Samantha Manufactures Scissors
Some days Samantha didn't feel them at all.
No intrusion.
No strange encounter.
No oddly specific question.
No sensation of being observed.
Nothing.
At first, the absence was wonderful.
Then Samantha noticed the absence.
This was irritating.
Because noticing that they weren't there meant that, in some ridiculous way, they were still there.
Even when they weren't there, they were there.
Another mission accomplished.
Samantha smirked when she realized this.
She had been trying very hard not to try very hard.
This was exhausting.
She needed scissors.
So Samantha manufactured some.
She adopted a dog.
His name was Bernard.
Affectionately, Bernie.
Bernie was an older rescue coonhound of somewhat uncertain provenance. He had enormous ears, long legs, a deep chest, soulful eyes, and a nose that rendered most human affairs completely irrelevant.
He was perfect.
Samantha began training him.
Bernie learned to sit.
Bernie learned to stay.
Bernie learned to wait.
Bernie learned that Samantha possessed treats.
This last lesson proved foundational to all subsequent learning.
They walked.
And walked.
And walked.
Bernie liked trails.
Bernie liked roads.
Bernie liked woods.
Bernie liked squirrels.
Bernie especially liked the possibility that a rabbit might be somewhere up ahead.
There usually wasn't one.
This did nothing to diminish his optimism.
Samantha found herself thinking about Bernie.
Had Bernie eaten?
Had Bernie pooped?
Did Bernie need a walk?
Was Bernie limping?
Was that a squirrel?
Bernard, leave it.
Bernard.
Bernard.
BERNARD.
Slowly, almost accidentally, something happened.
Samantha stopped thinking so much about the Men Who Make Goats Fall.
Ironically, she didn't know that was their designation.
Samantha was very much out of the loop when it came to political intrigue, the deep state, patriotism, and identity politics.
To her, they were just a mass.
This actually made them harder to disengage from, because Samantha's very free nature and rebelliousness were catnip to them.
Ironically, free women were not to be tolerated in a free society.
The contradiction did nothing to dissuade them.
It would only have baffled Samantha.
OBVIOUSLY, she hadn't successfully ignored them.
She hadn't overcome them.
She hadn't defeated them.
She hadn't developed a superior psychological strategy.
She had simply gotten a dog to enrich her life.
A very human thing to do in a free society.
Nicknaming him Bernie before the primaries had been coincidental, accidental, and unfortunate for Samantha.
So was her own nickname.
Sam.
Gender-neutral.
More catnip!
But anyway.
Bernie needed her attention more immediately than they did.
Bernie also did considerably more interesting things with it.
The manufactured scissors of distraction were working.
Naturally, this created a problem.
And more entanglement.
How could it not?
People began asking about Bernie.
Strangers who called themselves neighbors.
Love thy neighbor?
Ha!
They didn't know her at all.
So apparently their treatment of her didn't count as sinful.
At first, Samantha didn't think anything of it.
People asked about dogs.
That was normal.
“What kind of dog is he?”
“Coonhound.”
“Coonhound?”
“Yes.”
“Is that actually a breed?”
Samantha looked at Bernie.
Bernie looked at Samantha.
“Yes.”
Sometimes this ended the conversation.
Sometimes it did not.
“Some of those dogs have pit bull in them.”
“Mmmmm.”
“You don't know?”
“He's adopted.”
“So you don't really know what he is.”
“The rescue said coonhound mix.”
“But he could have pit bull in the mix.”
“He could be a giraffe mix. I don't have his parents' marriage certificate.”
The person would look at Bernie.
Bernie would sniff something.
The questions became oddly repetitive.
Different people.
Different days.
Same questions.
“What kind of dog is he?”
“Coonhound.”
“Is that a real breed?”
“Yes.”
“Rescue?”
“Yes.”
“So you don't really know.”
Apparently not.
Then another phrase began appearing.
“He sure is getting big!”
The first time, Samantha smiled politely.
Bernie was an adult dog.
He was already big.
A few weeks later:
“He sure is getting big!”
Samantha looked at Bernard.
Bernard had not gotten bigger.
Later still:
“Wow. He sure is getting big!”
Samantha looked at Bernard again.
Still Bernard.
Still approximately one Bernard in size.
She began wondering whether everyone else knew something about Bernard that Bernard himself did not.
Perhaps he was expanding very slowly.
Perhaps one morning Samantha would wake to discover Bernard occupying the entire living room.
