Zoe and Animal Farm

Guest Column ‘Animal Farm’ on Capitol Hill Wednesday, October 16, 2013 By KEVIN MCKINNEY Zoe is back at the bungalow. She’s at that cute age, nearly three, inquiring about anything and everything she comes across. I’m sort of her uncle; I look after her now and then when her mom Mary must go away. Just a little tyke with big brown eyes – and wavy black and white fur. Of course, she has that natural adventuresome energy and curiosity that most Jack Russell Terriers possess. “What’s out there Zoe?” I ask her the first fall night back at the bungalow in the boatyard, where an assortment of wild creatures – raccoons, possums, skunks and most plentiful of all, mice – have been known to roam. “Arrr, rrrr, rrr,” cries Zoe, as she nervously paces between the back screen door and the couch where I’m sitting. “Are there mice out there, Zoe?” “Hmmm, mmm, mmm,” whines Zoe, as if to say: “Yes, possibly, quite possibly!” “How about a raccoon, Zoe? Is there a raccoon out there?” “Ruff!” she barks with absolute certainty. Smart dog, I happen to know there’s a raccoon or two living in my neighbor’s chimney on the other side of my backyard fence. Now Zoe is nervously prancing about the bungalow. She takes turns ducking into the bedroom and then back to the back door, into the office and back to the door, then back to me to plead for mercy, “Let me out will ya? This is torture!” From the way Zoe is carrying on, I imagine all the creatures of the boatyard are out there tonight, preparing for the inevitable winter, gathering together in my garage workshop they have been known to frequent. It’s like a scene out of George Orwell’s “Animal Farm.” The raccoons, taking up the role of leaders which the pigs held in Farm, are sitting on their haunches atop my workbench, addressing the other creatures. A family of squirrels comes bounding in, bumping into each other, rubbing the sleep from their eyes. The possums and skunks, dull fearful critters that they are, sit obediently before the raccoons. A cluster of mice huddle together on the floor in the corner. The shifty tomcat, its tail slowly waving in the air and pacing back and forth, hasn’t made up its mind whether it will stay or not. The raccoons are the cleverest of the critters; their deceptively cute black masked faces belie something sinister though. (Sort of like a House Republican’s smile.) Of course, the raccoons agree among themselves that they should occupy the workshop loft this winter, where they can closely monitor the food supply, keep an eye on things and even nestle in the attic fiberglass insulation if it gets too cold. This is just good common business sense the raccoons assure the rest of the creatures. Ala Farm’s pigs, the raccoons will need plenty of food and rest so they can make smart decisions for all the animals; meantime, the rest of the animals will have to work harder for little reward. And I can’t help think of the House Tea Party Republicans. What Orwell warned us against in “Animal Farm,” his prophetic 1945 fable on the abuses of power, is unfolding right before our eyes. This government shutdown is just the latest, but most revealing, tell of where the Tea Party’s priorities lie. Like the pigs, the so called “patriots” may claim publicly “all animals are created equal,” but in reality they clearly are convinced that some are “more equal than others.” They’re so concerned about their political ideologies, their power and positioning for the next election, that they think nothing of risking another economic catastrophe. These guys’ toying with the country’s future is borne out of the same criminal recklessness that caused 2008’s Great Recession. They are willing to hurt millions of Americans in order to preserve the privileges of a powerful select few. In the same way Farm’s pigs convinced the rest of the animals that the prized milk and apples should be set aside for the pigs’ consumption alone, the Tea Partyers insist they need more riches, fewer financial industry regulations – essentially, the freedom to do whatever they please. So, while I can’t help think of these things, I’m glad Zoe is around. She helps take my mind off such fiendishness. And she reminds me, too, that I can do something about it. Zoe is more than ready to go out there into dark night. I’m game too. “Let’s go Zoe,” I say. Time to break up that meeting in the workshop. I pay rent. This is my home. The bloody raccoons – like the bloated pigs – have been calling the shots long enough. (Kevin McKinney is a freelance writer living in Cape May. He writes commentaries and features for a variety of publications. He can be reached at mckinneyfreelance@live.com) --------------------------------------------------------------------------------