My Dog Has Marxist Leanings

Wyatt: Puggle and Marxist

I am greatly concerned that my 5 month old puggle, Wyatt, may be sympathetic to Marxism. It all started a couple weeks ago when I was cleaning out his kennel. Underneath his blanket I found a tattered copy of Karl Marx's masterwork "The Communist Manifesto." I was a bit surprised that he, being a puggle, was able to obtain a library card and check the book out to himself under my very nose, yet all in all I could forgive him that. Indeed, I consider it very industrious of him. The problem lies in what I perceive to be his growing enthusiasm for Communism as a legitimate political philosophy. Deeply disturbed by my findings, I confronted Wyatt the next time I took him outside to shit. But when asked, he only responded with vague generalities about wanting to expand his philosophical and political knowledge, Marx being a great writer on both topics. Yet when I pressed for him to be more specific, he became evasive and accused me of trying to begin a McCarthy-esque witch hunt. Sensing that I had struck a nerve with the dog, I dropped the subject, but informed Wyatt that I would be returning "The Communist Manifesto" to the library myself, as well as giving the librarian a stern warning not to check out any books to Wyatt. As we returned to the apartment I distinctly heard Wyatt refer to me as a 'capitalist swine.' A few days passed, and I thought that perhaps Wyatt had moved on from his study of Marxism to some other scholarly topic. Feeling confident, I asked the puggle if he had been reading any new books. Without saying a word he trotted over to his kennel and pulled out a thick book that contained numerous essays by the German philosopher Immanuel Kant. My brow furrowed. "Didn't Marxism derive from the writings of Kant?" I asked suspiciously. Wyatt nodded. "So are you still studying Marxist theory?" Again, the dog just nodded. I flipped through the book only briefly before setting it high up on our dinning room table, an area I knew Wyatt could not get to, as he stands less than a foot off the ground. "Wyatt, I told you that I don't want you reading-," but before I could finish my sentence, the dog interrupted me. He asked, quite matter-of-factly, how much I earned at my current job. I replied that that was none of his business. He then asked, rather boldly, if I thought that I was being exploited. Bewildered, I replied, "How do you mean?" Wyatt then asked me if I thought that the amount of labor that I performed doing my job was equal to the pay I was receiving. I told him that it was, at which point the puggle burst out laughing. He didn't believe that I was serious. He began a five minute long tirade about how hard I work outside in the blistering heat, about how I have contracted poison ivy on several occasions, about how I work late most nights and often on weekends. "I have seen your pay stubs," he said quite callously. "You don't make dick for your efforts." Admittedly, I lost my cool at this point and I told him to shut his dirty commie mouth. Wyatt could only sneer at me before walking casually away to lick the linoleum on the bathroom floor. Infuriated, I drove to the library with the book of Kant's literature. I slammed the book on the librarian's desk and demanded that she not allow the puggle to check out any more books, period! "But, sir," she said softly, "is it not remarkable that you own a dog that can read and express himself politically? What should it matter what he reads as long as he is reading something?" This only enraged me more. "Listen lady, I got two grandfathers that fought the krauts and the japs in World War II. My great uncle was killed in the pacific theater! My fucking brother is a United States Marine! No dog of mine is going to be a card-carrying Marxist!" I apologize for the racist language I used in my anger, but I was just so upset with my dog, and, I suppose, with myself. What kind of man allows his dog to become a Marxist? I returned home ashamed and feeling defeated. When I arrived back at my apartment, Wyatt was gone. I wasn't sure if I would ever see him again. Two days later he showed up at the door. I let him in and gave him some food and water. There was an oppressive tension that hung heavy in the room. Finally, I asked him. "Are you a Marxist?" He said that yes, he was. I shook my head and he accused me of being a sheep, brainwashed by the Washington bourgeoisie. "Capitalism is the fundamental value of America," I told him. "It ensures that everyone, no matter what his or her lot in life, has the chance to make something of their life." Wyatt only shook his head. "What?" I cried. "Capitalism turns the working class into slaves and exploits their labor only for the greed to the rich. It is an oppressive system that ensures that the rich stay rich and the poor stay poor!" I accused him of only vomiting back up the bullshit he had been reading and then just eating it back up again. Plus, he does that with his food, too. Then, in a act that shook me to the core, he pulled out a small blue pamphlet entitled "Marxism: The American Ideal." It was authored by himself. He told me he had been handing them out on the campus of the university. I sat down in utter disbelief. A fucking Marxist. My puggle had become a Marxist. He hopped up on the couch next to me, looking almost dignified as he stared into my eyes. He told me, very articulately, that he cannot change who he is, and that he will not expect me to change who I am. He told me he wants to live in peace with me, and he hoped we could put our political and philosophical differences aside for the sake of companionship. I was touched, but still reticent. "Are you going to go to the Fourth of July Parade?" He replied that he could not support such a farce. I smiled and shook my head. Then, he licked me on the nose. Maybe he was right. In America everyone has the right to his or her own set of beliefs. I do not agree with Wyatt's view of the world, but I respect that he has found something to believe in so passionately. I looked down at his small wet nose. "I'll bring you back some candy," I said with a smile. These days things are much better between Wyatt and myself. I lifted my ban on library books, and he promised not to print his literature in the apartment. We also have a strict NO POLITICS rule that is in force 24/7. I think we are going to be OK. At least on the subject of his Marxism. In August he is scheduled to get his balls cut off, so, you know...that's probably going to stir up a whole other line of bullshit.

The Moore You Know: Today I watched a marathon on TLC of a show called The 650 Lb. Virgin. Really? Did TLC really need to add the Virgin part. When you weigh close to half a ton, isn't your virginity pretty much implied? Did anyone think that show was going to be called The 650 Lb. Pussy Magnet? Seriously, TLC, that title, man...it's gotta be a real kick in the balls.

© Eric Moore - 2010