A Little Stossel

A man believes his dog is the Reincarnation of political pundit John Stossel.

 

   My dog is John Stossel.

 

   Understand, gov‘ner, that I don’t have John Stossel in the flesh lapping water out of a bowl in my kitchen. I picked my words carefully gov’ner, for I still understand the importance of sentence structure. My dog is John Stossel, not John Stossel is my dog. This, gov’ner, means that John Stossel is not my pooch, but rather my pooch is the reincarnation of John Stossel. I understand, gov’ner, that in order to be reincarnated, at least in accordance with conventional wisdom, whoever is being reincarnated must have been deceased, and that John Stossel, in his human form, is alive and kicking today. It could be that in March of 2001, John Stossel in the flesh lost his soul, and perhaps this was what was implanted in my new-born puppy, but I have no proof of this gov’ner, only speculation, which seems to be what my entire livelihood is based around.

You’ll be happy to know your greatest fear has not materialized gov’ner, for John Stossel continues to wear his trademark moustache. It is well-trimmed, neat, not too shaggy; certainly the type of moustache one would wear respectfully. It is not of bad taste is my contention gov’ner, you mustn’t get caught up with the trivialities of appearance alone. Understand that this moustache does not by itself make my dog John Stossel, it is only a minute piece of evidence to support my claim.

   

    I first noticed this in the fall of 2002, one year after the monumental attacks on American soil. These attacks begin my thesis; they were landmark events that ultimately shaped what the modern world was destined to become: a haven for governmental control on the local, state, and federal levels. Must we explore this in detail gov’ner? It is not, I remind you, the attacks that play any significance in my determination that my puppy became the reincarnation of John Stossel, they were simply the catalyst from which the events leading to my determination were wrought. Remember, gov’ner, we are not here to discuss the attacks themselves, I must clarify repeatedly, you must understand that while these attacks are relevant, perhaps even the source, the attacks themselves were not the cause. Understand also gov’ner, that governmental control is not my issue, but after the attacks we saw the government giving itself liberties it hadn’t previously had, which angered a man like John Stossel, a libertarian. My dog is John Stossel, therefore these “atrocities”, in Stossel’s mind anyway, manifested themselves every time my dog opened his mouth to bark.

   

    Using simple mathematical theory one can determine from reading the above that my dog, by virtue of being the reincarnation of John Stossel, is a libertarian. I wasn’t all too familiar with these political theories before John Stossel came into my home (I’m still not certain I have a complete understanding of the term even now), but my familiarity has certainly grown stronger every time my watch ticks. When you live with John Stossel gov’ner, you can’t help but pick-up on the consistent outcries of an oppressed soul.

 

    John Stossel, the fanged version, is now nine years old. He is a Yorkshire terrier. This is not significant, other than his moustache, which I color every day, for fear that it may grey with age. When you have a dog like John Stossel, who at any minute may have to appear in front of a camera, it is important to keep his moustache dark and trimmed. I trim it often gov’ner, he wouldn’t be caught dead with an unkempt moustache. He prances around the house, like he owns it. He is a master of his domain gov’ner, he truly is. I laugh to myself as I type this, because it’s cute. He has his bed, his toys, his doggy clothes, they are not anyone’s but his. If he chooses to share them, he will, but it is his choice gov’ner, it is truly his choice. I don’t control him, I can’t, because John Stossel values control in his own life. It isn’t to say he is disrespectful or selfish. It’s only that he takes full responsibility for his actions alone, and he can only take full responsibility for his actions if he has absolute control over himself. He doesn’t require control over me gov’ner, for that would violate his beliefs; he doesn’t believe he should control me, or I him, only that we should control ourselves; it guarantees a balanced home gov’ner. These are some of John Stossel’s libertarian tendencies, more evidence that my dog is John Stossel.

 

    I suppose I should begin to tell the story of John Stossel. For you gov’ner, I will spare the unnecessary details, I’ve been long-winded enough, there is no need for me to bore you with incessant details about birthday cakes or exploding grenades.

John Stossel was born on March 6, 2001. He was born before the attacks. He was only a puppy then, he didn’t understand. By spring of the next year he was one, which is seven in dog years. He was still too young. In the fall of 2002 I began to notice my puppy’s tendencies getting stranger and stranger. Where before he would happily play fetch, he suddenly required tug-of-war when we played. Why? I don’t know, perhaps it was his libertarian instincts kicking in, the idea that we should not share, but rather fight for possessions. I don’t know if that is even a libertarian ideal gov’ner, as I previously stated I’m not 100 percent familiar with the concept of libertarianism. The onset of these tendencies I describe gov’ner, all had a common denominator.

