When Your Dog Goes Political: The Tale of Giblet

Most years, when I remember, I invite my old buddies to a Christmas lunch at Whataburger. Imagine my surprise when I stopped off for a Number 1 meal, with extra pickles and a Dr Pepper, and ran into my old pal Mooch. I had planned on calling him, but the sticky note fell off the fridge, and Momo sucked it up with her third appendage, also known as a cordless vacuum. I can’t survive a day without sticky note reminders. Plug in the coffee percolator, take meds, wash your face, turn off the burglar alarm system, feed the birds, etc. Life is easier when you have a yellow note lighting the way.

I joined Mooch in our usual booth, third from the entry door, chipped formica on the front edge, and “Jose loves YaYa” carved into the tabletop. Mooch looked all hangdog down in the mouth, which is his usual mood, but his personal pity party didn’t hinder him from stuffing his face with a double order of french fries and a Dr Pepper shake. I knew better than to inquire about his misfortune, but my mouth over-rode my sensible brain, and I asked what was wrong.

Mooch’s troubles stem from his wife, Mrs. Mooch, his son, Mooch Junior, or his foul little demon Chihuahua dog, Giblet. Today, Giblet had the man in a hand-wringing fit of despair. He brushed back a tear with his ketchup-covered napkin and let loose,

” That damn little dog has gone MAGA on me. Now, I kinda like Trump, but I always write in my vote for Ross Perot. The dog watches Fox News on his little TV all day, and some way, he got hold of my credit card number and ordered an official Trump hair piece from the RNC website. My wife sent a picture of him in his little wig to President Trump, and now he’s coming to Granbury to meet the mutt and take him to Chick Fil-A for a lunch visit. The guy from the Presidents office called and said that Trump may have a slot for Giblet in his administration, so now me and Mrs. Mooch will have to move to Washington and put up with all that crap.” I just had to ask him… didn’t I.