Being, again, in the proximity of a TV, I am convinced that commercials are responsible for the invention of the remote control. Your program breaks for an advertisement . . . Click! Bam! Like a pair of ruby slippers, you are transcended to one of five other shows you’ve been monitoring. I don’t know anyone who hangs around for commercials—except, of course, for my friend Jimmi, but only during hockey games.
The other day, I clicked to a commercial. Even though I stayed with it, I have no idea what they were selling. Prominent point: a dog and a ten foot scoot—hind legs raised above his shoulders—across the carpet of a staged living room. A golden lab exploited over an ailment. You might as well just film it laying logs on the front lawn, for God’s sake. It’s not the dog’s fault it has an itch.
We would never see something as a result of, “Yes, Mr. Winston, can you give us another hearty cough? We know you are dying of emphysema, but we didn’t quite get that last shot.” That would be inhumane.
I can hear you now, even during the creation of this piece. You're probably grumbling, "The dog doesn’t know the degree of humiliation, if any." But I disagree. I have, unfortunately, been present during the manufacturing of dog waste. For the record, I almost always have the courtesy to avert my eyes. On the rare occasion I make eye contact during such event, the animal’s head and eye position are never that of invitation. It is more of a shy—I’m not looking at you because I don’t want to see you looking at me—expression.
As you can probably tell, I am not in the market for an inflicted dog. Nor, now, am I interested in whatever else those idiots were selling, unless, perhaps, they were offering a slice of their carpet. I would like to see if their Berber scratches better than I can!