How do we decide how we live our lives, and what makes us happy?

This is a story about my life in politics, but it won’t be political. At least not the way you might think of politics today. For instance, I’m not a billionaire, so I won’t ever be invited to the White House to consult on how to establish a monopoly. Or even how to win at the board game Monopoly.

With Monopoly, I’m a sucker for the orange spaces (New York Avenue to St. James Place) but the way to win is securing the red and the green, which have high rent and decent odds.

The other way to win is to be the banker and cheat, palming $500 bills during transactions so you can always cover your losses. As they say at the casino, the house always wins.

When I was twelve, our neighbor decided to run for city council. This was in our smallish suburb of Cleveland, over on the west side. It was a bit like the duchy of Luxembourg in that our city had been ruled by one man, the mayor, for longer than most people could remember.

Still, the city council mattered, so it was basically a representative democracy with a constitutional monarch. Our neighbor, the one running for council, asked my father to be his campaign manager.

We weren’t rich, and we didn’t have a lot of powerful connections, so our neighbor was basically tapping my father for some grunt work: putting up signs, passing out flyers, et cetera.

Part of that work was delegated to me, the twelve year old.

There were about four-thousand houses so we had a lot of walking to do. I would take one side of a street and my father took the other. He walked faster—I think he just wanted to get this shit done—and soon was half a block ahead of me.

I was known for being a slow-poke back then. Within a couple of years I was nicknamed “Mick the Quick,” and it wasn’t because of my speed.

I walked up to the side of a particular two-bedroom bungalow—ours was a community of two-bedroom bungalows with a door in the front and another on the side. At this particular house, I opened the storm door just enough to slide in the flyer and pushed it closed again. I remember distinctly that I closed the storm door.

The inner door was open, which wasn’t unusual, but as I removed my hand from the storm door’s handle, two ginormous paws of a German shepherd dog slammed into the glass panel of the door and the door burst open.

The brain works remarkably fast in those intense moments. I’m pretty sure a dose of adrenaline, large enough to resurrect an overdosed horse, surged into my body, because in that one instant I saw the paws spread apart to reveal the gaping jaws of the guard dog take aim at my face in the now-open door.

It’s one of those flash-bulb moments seared into memory. If I had better drawing skills, I could render that German shepherd with the details of the yellow crust at the corner of its eyes, the pink and black pattern of its gums, and the gleaming white of his canines.

Oh, and because he was in a full-body leap through the open door, I also knew that he was taller than me, for one thing, and much better hung than me.

The next part I don’t remember at all.

When I was fully aware of my surroundings again, I was in the front yard of the house across the street, trying to catch my breath. My father was in a full sprint towards me, and the dog was back at his house.

As the dog had leapt at me, my body had taken flight, slipping out from under him. I sprinted across the street (didn’t bother looking both ways, I’m guessing) and, as I ran up the opposite driveway, the dog’s owner had gotten outside and called the dog off.

It was the fastest seven seconds of my life (until, of course, my wedding night).

When my father reached me, he was dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe I outran the dog. Looking at my legs for bites, he noticed wet spots. No, I hadn’t peed my pants (thanks for thinking that of me); the spots were the dog’s spittle, left as he snapped at my calves.

Having heard the dog barking—and my screams—my father had turned and witnessed the chase. I have only a vague memory of that part, and it’s all about running: pick ‘em up and put ‘em down. Even still, he couldn’t believe that I ran faster than that dog.

I’m glad I was pressed into service to help in the political process. I’m proud that I’ve been active again the past few years. It matters.

Politics is how we decide to live our lives: who do we, as a people, help, how do we build community, and how do we secure food, shelter, and safety. It works best when people get together and talk about it, sharing ideas and addressing the collective concerns.

Vicious dogs can put a damper on the conversation, so I don’t think they should be part of it.

And if politics becomes a game of Monopoly, keep your eye on the banker.

Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…

Ashley Undone, a crime story and family drama, is available for pre-order.

Set in Ann Arbor, it’s a Cinderella story asking if love of family can overcome the evil of greed.

As I may have already mentioned, reviews and early sales help a book more than anything. If you enjoy my stories here, you’ll love Ashley Undone.

Note: The price may lower before it launches and I’m pretty sure you get the lower price. For those of you here on the Picayune, I’m putting together a special gift for those who pre-order Ashley Undone. I haven’t worked out the what and the how, but basically you’ll let me know you placed the order and I’ll send you the gift shortly after May 13.

Also, if you’re not into Amazon, the book will be available wherever fine literature is sold.