“We’re going to drown in all the bullshit, don’t you think, Barnaby?”

Elsie does not make her profanities lightly. Cursing is serious business for her. Don’t swear if you don’t really mean it.

We’re out on our regular walk, the three of us, me, Elsie and a recent addition to her family, Shirley, a rescue dog, part terrier of some sort and part demon seed, it strikes me. I am not a dog person. I don’t mind dogs. Dogs are fine. As far as dogs go. And Shirley is a lovely specimen once you get past all her balled-up, Tigger the Tiger energy she exudes, and the absolute need she has to draw out every ounce of affection from everyone and everything she encounters. My main concern is that Elsie does not have the strength and stamina required to rein in Shirley’s boundless enthusiasm and there will surely (pun intended) come a time when the dog drags her off to a grisly end in the pursuit of that one person in the park she has not received a pat on the head, a scratch behind the year, from.

“Bullshit?” I ask, looking for specifics, while I lend a hand pulling Shirley away from her pursuit of some scent that is far beyond our olfactory abilities to detect.

“Yes. Bullshit, Barnaby,” Elsie confirms. “The absolute and utter rejection of reality as we’ve known it for… for a long time.”

Ahhh. Current events. The current state of affairs. Our upside down world.

“It’s not just about lying either,” Elsie says, trying to bring Shirley to heel. But there are so many squirrels scampering around the grounds of the park on this nothing short of glorious near spring day that it seems like a losing enterprise. Elsie has insisted that Shirley has no interest in harming the squirrels. She just wants to make new friends.

“It’s layer after layer of bullshit,” she continues. “Bullshit layer upon bullshit layer laying the foundations for edifices of deceit and delusion.”

Oh my.

Elsie certainly has her dander up. So much that she’s powered Shirley into a sitting position and is negotiating the distribution of treats for the display of obedience.

But who could blame her, Elsie, for her consternation with the state of the world these days? Who isn’t reeling, at least those of us with a lick of compassion and any sort of historical sense? We are experiencing what very few of us ever have in our lifetimes, again, those of us cradled, perhaps even coddled in what we’ll call democratic values. Values, admittedly, extended capriciously and tentatively to others living outside our spheres.

An assault on democracy.

An assault on reason.

An assault on equity and fairness.

An assault on decency, to use what seemed like an unfashionable term a mere few months ago even. A grannyish, outmoded word that has been brought full force in recent weeks.

All of it, to Elsie’s point, built on an edifice of pure and utter bullshit.

“I mean,” Elsie says, masterfully bringing Shirley to all fours and moving forward in an almost gentle saunter, “lies, I can deal with. Lies, at least, acknowledge truth even while trying to evade or avoid it. The bullshit, though…”

The word looks good on Elsie, I notice as I fall in beside the two of them. Bullshit. It’s bringing a certain healthy ruddiness to her cheeks. She fights to come up with a definition as Shirley has spotted another possible object of affection and begins to pull Elsie toward it.

“… well, bullshit simply isn’t connected to the truth, is it,” she says, using a second arm to keep the dog in line. “Look. If I said Shirley here could speak Russian that would obviously be a lie. An easily disprovable lie that you’d want to try and debunk almost immediately, right? Dogs can’t talk. Can’t talk in human language, at any rate. If I say my dog could speak perfectly fluent Russian, well, that would mean everything we’ve ever believed about dogs, about animals, about all other nonhuman beings would be wrong. Our fundamental perspective would be altered. So, of course, you’d confront such an assertion. Would label it a bold-faced lie and wonder why I’d make such an unverifiable claim.”

Shirley has found something of supreme interest on the ground nearby. After a round of vigorous investigative sniffing she opts for a closer inspection and begins rolling around in whatever matter she has found. Or maybe she’s luxuriating in the sudden burst of strong sunshine, warming the ground after its deep winter freeze.

“But if I told you, Barnaby,” Elsie continues as she watches her pet exude joy and well-being, “that Shirley here descends from a line of terriers that goes all the way back to the Romanovs, the last dog of Nicholas and Alexandra, she is of regal but doomed blood, that would be more bullshit than a lie.”

“Or it could be both,” I reply, more out of interest about where this topic’s going than any sort of disagreement.

“No,” Elsie’s adamant. “While a lie couldn’t possibly be true, dogs don’t have the capacity to utilize human language, bullshit just might be true. Shirley could be from the same lineage as the Romanovs’ dog. If they had a dog, and why wouldn’t they? And unless you’re a real stickler, a stick in the mud—”

Suddenly, Elsie has Shirley’s complete and undivided attention. The dog turns sharply to look at her owner.

“She recognizes the word ‘stick’,” Elsie explains to me. Her second use of the word brings Shirley up to a sitting position, still staring hard at Elsie who gives the dog a hearty pat on the head and another treat. “They can understand some words,” I am informed. “They just can’t use them in a sentence.”

With that we are off again, Shirley bounded ahead and the two of us fighting to keep up with her.

“The problem now, Barnaby,” Elsie says, “is that all the bullshit isn’t being used as just some colourful way to tell interesting tales.”

“Basic storytelling,” I add.

“Right,” Elsie agrees. “A relatively harmless way to, I don’t know, enhance my value as an interesting person in others’ eyes. No. The level and degree of bullshit has been weaponized to change the reality of the world we’re living in.”

“Up is down, down is up.”

“Exactly. All immigrants are rapists and drug dealers. Boys are boys. Girls are girls. Life begins at conception. Weather patterns are cyclical. Ukraine invaded Russia. Palestinians are terrorists. Canada is broken. Canada’s the 51st state. AI is going to run the world. That wasn’t really a Nazi salute. People will be going to Mars by 2030. Government is the problem not the solution. All of it, Barnaby! All of it pure bullshit based on the flimsiest of Well, it could be possible. I guess.”

Shirley stops suddenly and sits, sniffing the air. She turns and looks up at Elsie as if she’s waiting to hear her argument’s conclusion. If one were to believe that dogs possessed a degree of cognizance that could tap into human reasoning.

“Somebody who lies, Barnaby,” Elsie says, smiling affectionately down at Shirley, “is telling you they know the truth. The bullshitter tosses out all the rules, trying to establish a completely different reality. One that doesn’t include anybody who doesn’t see it their way. The rest of us become The Others. Enemy combatants. Targets.”

This, our Age of Bullshit.

Elsie sighs, chkchks Shirley who bounds up, ready for whatever adventure awaits. Say what you will about dogs but they seem to live a pretty straightforward life, free of much bullshit.

We continue on toward the off-leash dog park, trying our best to enjoy the spring-like weather sensing somewhere that we’re headed for a long hot summer, filled with heaps and heaps of steaming bullshit.