It Doesn’t Cost Much to Adore Me

I’ve always envisioned coup leader as my ultimate career goal. All the aptitude tests said I’d be good at it. They also coincidentally said I’d be good at being an engineer, but since I’m horrifically stupid at math I think they meant the person who drives the train.

But if I got to take over a country, I’d be so, so good at it. I wouldn’t start out with killing people or making them change their religions and there would be no book burnings except of children’s books that don’t rhyme. I love me a good rhyming picture book.

Obviously, this has not come to pass. But if I ever do get the chance to take over something, even if it’s just a corporation or something in a major stakeholder buyout thing, I’m prepared with my legions of worshipful followers. In the form of one undersized and very stupid dog.

What my dog lacks in physical stature and mental capacity, though—and I mean she doesn’t have the mental capacity to walk into a darkened room without falling down, and falling down for her only means moving about two inches—she more than makes up for in worshipfulness. This dog literally sits outside the bathroom door and waits for me to get finished showering so she can drink the water that’s left in the bottom of the tub. THAT is adoration, people.

I’ve given this a lot of thought and I realize there were a number of famous czars and dictators and emperors who had this kind of effect on people, but those leaders also had to have royal tasters to keep them from being poisoned. How awesome could they have been? Doesn’t every willing-to-die-for-you-subject get negated by every assassination attempt?

I mean, sure, so there’s a servant somewhere who drinks your bath water to prove his loyalty. So what? Good grief, he’s got to be crazy! Your claim to fame is that you surrounded yourself with people who are just psychotic enough to lick your feet, and you BRAGGED about it? Desperate for friends much, are we?

Nope, I’ll take a standoffish cat any day, and I hate cats. But at least you know where you stand with them. They’re not going to stretch their lean bodies out over a mud puddle for you, then run inside and rip holes in the crotch of all your underwear with their claws. They’re going to let you know that you are only around to work the can opener for them. Hmmm. Maybe you could soften them up by drinking their bath water.

I wear a size 11. You could die from alcohol poisoning if you tried drinking champagne out of my shoe.