It's a labor dog's life
26th August, 2006
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Dear voters,
I ask you to spare a thought for me this year. It's all very well for Himself - He gets to eat lots of fundraising sausage sandwiches and ride around in His jet. For some, though, an election campaign is an exercise in animal cruelty. If He really likes slugging up hill after endless hill, listening to evil dog-hating photographers laugh at the tiniest weight gain, He should bloody well go alone. I've lost count of the number of elections I've helped win for That Man and all I get in return is more cold, early morning walks and more jokes about short legs and fat bums. (And let me tell you, after years of close scrutiny of the media, I reckon most of them are shorter, fatter and hairier than me. And that's not to mention the issue of table manners, or appropriate behaviour with members of the opposite sex.) So this year I'm asking you to put an end to the torture. Tell Himself it's time to go. That Springborg chap probably has lots of dogs on his farm, so make them come and do some real work. My life's hard at the best of times, what with the growing list of Brisbane City councillors I'm not allowed to bite for fear of bad publicity. He's always on about sinking His teeth into the challenges facing Queensland. Nobody lets the poor bloody dog just sink his teeth into whatever he fancies. Come election time, things get harder, dinner gets later and He keeps me up half the night with His loud telephone conversations: "Eddie, Eddie, just give me one lousy prime-time hour. I could be a Queensland Idol." You try living with people whose idea of a good time is wearing silly hats. So far He hasn't tried that on me yet. But don't bet He wouldn't: "Ooooh look at the cute doggie woggie in the industrial relations beanie awwwww..." Grrrr. The only real bright spot on my personal horizon is that this water crisis might mean I can avoid being bathed for a while. I notice that some very large holes are about to be dug near my place for a new car tunnel. If I can get out by myself for a while - without the prying paparazzi sticking their candid cameras in my muzzle - I might go roll around in a nice pile of freshly dug dirt. Himself used to be pretty good at that sort of thing. Once. In His union days. I'm 11 years old now. You work it out in dog years. Too damn old to be carrying the weight of the state. The cat across the street never has to worry about where to dig the next dam or where to bury the next health minister. I'd just like to be able to do my business on someone else's lawn without a CMC inquiry and a stream of quotes from Bruce Flegg appearing in The Courier Mail. Sometimes you have to check over your shoulder before you feel free to sniff someone's bum. So on 9th September, when you walk past the state school sausage sizzle (ahhhh, sausages...) and you stand in front of that little cardboard booth, pencil in hand and revenge in heart, spare a thought for me. I've done my bit. I deserve a break. No more election campaigns. He's promised me before He'd leave me out of it but He just can't help himself. No sooner does He come back from seeing the Governor than it's out with the leash and up the nearest hill. Doesn't matter what else I might have planned for my day. The sooner He leaves that poxy George Street job and finds a nice house on an off-leash beach, the better. Think of the dog.
Yours sincerely,
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