A California dog rescue and why Donald Trump can never win this state.


OK, let me set the stage for a straight narrative post. No 3rd party allusions or citations here.


This is just straight up writing and descriptive, baby! Petal to the metal of bloggery.


Yesterday was warm here in SoCal. The SO and I headed out to an Orange County mall in search of certain “gift products” and sales items at one of those store chains that is well-known for their “international” and “worldly” inventory of niche items from around the globe. The weather was sunny and in the low 80’s – hardly hot, but compared to the chill of winter and spring just left behind, it could possibly be described as such by the heat-sensitive folks out there. I wore jeans and a thin long-sleeved hoodie sweatshirt. As I said, it was thin and I wore nothing underneath, so I was not bothered by the first hot day of the season. My SO questioned my wardrobe with some consternation, but I shrugged off her concern. I didn’t believe it was that hot, not yet. Plus I hate wearing the obligatory hot weather clothing so common here during the summer; shorts, flip flops, skin-bearing garments, etc – I don’t roll like that. I certainly wear shorts and tank tops but usually at home or during work outs. Hot weather doesn’t faze me. The hot weather wardrobe can be seen in abundance at certain locales more than it is others. White and Asian people love that mode, and this particular mall, frequented by a demographic largely that which I’ve alluded to, was no exception.


“Hot weather doesn’t bother me,” I casually mentioned to the SO. “It’s my tropical genetics.” She, of cold-weather genetics, gravitated to the shade and grimaced at the “sweltering” heat from the unleashed comfort of her shorts, tank tops and zories.


We headed to our destination, that store of international fame.


We spent a long time walking up and down the aisles, inspecting all the bottles and containers and items which are not to be found in mainstream local markets. A real cornucopia of Whitedom, this place. At times like this I become acutely aware of my “outsider” ethnic status, because Mexicans, Hispanics, are simply to not be seen at such temples of conspicuous consumption and luxurious affectation. Shopping and internationalism as a status symbol, as a peer-driven activity, is just not a trait to be seen in my ethnic cohorts. Mexicans don’t roll that way, and they sure didn’t roll into this store, until the very end of our trip when we were checking out at the cashier counter and a big lumbering mall security guard ambled in, one of my peeps. Another brown fleck in this sea of snow!


Tired, resigned, with a “my fucking life has come to this, protecting the insipid urgencies of overfed people” look in his eyes, he asked loudly, “Does anyone know who that dog belongs to outside, the one that is tied up to the tree?”  Everyone stared back at him blankly.  No one in this store, apparently.


Much concern was expressed by the cashier. Various customers, overhearing the exchange, looked aghast. Some ran to the window to look out. Smart, sensible White people were heard to mutter “who would leave a dog tied up in the sun?” and the world seemed to be caving in here in the mild Orange County afternoon. Who would do such a thing!?


A tall, sensible, very concerned-looking White chick burst into the store and asked loudly to anyone who would listen, especially the employees, if she could use one of the store’s inventory of bottled waters to provide liquid to the dying dogs because it was hot and they were tied up. More customers heard and soon the international store of consumed goods from every nook and cranny of the globe was abuzz of shorts-clad White folk stumbling, zombie-like, in disbelief and shock about the tied up dogs. The buzz was muted and redolent of concern and judgment for the owner who would do such a thing, but more importantly, for the immediate task of bringing these dogs H20 relief and freeing them from their imprisonment.


In my head, I pictured a dog tied to a tree by a very, very short leash, so short that the dog couldn’t sit without strangling itself, and furthermore, that this dog was tied as such in the open glare of the sun with no rocks to climb under. This is what I envisioned based purely on the hoopla inside the store because I’m not really White. When my SO and I paid up, we carted our purchases outside, anxious to view this canine travesty, and we came upon the rabid scene: a group of people gathered around 2 nicely groomed dogs. One was a happy-looking  Golden Retriever. The dogs were laying leisurely on the landscaped soil beneath a pair of shade-providing trees and enough leash to allow much free movement. The animals did not look distressed or particularly uncomfortable. If anything, perhaps there was a look of amusement in their dim canine eyes that so many flushed and breathless serious White people had flocked around to try and rescue them from this hellish tribulation their owner had so negligently, even criminally, left them in.  From this fiendish enslavement in this cool shade of mall shrubbery and soil.


We continued walking.


I told my SO that our society is doomed. When people with the wherewithal to change the world are consumed with saving evolved wolves from 80 degree lackadaisical shade, we are indeed circling the drain with a mission of self-consumption.


It is California and these are assuredly not who voted for Donald Trump.