Is compassionate euthanasia an option for Trump’s miserable presence? 

Poor, poor Rover.

He was around for seventeen years and had faithfully accompanied his master, Croydon Gibbons, on the farm. Rover served as a constant and loyal companion, sat at Gibbons’ feet during those long and brutal winter evenings and flushed his quota of pheasants from the fields. Though Rover had been born a working dog, he’d also been a great “sporter,” helping “Croy” bag his bird limit on those autumn forays to the stubble and brush at the edge of the fields.

But that was then, and now it’s a different story. Missing one leg from a brush with a car back in 2015, blind in both eyes, mostly deaf, whimpering from intractable pain in the final stage of inoperable colon cancer and leaving puddles and piles throughout the farmhouse, there’s no question that Rover’s functional life as working companion and friend had come to an end.

Croydon loved that dog, but he finally resolved his ambivalence about making the “final call” and contacted his vet. A day later, Rover’s misery came to a soothing end—a gentle sweep of euphoria as he was snuggled in the arms of his tearful master and, then, the gift of final rest for a very worn and weary animal.

Isn’t it too bad that compassionate euthanasia isn’t more available for humans? Think about it. When Donald Trump looks into his bathroom mirror each morning, he sees so much more than his public face. What he’s confronted with is the porcelain-toothed glare of a loser, tyrant and felon, and he’s old enough to realize that there will never be any relief from that sad daily sight. Now that’s real pain!

Unlike the multi-talented Rover, he’s had to struggle for a lifetime with the realization that, except for the hundreds of millions he got from his dear departed daddy, he’s been an abject failure in virtually all his ventures. Even sadder, he’s totally failed at being human.

Trump’s life value is further diminished by the fact that his happy-rapist days are long gone; the supply of willing crotches is drying up and it’s enough of a challenge to merely take a pee. It’s a cinch that Melania would never consider sleeping with him again, he’s exhausted from his endless lies about his golf scores and his fantasies of Ivanka are losing some of their charm.

Besides that, Trump suffers from never-ending daytime nightmares—very much reminiscent of Scrooge’s visits from the Ghost of Christmas Past—wherein he’s forced to review the hundreds or thousands of times he’s cheated and hurt others. Even worse, he’s confronted with the fact that he shat upon a country that had afforded him so much opportunity.

Oh, the pain Trump must be suffering—that is, if he were a normal, loving and empathetic human being. Remember, those who suffer from Narcissistic Personality Disorder all share one trait: Their braggadocio and glib charm hide an extreme and persistent self-loathing. And Trump is anything but a happy camper—which brings me back to my point: For centuries, people have compassionately put animals out of their misery and, like Robert Redford acknowledged in the 1970’s film, “They shoot horses, don’t they?” Pretty straightforward, huh?

I guess what I’m trying to say is, isn’t it time to put Trump out of our misery?

Obviously, euthanasia isn’t a viable—or legal—option. But that doesn’t mean we can’t get rid of that awful presence that has trashed our TV-and-newspaper viewing enjoyment for the past 8-plus years. (My old Samsung actually has Trump’s image, indelibly burned into the center of its screen, and it’s headed for the trash heap.)

The obvious answer is for Americans—the one-third who have mistakenly believed that supporting a monster could somehow achieve their own, personal goals—to screw their heads back on and swear loudly that they’ll never again put up with a country being run by a family-mob-boss felon and his criminal organization.

And for those who have opposed Trump’s egomaniacal commitment to destroy the most essential elements of our “balance of power” system, it’ll mean that you can start sleeping at night again. You may even be able to find some news outlets that actually present the unedited truth, understanding that the “watchdog press,” without the constant threats of retaliation, may actually be able to grow new teeth.

No matter what delusions have encouraged the Kool-Aid-drinking, Trump-camp followers, there really is hope. I don’t know about you, but I’m all ready for our country to hear that plop-plop sound, say goodbye to the abdominal pain and listen to the flushing sound. We’ll all be singing that old jingle, “Oh, what a relief it is!”

The author is a retired businessman, novelist, columnist and former Vietnam-era Army assistant public information officer. He resides in Riverton with his wife, Carol, and their adorable and ferocious dog “Poppy.”