On Criminal Madness and Getting Walked by My Dog

A byproduct of the Trump years is my inability to state whether I take my dog Wally for walks or he takes me for walks. One truth is that we both need the walks, Wally because he’s been cooped up all day, and me because there is some existential sociopolitical crisis that requires bodily movement to process. Another truth is that only one of us feels better when the walk is done.

Last week, what had me walking was news that the Trump administration cut funding to the Pediatric Brain Tumor Consortium, a group, as described in The New York Times, of "16 academic centers and children’s hospitals dedicated to trials of novel treatments for pediatric brain cancer".

As reported in the Times, the consortium "directed its members last week to stop enrolling new patients because it had been informed that the consortium would not be eligible to apply for funding beyond March 2026".

Here in Ohio, Cincinnati Children's Hospital Medical Center and Nationwide Children's Hospital are both members of the consortium. When I read that news, I thought of the doctors who have dedicated their careers to helping kids with brain cancer. I thought of the parents of those kids, the terror of having a child that sick. I thought of the kids, being forced to face their death before they've barely had a chance to live. And then I thought of my government turning its back on those doctors, those parents and those kids.

Time for a walk.

My walks with Wally have a rhythm. Start with the existential sociopolitical crisis du jour and then start turning it over block by block and around the park down the street. Last week it was this: What are we to conclude about a political movement the culmination of which is the intentional, unnecessary elimination of funds for pediatric cancer research? 

That’s a difficult question, one that it seems we’re doing our best to avoid answering. What's even more difficult, at least for me, is this: What are we to conclude about the people who continue to support that political movement even though they know the culmination of it is the intentional, unnecessary elimination of funds for pediatric cancer research?

Wally sniffs, meets a new dog. I think about the Republicans in my life, people I love and respect. We don't talk about politics because nothing ever good happens when we do. I wonder what they think about cutting off funding for pediatric cancer research. I wonder if they know. I hope they don't.

Wally puts on his brakes and rolls onto his side, which is what he does when he gets hot and wants to take a break in the grass. I think about this post by New Yorker staff writer Philip Gourevitch and wonder myself about the criminal madness running wild.

What if they know? I hope they don't. But they need to know. But what's worse, them not knowing, or them knowing but not caring? Both are bad, but knowing and not caring would be worse. So do they know? Or do they not know?

The inner monologue is relentless. It's always been that way, but it used to be about less consequential things. Now it's often about how quickly and completely things seem to be breaking.

We round the park and head back into the quiet streets that will lead us home. This is where Wally picks up his pace. He knows we're getting close. He's ready for a drink and the cool floor in the kitchen.

I have a thought that I often have when reaching this point: All of these walks with Wally and you haven't solved a damn thing during any of them. Which is true, but at least we're both getting our steps amid the turmoil.

Wally is done, and I guess I am too, but just for today. There will be something else tomorrow, such as a man named Jim O'Neill being named acting director of the CDC. He has no medical training and supports the creation of sea-based floating communities to free humanity from oppressive governments, which I'm assuming includes what he thinks are the various oppressive governments within these United States.

Yes, Wally, you good boy, there will be more walks.