Satan went crazy, charging at the door, howling in pain, jumping at the windows, snapping, snarling, racing up and down the stairs, whining and moaning, howling, snapping at imagined enemies and uttering a deep, man-killing growl.
What? I said.
Grrnarrghghghnnggrraaarrrghhhhllll!! The dog replied.
What is it, Satan? Did the space shuttle crash?
Satan ran up the chimney and returned with a half-eaten alien. I was wondering where the molecular acid came from.
Bastard, I said, You destroyed the wallpaper.
Grrnarrghghghnnggrraaarrrghhhhllll!! said the dog.
Strange. There was no knock. No warbling of the doorbell, cleverly reconfigured to play a pleasing medley of Wayne County favourite hits. No clacking of the letter-box — a sound guaranteed to drive all dogs into a homicidal frenzy.
And yet. And yet. That canine sure do look ornery.
Let us peep outside. Let us have a glance.
Here is a small election pamphlet, timidly dropped on the ground outside my house, by a timid little canvasser, or perhaps a newly-timid candidate lacking the balls to face me like a man.
And so we find Willie O Dea sunk to a new low. Not only is he without the moral fibre to face his electorate, but now he lacks even the courage to shove a piece of paper through their door.
And so Willie or his lackeys are reduced to littering on the ground outside people’s houses.
Let us hope that after tomorrow’s count, he’ll be reduced to the ranks of former elected representatives, though I doubt it. Willie has convinced too many people that he has influence in getting them the things they’re entitled to receive anyway. They’ll vote him in, and not because he has any great vision for our country, but because they think he’ll get their windows fixed and their potholes filled.
What a statesman. As a metaphor for Ireland, you couldn’t do better than Willie.
Sad little man. Sad little country.