 

    On October 26, 2001, when my puppy was far too young to understand gov’ner, the United States government passed the “Patriot Acts.“ These acts, which I understand you are familiar with so I need not go into detail, violated several civil liberties, which would naturally anger a libertarian. In the fall of 2002 John Stossel was a teenager, ripe for anti-establishment propaganda, so you understand that John Stossel reflected on the one-year passing of the Patriot Acts, and became disenfranchised from contemporary American politics. This angst was presented through frequent barking, which I had to listen to all day…bark bark bark bark! Stop it d****t! John Stossel was getting on my goddamned nerves, until I discovered that this was in direct relation to a problem I was having myself.

 

    It was also in the fall of 2001 when they went back gov’ner. I don’t understand why, neither did John Stossel, who’d reminded me that he was against the United States becoming a world police force. I was thirty-one years old when they went back gov’ner. I would sit in my living room and watch everything on television; John Stossel barking violently at the screen every time a bomb would go off or a round was fired. John Stossel understood gov’ner, he knew everything was buried, just like it was the first time, that’s why we didn’t find out until it was too late gov’ner, that is why we didn’t find out until it was too late.

 

    Rangers led the way gov’ner, Rangers led the way.

 

    We don’t always agree gov’ner, we don’t. I tell him you need to help me gov’ner, you are responsible I tell him, but he barks and barks, he tells me I am wrong, he tells me you should not. I don’t understand what he has against government intervention gov’ner, I mean, I understand why, after all, he is John Stossel, but in this case I believe the line in the sand is broad enough for him to take my side. I will admit gov’ner, he keeps me grounded. At times when I feel like everything is hopeless, he greets me with a flick of the moustache, wanting a morning trim. This is a give and take gov’ner, he is my companion, for better or for worse we are stuck in this cesspool together. I know I can have a temper gov’ner, and sometimes I take it out on him and I feel badly, but sometimes he has it coming, he really does. In his past life he watched me spit in the dirt gov’ner, he watched me crawl in the poison, he knows where I came from. John Stossel has his ups and downs gov’ner, but he understands me.

 

    Sometimes John Stossel really pisses me off gov’ner, sometimes he barks as if to mock my pain. I can take a little criticism gov’ner, but I grow tired of his arrogance.

 

    John Stossel prances around the house gov’ner, it bothers me to no end. I am sick of it, I am tired of it, he is John Stossel gov’ner, I feel it, I see it, I understand it, but it is not real gov’ner, you see it is not real! That’s what they tell me gov’ner, and I smile, perhaps menacingly to the untrained eye, but who is trained these days gov’ner? When John Stossel has to potty he goes outside, and he sniffs. He sniffs the grass, and he potties. Why does he sniff gov’ner? Why does he sniff? He sniffs, I tell you, because he knows that you bury things, you bury them gov’ner and he knows when you bury things it hurts people. He sniffs for himself gov’ner, but maybe for me too. You see, the love between a dog and it’s master is very profound gov’ner. It is profound, it is real, but I don’t know if he sniffs because he loves me, or because he loves only himself. You see I am not his master gov’ner, he won’t allow anyone to control him, therefore the bond may not exist between us, and I cry to him anytime he sends me mixed signals. Sometimes he comes gov’ner, sometimes he does not. When I call him I don’t know gov’ner, I don’t know if he will come, he used to come gov’ner, always…not anymore.

 

    “Come on Jerry, he’s just a little dog,” they tell me. Just a little dog! He is NOT! He is John Stossel, I have no proof they say, I have no proof for anything! He is a little John Stossel, he goes outside to potty and he sniffs, he understands that buried within the ground are the secrets that our controlling government will not tell us. A dog cannot understand the intricacies of the soil’s content, only an investigative reporter libertarian like John Stossel, who is reincarnated into my puppy, could understand…only! He prances, he dances, he recommends every morning that I pop the lid and drink the water but he does not force me! It is simply a recommendation based on an understanding that living my life is my choice, and whether or not I want to abide by what the white coats suggest is ultimately MY decision. It isn’t my fault anyway, some of them tell me, it isn’t my fault I was blessed and also cursed to have a little soul revolving around me day and night like the door of an expensive hotel, wondering which side of me will walk in and out of the lobby with each passing day. My little John Stossel understands my predicament. Perhaps a better friend would force me to change, and do what I am told, but I did that for four years and what did I get? Call it buried treasure if you will gov’ner, but you and I both understand that I got more than I bargained for when I signed my oath with the blood on the pads of my fingers.

 

    I am going to die soon. Perhaps I will reincarnate into a little dog myself, probably a dog from eastern Europe, one you might have seen scan the lands of Pripyat in the era of Mikhail Gorbachev. When I potty I will sniff the ground first, I will be weary, I will have an understanding of the soil beneath my four little feet. What will little John Stossel do when I’m gone? Will he continue to write books and pontificate as he has to the television screen; to deaf ears primed with the refusal to understand when human beings instinctively know the strife within their own bodies, without the expressed written consent of the scientific community? This is real gov’ner, you will see, whether it comes in time enough to save me is not important; only the hopes that those like me, with a little John Stossel of their own, can live peacefully. When we no longer have to fear what is buried beneath the ground.

Author's Note

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