George Orwell Tried to Warn Us

This was once a happy place.

I was sitting on a gorgeous patio in the dry LA heat, sipping my cold brew and chatting with one of my oldest and dearest friends. Not a care in the world. That beautiful, rare moment when you forget everything that weighs you down at night and you can just be. Full of laughter. Full of happiness.

Then, it took a dark turn.

At first, I wasn't sure what was happening. I felt a presence underneath the table. I looked up to see a tall and quite handsome man looking down at me. He said nothing, but I knew exactly what he was looking at.

There was a dog sniffing my leg.

He gave the leash a sharp tug, but still said nothing as I stared up at his darkly tinted sunglasses, protecting his surely baby blue irises from being melted by my death rays. I crossed my legs abruptly to startle the beast and make it clear I did not consent. The animal refused to back down from my delicious aura, so the man gestured his leash holding hand towards his woman and said, "Can you just -?"

She took the leash and pipped, "C'mon!" to the canine in that disgusting baby voice they have been taught to believe all creatures understand.

I watched - broken and unrecognized - as they dragged the dog to their table and tied him to a chair. That was the last time they tossed any attention its way. For the rest of their meal, it was the other patrons of the restaurant who were forced to smile and coo as the furry demon pranced around on its 6 feet of leash, barking through the aisles, attempting to topple the waitstaff, now pawns in this newly declared puppy playground.

America, stop brining your dogs to brunch.

Activist,

TJB: Making It