I love dogs. They’re fuzzy. They’re fun to play with. They smile a lot. It’s rare that a dog will subject you to torture or other cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment, or to indefinite detention without charge or fair trial at Guantanamo or other US controlled facilities. (But if you’re a squirrel, watch out.)
(Caption: Millie the beagle, a good example of a lovable dog.)
Those of you who’ve read my previous posts (collectively known as “mom”) may have picked up on the fact that I frequently battle melancholy in the course of fulfilling my well-paid duties as a human rights campaigner with Amnesty International. Are we making a difference? Are we part of the problem? Are we just a medicinal leech from Lithuania feeding on the bloated, greed-wracked, hate-filled, war-ravaged corpse of humanity, sucking out a tiny bit of poison from its blood just to get the bastard one day closer to the death of the sun?
And you know I usually find inspiration in the little human rights victories–and the big hearts of Amnesty volunteers–but today, our last day in Portland, it was–like so many times before–a dog that saved me. Millie is a beagle. From what I can tell, she enjoys barking at other dogs, eating her own drool and drinking from toilets. I’m guessing she also likes long walks on the beach and rolling in dead seals. But Millie is so much more than a germ carrier–she’s perpetual positivity in motion, with a GTMO orange collar to boot: in other words, pure joy just a head scratch away.
Millie’s human, Pete (remember to write that blog post!), volunteered at the cell each day–and put in tons of time before the Portland stop to make sure Portland people showed up. So did Liz and Leo (you two give me hope I’ll find true love), Eileen (great sense of humor–please remember to send that receipt), Stephen (great photos), David (future Amnesty researcher) and many others. It was a pleasure spending time in the trenches with everyone–thank you very much. Stay orange.
Thanks also to Portland–over 1,000 of your citizens visited the cell and hundreds and hundreds signed the tearitdown.org petition and the postcard to Bush (I’d say 1,000 but I know that guy who threatened to stab me didn’t sign)–all while providing tasty fish and chips and my daily gyro (dude, no lamb) from the Spartan food stand near the cell on Monument Square. “Mediterranean” food court food is becoming my cell tour staple. It’d be fun to be the world’s foremost expert on tzatziki. PS I’m sorry but lobster rolls are gross.
I’m on the A train now going home via the NYC subway system–it’s nuts: kids are screaming, the A/C’s off and it’s a zillion degrees–but I’m happy to sleep in tomorrow, to not wear orange for a few days, to not have some fool bark at me about how I love terrorists, about how I’m an idiot and a coward, about how he’s been incarcerated in cells smaller than this, about how he’s not drunk and about how a terrorist would cut my head off so of course we better torture and murder them first to defend our freedoms and way of life ’cause those people are animals…
But in Portland I also saw the future, and it was good. A 10-year-old kid visited the cell with his mom, turned to her and asked–with an utterly perplexed look born, at least as I remember it from my own lost youth, of the growing realization that the world of adults is maddeningly, brazenly, shamelessly dumb–a magnificently simple, earnest question, one that seems to have escaped the Yale educated (hyphen there? I went to Berkeley) supercomputer housed between the beagle ears of America’s Commander in Chief: “if someone doesn’t get a fair trial, how do we know they’re guilty?”
Mission accomplished.
- ZJ
