I hug my dog every morning,
I pick her up, put her in my lap, and kiss her as if we’ve been separated for weeks, months, ages of time. She licks my face as I smoosh her paws together like an oatmeal cream pie. I scratch the heart-shaped white patch that grows in between her sleek, smooth coat – dark as coal and soft as velvet.
As we continue our snuggles, she seems to get softer, turning into a pad of melted butter that slides from one side of my cradled arms to the other. Her curious brown eyes stare deep into mine as if she sees another universe – a better one. A more hopeful one.
I wonder if dictators have puppies.
I wonder if they hug them.
I wonder if they let them kiss their faces, sleep in their beds, or snuggle with them whenever they pass them in the house.
Instead, do they mandate their time outside of the crate? Do they sequester their sleep to a separate space so they can glean from the power they have over the critter? Do they pride themselves if their dog can sit still while a squirrel passes? Do they leash them and take them everywhere, and upon returning home to the kingdom of lies, do they announce their tallies of faults and lash them with their justice?
Thank you, owner. May I have another?
I wonder what they define as love.
I cuddle with my kids every day. My youngest comes to me in the morning during my sacred writing sessions, knowing she can snag a spot next to my left hip in the crevices of the couch and layers of quilts. She sucks her thumb and watches the words form on the screen while my brain warms and writes faster from her presence. My oldest slides down the stairs and announces her love for me and the child in my pregnant belly while we all place strong wishes into the world that this baby makes it to fruition.
I wonder if dictators love their babies.
I wonder if they wrestle with them and kiss their temples and cheekbones as if it could be the last time until someone whips out their right to bear arms in a school while they are learning how to read and write.
I wonder if they let the children poke their sharp, dictator faces, touch their noses, squeeze their lips, and open up their eyelids while they fake being asleep, all to spark curiosity about the human body. I wonder if they offer them the platform to be themselves, to live the childhood most likely stolen or hidden away from them when they were in their youth.
Or do they instead engrain them with fear of making mistakes? Do they pound senseless remarks of hate and stereotypes in their heads, making them believe they are the elite, the best of the best, the cream of the crop? Do they reiterate that hard work will get them everywhere unlike the rest of those fools out there who just take, take, take? Do they replace hugs with hard lessons of privilege? Do they disguise preaching hate as didactic on how to be a winner? Do they scorn failure and teach them to crave power like sugar cookies?
I wonder what fuels their heart.
I revel at nature everyday. I smile at trees and suck in air near pines and flowers. I try to get a daily walk in while I think out my story plots, exercise my furry children, and play I Spy with my human children. We pass by the same tree each day, but somehow it looks different every time. I remark to the kids how beautiful the mountains look while we drive to a museum or library, and they comment on how blue the sky is, how awesome the clouds look, or how breathtaking the color of the sunrise is that morning.
I wonder if a dictator marvels at landscape. I wonder if they relish in the hues of a particular painted cloud or breathe in crisp, clean mountain air when traveling to a city to gain more votes. Do they notice it all? Do they give thanks to Mother Nature for her empowering characteristics?
Or instead do they scope out the next place to rip out Mother’s uterus without her input? Do they focus on sniffing out a new plot of land for their next corporation? Do they calculate how much it would cost to take down the forest to get another shopping center or bank in place? Do they shake their heads at the amount of undocumented immigrants shaping up the landscape in a housing community, or do they think to themselves “We must be paying them too much,” while they pocket the difference for fear their riches could dissipate to less then seven zeroes.
I wonder what makes them grateful to be alive.
I wonder what their mother would think right now.
I wonder.
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