They’re Eating The Dogs, They’re Eating The Cats

I, like most Americans, am watching the heavens for a sign as to who is going to win the 2024 presidential election. A moment where I, and thousands like me, can say, “Thank G-d. She’s got the nod from the big guy in the sky.”

Since the election is less than a month away, I’m getting nervous. We’re cutting it way too close. As I wait for that magic moment, a hurricane, named Milton, clamps down on the city of Tampa, forcing my son and two grandchildren to escape from Orlando and ride out the storm in the safety of my South Florida home.

Upon entering my home, my Carson throws a box of his action figures across the floor of my den and commences playing.

I watch, I listen and I kvell.

And then out of the mouth of a seven-year-old, I hear, “Grandpa, do you know what they’re doing in Springfield, Ohio?”

“Sorry Carson, I have no idea.”

Then Carson jumps up and with a reggae beat belts out the following:

In Springfield, they’re eating the dogs, they’re eating the cats
They’re eating the pets of the people that live there
They’re eating the dogs, they’re eating the cats
They’re eating the pets of the people that live there

People of Springfield, please don’t eat my cats
Why would you do that? Eat something else
People of Springfield, please don’t eat my dog
Here’s a catalogue of other things to eat

Without skipping a beat, I realize my prayers have been answered.

The man upstairs is voting for the younger, mentally competent, female, Democratic candidate.

And I smile, I weep and I kvell.