How My Hike was a Perfect Metaphor for the Election

*Warning: Poo-related material. Dogs are gross.

On Monday I took a hike up the lovely Mount Washington. A 3250 foot gain, 8 miles round-trip, the hike was a thigh-burner that rounded through young forests and streams, and crossed an alpine meadow and a boulder field. Quite an excursion.

After lunching at the summit, we headed back down. I had kept Aggie off leash for most of the journey, only reconnecting her around some steep walls edged with loose gravel. As I was about to unleash her again, she lunged for something off to the side of the trail. I pulled her back and saw she had something in her mouth, greenish and slick, like an unpeeled kiwi.

I grabbed her muzzle to try and dislodge the object, but by that time she had swallowed it whole, and I was left with some kind of green goo on my hands.

“What is that?” I exclaimed. I won’t go into the details of how I ascertained the following fact, but I determined without a doubt: “It’s poo!”

I was still pacing in disgust and disbelief, holding my hands out like I was about to receive the Holy Spirit, when my sister Dallas said: “Or something worse than poo.”

“What’s worse than poo?” I yelled (let it be noted the trail was mercifully empty that day), manically applying apple-scented hand sanitizer, which has forever ruined the smell of apples for me.

“Intestines,” said Dallas, pointing to a pile in the leaves. Sure enough, a glistening lump lay among the leaves. I investigated, finding a coil of white intestines bursting with greenish matter and a lump the size of a golf ball which I guessed to be a stomach. Nearby, a single furry rabbit foot lay discarded among the detritus.

Little did I know this story would become a metaphor for the presidential election the next day, a lesson our country is going to learn the hard way. Everyone says there was no good choice in this election. But there’s always a better choice. There’s always something worse than a little poo on your hands, like poo straight from a pile of rotting guts.

Steaming maggoty shit stew. That’s the choice we made. Now we’ll be eating it the next four years.

Enjoy your entrails, America!

For more adventures with Aggie, CLICK HERE!

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