She would have to open the sliding door and roll him into the yard.
The public the Men Who Make Goats Fall had influenced was divided.
For Samantha to think this suspicious would have proved that she was unstable.
For her to notice the patterns would show that she was crazy.
Maybe autistic.
Division was, after all, the men's specialty.
Along with gaslighting.
It kept the Visa and Amex e-gift cards coming.
But back to the divide.
Some people liked Bernie.
Some people were suspicious of Bernie.
Some people wanted to pet Bernie.
Some people pulled their dogs closer when they saw him coming.
Samantha noticed this.
She didn't want anyone uncomfortable.
More importantly, she didn't want an older person pulled onto the pavement because their enthusiastic Labradoodle had suddenly decided that meeting Bernard was the single most important event of its life.
Labradoodles were frequently very excited about Bernard.
Bernard was considerably less excited about Labradoodles.
Bernard had other priorities.
There could be squirrels ahead.
There could be rabbits.
There could be an unusually informative shrub.
So Samantha began giving people space.
When she saw an older person approaching with an excited—not spoiled, of course, certainly not untrained—purchased AKC dog, she stepped off the trail with Bernie.
Sometimes she stopped.
Sometimes she moved several feet away.
Sometimes she waited until the other dog passed.
Bernie usually stood beside her looking past everyone toward the horizon.
Perhaps rabbit.
Unfortunately, Samantha's courtesy confirmed everything for the fearful and paranoid people the men had the tightest grip on.
Look how far away she's moving.
She must know.
Why would she move him if there wasn't a problem with HIM?
Bernie must be aggressive.
Samantha did not know this conclusion had been reached.
She was busy preventing Mrs. Henderson's Labradoodle from removing Mrs. Henderson's shoulder from its socket.
Bernie watched a squirrel.
“Morning,” Samantha said.
“Morning.”
The Labradoodle bounced.
Bernie loped onward.
More evidence.
Samantha eventually didn't recognize the absurdity.
She didn't see how she played into a play the men were breathing life into.
If she walked Bernie normally, she was inconsiderate.
If she moved Bernie aside, she was concealing a dangerous dog.
If she said Bernie was a coonhound, people questioned whether coonhounds existed.
If she admitted that an adopted dog's ancestry could not be established with absolute certainty, Bernie became a pit bull.
If she said his name was Bernie, his name required investigation.
“What is his name?”
“Bernard.”
“Oh.”
“Bernie.”
There would sometimes be a pause.
“Bernie?”
“Yes.”
“As in—”
“Bernard.”
Another pause.
“Why Bernie?”
“Because that's short for Bernard.”
Samantha smiled.
This somehow did not resolve the matter.
She had accidentally acquired another investigation.
But something was different this time.
Samantha wasn't particularly interested in participating.
Bernie found a stick.
That was more interesting.
Bernie saw a rabbit.
Much more interesting.
Bernie rolled onto his back in the middle of the living room and slept with all four legs pointing toward the ceiling.
Extremely interesting.
Samantha had adopted Bernie because she wanted a dog.
Bernie had needed a person.
That was the entire arrangement.
Bernie wanted walks.
Samantha walked him.
Bernie wanted dinner.
Samantha fed him.
Samantha wanted company.
Bernie lay beside her.
No interpretation was required.
No report needed to be filed.
No greatness needed to be recognized.
Bernie didn't care whether Samantha approved of him.
He seemed reasonably certain that she did.
And Samantha gradually stopped checking whether she was successfully not thinking about the men.
There was always something else to think about.
A walk.
A squirrel.
A rabbit.
Dinner.
An ear requiring scratching.
A nap.
A mysterious smell beneath a pine tree.
Bernie did not defend himself.
He did not explain his ancestry.
He did not clarify his political affiliations.
He did not monitor whether strangers approved of him.
He did not wonder whether people were watching.
He did not wonder whether people had stopped watching.
He did not recognize the Greatness of the Men Who Make Goats Fall.
Bernie hoped there would be rabbits.
Samantha watched him lope happily down the trail.
For years she had been trying to manufacture absence.
Bernie manufactured presence.
She hadn't realized there was a difference.
Bernie stopped.
His ears lifted.
His nose pointed toward the woods.
Samantha followed his gaze.
“What is it?”
Bernie stared.
Possibly rabbit.
Possibly squirrel.
Possibly nothing.
It didn't matter.
Samantha smiled and followed him.
The self-manufactured scissors of distraction were working.
At least on her side.
