. Just yesterday, she was furiously chasing the ball when I threw it.
She cuddled with my wife last night but this morning, she was dead.
Rigor mortis had already set in, and I carried her downstairs. A dog mortician came and got her remains and the house feels empty without her.
Eleven months ago, when we drove down to the desert, we had four dogs with us: my favorite, Brigid, a GSP of immense warmth and lovability, really my dog; Cleo, a bit sluggish but also loveable and of course, a GSP; Mopsy, Alex’s pitiful, yapping, but brilliantly inventive and aggressive Maltese — who could open bags of potato chips and eat them in the car — and hiding on the floor of the back seat, Zelda.
Now, they are all dead. All dead. Of course, I have Julie Goodgirl, but Alex has only her seven cats. It was a morbid day. Alex, normally the most strong and sanguine of women, is crying.
It was especially morbid after yesterday, when we had our granddaughter’s first birthday party. Tommy made a delicious parfait. Kitty (staggeringly beautiful daughter-in-law) made a cake, and Tommy assembled an elaborate splashy toy from Toys’R’Us for his daughter. I slept on a chair in the back yard by the pool while Tommy worked purposefully next to me. It was a short but delightfully lush sleep. For some reason, I could not stop thinking of the FAO Schwartz that used to be on 14th Street, NW, next to Garfinckel’s in the 1950s — when their toys were one of a kind handmade wooden and metal, not mass-produced plastic. Wow, I am old. Still, Coco’s birthday party was glorious.
Anyway, that was yesterday. Today is sad.
Now, this is the real story of my life: Alex and I flew from LAX to Portland, where we had a lovely stopover at the B gates’ Alaska Airlines Board Room. It’s a great club, and then we flew to Spokane on a Q400. Its ventilation did not work (FAA take note) and it was cruelly hot inside. I thought I was going to throw up, but I didn’t.
Then, in Spokane, I rented a Chrysler 300 C. On Route 200, my wife was complaining that I was driving too slow. “I’m going the speed limit,” I said.
“Well, go faster,” she said. She loves speed.
So, I went between 70 and 80. Sure enough, a state trooper pulled me over. Grinning from ear to ear. I said, “It’s my wife’s fault.” She laughed hilariously. He checked for a very long time to see if I had any outstanding warrants. Then, he wrote a speeding ticket and wished me good day. Alex literally could not stop laughing for an hour.
A man of faith in a godless age is hitting Americans where it hurts.
Mr. and Mrs. American Spectator Reader, let P.J. O’Rourke talk sense to your kids.
In Britain, defending your property can get you life.
The debacle of this president’s administration is both a cause and a symptom of the decline of American values. Unless Congress impeaches him, that decline will go on unchecked. An eminent jurist surveys the damage and assesses the chances for the recovery of our culture.
It won’t take long for conservatives to scratch this presidential wannabe off their 2008 scorecard.
The American Christmas, like the songs that celebrate it, makes room for everybody under the rainbow. Is that why so many people seem to be hostile to it?
Was the President done in by the economy, or by the politics of the economy?