‘Work like a dog’. ‘Dog tired’. ‘In the dog house’. ‘A dog-eat-dog world’. Common expressions I hear all the time to describe what must be an almost unbearable existence, a life of toil, fear, and retribution. A life unlike that of any of my pals.
At some other time or in some other place I suppose those descriptors might be, or have been, accurate. But in my neighborhood nothing could be farther from the truth. My pals and I are chronically unemployed, we get tired chasing one another around the park and squirrels around our back yards, our house is the same as our owner’s house, with certain accommodations to ensure maximum comfort and convenience, like the doggy door, and we get two square meals a day, neither of which contains even trace amounts of dog—though I understand that sort of thing is popular in Asia, (remind me not to go there.)
Ironically it is our owners whose lives can be most aptly described by this phraseology. They work to support us. We have free room and board, free health care, free education, and retirement benefits. A dog’s life, it seems, is the true socialist utopia. I see no reason for that to change.
I have heard the ravings of the Occupiers and the Hopers and Changers, their condemnation of capitalism and demand for ‘fairness’ and ‘justice’. They are missing the point. Without capitalism there wouldn’t be the capital to support them, (and me), in the manner which we’ve all come to enjoy. I mean, somebody has to work, right?
I don’t have a yacht, a Ferrari, or a house on the beach, but I have what I need and more. I don’t think drawing a lot of attention to this is in my best interest. Or theirs. If they bring down the banks and the industrialists, if the tax money dries up, if the 99% get their wish, they might have to go out and get real jobs. No more hanging out, getting high, waving signs. Is that really what they want? To have to work? Not me.