Springtime For Hitler
As dictators go, he wasn’t very good in the end.
“I wonder if other dogs think poodles are members of a weird religious cult.” Rita Rudner
I’ve tried my best with Hitler. I’ve allowed him to shame me, ignore me, and act so despicably, it’s a wonder I let him out anymore. Every creature in the backyard regards him as the worst example of Prussian, Bavarian and Austrian blood. He looks like an old aristocrat, but his actions are strictly autocrat. He steals socks.
Neighbours agree Hitler’s aptly named. He’s a monstrous racist and antisemite. I can’t take him past a shule without him relieving himself.
He obviously believes in a master race, him being at the top. He might even be the vessel of some traumatized German Youth, or the reincarnated leader himself, giving world domination one more go — starting with squirrels.
He barks with great authority, demanding the culprits lay down their acorns and accept a quick death.
Squirrels have become like the French Resistance, dropping acorn bombs on his nose. He barks with great authority, demanding the culprits lay down their acorns and accept a quick death.
They won’t obviously. The first rule of survival is not to accept death, which frustrates Hitler to no end. Squirrels just don’t understand Nazism.
Then there are the other dogs, the Belgians, Dutch, French — and of course, those ridiculous English. Why couldn’t the world be made up of Weimaraners, Dobermans, and Schnauzers? Why were there still spaniels, terriers, and — the worst — poodles? Didn’t they realize they were sullying an otherwise Aryan landscape?
Such inferior breeding faced Hitler every afternoon at the dog park. He snapped at a Mastiff, snarled at a Yorkie, and threatened a Bernese over the ownership of a rubber ball (stolen, of course, as Hitler stole most things, then claimed legitimate ownership).
The ball was brought by a woman for her Bichon. She thought Hitler was base and pushy, suggesting he should get off his Teutonic high horse.
Each time I did, I think she figured there was a doggy Wehrmacht hiding in the bushes.
She also wasn’t too crazy about me calling Hitler, well, Hitler. Each time I did, I think she figured there was a doggy Wehrmacht hiding in the bushes.
“That’s a disgusting name to give a dog,” she said one time, as I tried to stop Hitler from digging under the fence. Like in the Sudetenland and Rhineland, boundaries mean nothing to him. He ended up gnawing through one of the fence slats, intent on broadening his borders.
When a German Shepherd wanted to show mutual sovereignty, Hitler snarled and might’ve even called him a wimp, although my German is terrible.
Most of these dogs are wimps, in Hitler’s estimation, all soft from lying around all day, while he does calisthenics. This involves him jumping at the window whenever a dog goes by or sending out belligerent — and no doubt racist slurs — in the car. Once his nose has left skid marks all over the glass, he feels satisfied he’s defended the Reich—even if it’s a Volvo.
When I told the woman at the park I didn’t name him Hitler, she merely shook her head. “Honestly,” I said. “I tried giving him another name. He only comes to Hitler. That’s if he bothers coming at all.”
I think I heard her mutter “Nazi” under her breath.
Hitler has no love of mongrels, treating them as he would any inferior race. Coming inside later, he walks around like he’s vanquished the lot.
Hitler was a rescue, a Schnauzer with a good pedigree, unlike his namesake. I brought him home last spring. It was supposed to be a new start for both of us, but he immediately blizkrieged the backyard, chasing squirrels up a tree, and sending Tootsie, the neighbour’s mongrel, fleeing threw a hole in the fence.
Hitler has no love of mongrels, treating them as he would any inferior race. Coming inside later, he walks around like he’s vanquished the lot.
The squirrels think he’s seriously deranged.
When the second spring came along, new neighbours moved in, bringing with them two Samoyeds. Hitler, of course, challenged their borders and their right to live. He barked “Ivans,” I’m sure of it.
The Samoyeds responded by invading my yard (through the same hole as Tootsie) while Hitler was relieving himself. He ran back through the dog door, and down to the basement, barking threats from behind the washing machine.
Like his namesake, during the encirclement of Berlin, April 20, 1945, he either had to seek reconciliation or kill himself.
Despite his authoritative timber, Hitler had to know his dream of world domination was coming to an end. Like his namesake, during the encirclement of Berlin, April 20, 1945, he either had to seek reconciliation or kill himself.
Hitler wasn’t ready for either.
At the dog park the next day, he snapped at one of the Samoyeds. This was considered an act of aggression by the other dog owners. A letter was sent, saying “Your dog is no longer wanted at our dog park.” The names at the bottom represented the entire group, like a League of Nations.
“This is Hitler,” it said. “He is banned from this park.”
I tried to make Hitler’s case, claiming one of the Samoyeds stuck his nose where Germans don’t appreciate noses. I thought they’d understand the territorial prerogative involved, but the ban was enforced with a picture of Hitler at the dog park’s entrance. “This is Hitler,” it said. “He is banned from this park.”
Hitler is now confined to the backyard, with the occasional walk down the street. It doesn’t seem to bother him. He still walks with a trotter’s gait and chases squirrels like the Luftwaffe appearing in the spring.
One thing I’ve noticed, though. He doesn’t sleep with his legs going and his teeth bared. I guess he no longer dreams of rounding up the mongrels and the sycophants.
Unless the squirrels hit him with acorns again.
Maybe he’s resigned himself to a quieter life, accepting as we all must, that there is no superior race. I think Hitler can do that if he puts his mind to it.
Unless the squirrels hit him with acorns again.
Then it’s war.
Robert Cormack is a journalist, novelist and blogger. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online or at most major bookstores (now in paperback). Check out Robert’s other articles and stories at robertcormack.net or by joining https://robertcormack.medium.com/membership
