When my editors gave me the task of attempting to psychically locate a dog’s spirit from over forty years ago, my first inclination was to balk. After all, the animal spirit world was notoriously feisty, and running in a pack of mangy animals for more than an hour gave me the post-seance impulse to furiously itch fleas. But when they told me the case involved the President of the United States, I had to bite.
Vile rumors were floating around the Internet that the president had eaten dog as a child, leveled by right-wingers after Romney was caught taking his Irish Setter Seamus on vacation in a non-state-approved manner. Reading the blog of Rusty the Dog, who types about the scandal, I became increasingly incensed that this Mormon dog-hater would dare to become my president. As a fervent Obama supporter, I had to clear our wonderful president’s name, lest the racists win.
It turns out that Obama admits eating the dog? This was a bit of a revelation for me. But I could definitely relate to his reasoning. His father Lolo apparently was a believer in Islam, mixed up with some syncretist bits of Buddhism and Hindu. This was what I was able to dig up from Dreams From My Father:
With Lolo, I learned how to eat small green chill peppers raw with dinner (plenty of rice), and, away from the dinner table, I was introduced to dog meat (tough), snake meat (tougher), and roasted grasshopper (crunchy). Like many Indonesians, Lolo followed a brand of Islam that could make room for the remnants of more ancient animist and Hindu faiths. He explained that a man took on the powers of whatever he ate: One day soon, he promised, he would bring home a piece of tiger meat for us to share.
On the down side, our president thinks he might have eaten canine flesh. On the up side, I should be able to locate the dead dog’s spirit through the president! I had my crucial lead and proceeded to assemble my assistants and my materials: a crystal ball, tea candles, and a can of Alpo.
We began at midnight, when most stray dogs were running the spirit streets. Gazing into my crystal ball, which was placed upon a red velvet table cloth, I sought out the soul of this lost puppy. My assistants Shawna and Becky put their cigarettes out and joined me in channeling the departed. They raised their eyebrows slightly when I blew the dog whistle, acquired from a sympathetic left-wing friend, which meant we were getting close.
All of a sudden, there he was. Running through the streets of Jakarta, stopping to sniff lady dogs’ posteriors, generally happy and jovial as any little puppy could be. I heard a cacophony of foreign voices, which would take me some time to comprehend even as a highly trained medium. Then, out of the noisy background I could hear a clear, heavily accented voice, “Crusty! Datang ke sini!”
The dog’s name was Crusty. This was of great help for trying to trace the dog’s spirit from the mean streets to the hot plate. The fun-loving pup kept bouncing through the streets, despite his master’s protestations, and wound up trekking into a dark back alley. Slowly strutting down the dirty cul-de-sac, directly towards a heaping mound of trash, a door abruptly opened and a man stepped out. Puffs of steam rolled out of the crack of light into the night air. It was obviously some kind of a kitchen.
Then, a whistle. A sweating man, dressed in a soiled white apron, walked out holding a scrap of — something in his left hand. Suspiciously, he kept his right hand behind him the whole time. Don’t do it, Crusty! A sniff here, and a sniff there, and the poor, gullible dog inched forward towards the cook. Oh ye gods, the pup was going to do it! Run away! Run away and never look back!
Too late. The happy dog panted excitedly up to the cook’s hand, tail a-wagging, to snatch a morsel of rotten meat. And unexpectedly, out came the machete from the man’s right! The deranged looking face wore a seditious grin as he pounced upon our canine hero! A squeal was emitted into the night as the puppy’s furry body tasted the metal of the blade. And then, his tender body went limp. I felt like crying.
The dog’s spirit rose up and one could see the man gathering his carcass. He brought it into the kitchen and scraped off the scraggly mane, carved off the bones, and boiled the meat vigorously before rolling it in a floury mix and throwing it into a sizzling wok with some green chiles and fried grasshoppers. When Crusty was literally crusty, the hot dish was served up to a man and his child at table five, who received the “special of the day” with glee.
Teary eyed, disgusted, and unable now to even conceive of eating meat, let alone dog, I told my fellow vegans that I needed to pull myself together. This president of ours was some dog lover! And by that, he loved to eat fried puppy over steamed rice with a nice bottle of Teh botol!
As I sat in the silence, thinking about poor Crusty, I had to call it a night. I was too emotionally drained to go on. I scratched my left ear and dug into the open Alpo can, which all of a sudden smelled delicious.
Author’s note: The above is satire. It is a fictionalized account intended to elucidate certain ideas and principles by taking them to absurd lengths. It is not intended to be taken literally.
Kyle Becker blogs at RogueGovernment, and can be followed on Twitter as @RogueOperator1. He writes freelance for several publications, including American Thinker and OwntheNarrative, and is a regular commentator on the late night talk show TB-TV.