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Woofy was no Rin Tin Tin.

Having recently written about books, I didn’t want to give the appearance of sudden transformation into an arts column. Not that. 

Instead, a question. What is it that makes a piece of writing literary? I hope you have a firm notion because I, other than for two minor suggestions, do not. 

One – literature can be but isn’t primarily entertainment. 

Two – there’s good chance it’s ironic. 

Irony isn’t enough, however. I once had a dog, Woofy. I began referring to her as my Mother of the Year dog. 

A long-haired Malamute, Woofy was often visited by a neighbor’s black Lab, Bandit, who lived up to his name and calling far better than did Woofy. 

I was never sure exactly how many litters Woofy had because as MOTY she ate her pups about as quickly, far as I could ever tell, as they appeared. For a whole lot of reasons I don’t need to detail, I could not be 100% present and missed Woofy’s birthing-dining evets. 

Bandit, keen to do his part, knew and would return for the cycle to renew. One of Woofy’s adventures in motherhood allowed (who knows why) the survival of one pup. It lasted into the eyes-open phase before (don’t think the worst now) dear Woofy neglected it to death. Trampled on and ignored, the pup said “heck with this,” and said goodbye to mommy dear. 

 There’s a good supply of irony in the Woofy story. But as I said, by itself that’s not a good enough foundation to build a literary result. Seems a potential rare-minerals mine, but I’ve never been able to smelt the ore, remove the dross and have a glittering marketable result. Mother of the Year promptly chowing down on her pups is a story off-putting to most who hear it. More often than not, I’ve been told to NOT tell that story. 

I understand. Motherhood and cannibalism are not a happy coupling, despite the abundance of irony. If you add the fulsome irony of the surviving pup being the one unlucky enough to not become literal puppy-chow and instead go the slower, eyes-open road to oblivion, the story fares no better. 
I’ve given up. Puppy-eating dogs have no future in literature. 

Still and all, I continue to appreciate a solid irony as a worthy starting point. Take for example, when I was young (except among the more rabid puppy-munching protestants) being Catholic was dull as chilled dishwater. Genuflecting, making the sign of the cross and Confession were not seen as much other than oddly annoying among, let’s say, the dance-not Baptist crowd or meek-voiced Methodists. 

But put good old irony to work and up pops the recent view that Latin Mass Catholicism is terrorism central. I was thrilled with the news. Finally, I was born into something to get excited over. I pictured myself standing in front of a federal building (preferably a courthouse) to prayerfully fold my hands and intone piously Agnus Dei Qui Tolllis Peccata Mundi to then be (as happened long ago as a SPU activist) worthy of a home visit by the FBI. Quite unsettling for parents in a small town. 

Gone the days. But not the multi-level irony. Y’ see, I thought (irony there) we were supposedly to be less nationalist and more globalist (in the Latin, in case you missed it). In an irony pile-up I doubt any of us could pick a side where professional pickers of nits will not follow in order to chastise whatever position we’ve taken. They will find a nit. Will import them if needed. The holy harangue is all. 

 And yet, the irony capade skips over some juicily rich prospects. If Latin Mass Catholics are a dire concern then what about the Amish? Why do they get off with a pass when in flagrant disregard of science fashion they insist on real horses, ones absolutely loaded with carbon and carbon output, while refusing to embrace electric lights, cars and maybe zippers as well? 

How is one form of traditionalism objectionably terroristic while another gets a condescending OK? Is anti-Catholic bias at work as was widely talked of in the not-so-long-ago of JFK (not the peanut butter). 
 

You’ve likely noticed I’ve favored irony and ignored entertainment. Because irony can be entertainingly amusing? If thought about. 

Compare, for giggles, Rin Tin Tin and Lassie with Woofy. Rinty (I think that name was sometimes used) and Lassie fall far short on irony. They are too domestic to be ironic, much. Also, they had human companions who took them rather more seriously than I ever did considering Woofy. 

Never, not once I’m sure, did I ever look at Woofy and use my voice to say “What is it Woofy? Tell me girl.” Never said any such thing. Might have said, “Oh geez, not again” or “Wonder how many there were” or “Guess she was hungry” or “She sure cleans up everything.” 

Being her own beast entirely, Woofy wasn’t very entertaining, at least I was never asked for more puppy consumption tales or found listeners more repelled than attracted to Woofy lore. 

Some areas of entertainment don’t (gold mining lingo) pan out. Amish terrorism falls flat, doesn’t it, whereas with longstanding and oft-respected papist prejudice and fears a Latin Mass terror campaign can draw attention and see a little life. 

In general we don’t like to work too hard as needed to make a sweet irony entertaining. Who’s going to do the work building a guffaw over anti-authoritarianism marching for greater authority? 

Getting full entertainment and amusement value from oligarchs against oligarchy is up hill every step of the way. Most of you aren’t laughing, nor should you having to do the hard labor of puzzling out what a cause says, or as is often the case, trying to say. And failing. 

Speaking at length (I know all too well) and saying nothing is more laborious than humorous. – Now in case the globalist term in Latin didn’t jump out, it’s Mundi. Tallis in Elizabeth I’s time did a fine job with Salvator Mundi, terrorism I can live with. It’s online. 

Listen. Anything there to fear?