Donald Trump’s Secret Pets

In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this. – Terry Pratchett

Found himself wondering why we never hear about Donald Trump’s pets.  I mean, except for Corey Lewandoski.

What is he trying to hide?  Why the secrecy??  We need full disclosure.  Inquiring minds want to know.

The thought came to the old man as he prepared to tackle The Bougainvillea Hedge.  Donned a thick long-sleeved shirt and safety glasses.  Shook out his Kevlar gardening gloves.  Never can tell when a scorpion or pygmy rattlesnake might sneak into the tool shed.  This is Florida, after all.  Braved annoying ninety-five degree temperatures, sweltering humidity and irritating spikes the length of your pinky finger.

The old man had pets.  Or they had him.  About time the big dog gets one of those awful thorns in his paws, well, felt obligated.  Accountable.

His dog, an intact male – liked the sound of that – felt compelled to go up against the hedge to take a piss.  Leaned right into that briar patch.  Hagrid can kill a tree just by urinating on it.  But not the bougainvillea.

Came in one day with a wound on his nose.  Another afternoon, he scratched an eyebrow.  About time the big dog gets one of those thorns in his paws, well, must try not to let that happen.

Sometimes the old man felt like a rancher taking care of this animal.  Little made him happier.  The dog made him a better person.

Dog lovers know what I mean.

So, where is Trump’s menagerie?  You can just imagine a gold fish, flashy fins somebody else takes care of.  Probably an undocumented immigrant.  Underpaid.

Come to think about it, pets are job creators.

Wife and Pomeranian actual size. Hagrid has NOT been photoshopped.