Years ago, too many to count, when every internet connection was accompanied by deafening static and a simple email was worth waking the neighbors, my family had a dog. This dog was springer spaniel, a good- looking pup, both regal and dignified. But the dog had issues. In an effort to make the perfect show animal, his owners tried to play God, engaging in rampant inbreeding. One day, the dog went mad. I prefer to remember the good times and not when he had forfeited each of his marbles in one fell bite.
Why am I bringing this up now? Because I think of my dearly departed, clearly deluded, springer whenever news of the royal family props up. I see a lot of Prince Harry in my pooch. Which make sense. Both are shining examples of the dangers of inbreeding. A PSA for the cousin-loving.
It’s easy to sit here in a relatively democratic country and criticize a flailing monarchy. It’s also fun. The thing is, Harry wouldn’t be the first. George III was a bit wackadoo, to put it mildly. Everyone knows about Nero. And the Burger King’s diet alone is quite alarming. So if Harry acts strange, you could just say it’s a royal family tradition.
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