Fetching Ghost Bones

“Mr. Prime Minister, your fortune teller is here.”

“Send her right in and stop calling her that,” the Prime Minister instructed. Jack, his secretary, left to do his bidding, blushing from having been admonished by his boss.

Canada’s longest named and longest serving Prime Minister, William Lyon Mackenzie King, leaned back in his leather chair and waited. His eyes settled on his mahogany desk to scan the list of questions he had wanted to ask his spiritual advisor. He disliked the term, ‘fortune teller.’ It was so misleading. The spirits advised, they never told the future.

The door opened and in walked Hester Dowden, his medium, and Jack Jergens, his secretary. “You can leave us, Jack,” the Prime Minister commanded. “Mrs. Dowden, please, sit.” The woman sat and the man left.

“What can I do for you today, Mr. Prime Minister?” Hester asked, removing a crystal ball from her purse and placing it atop the Prime Minister’s desk.

“First, I want to contact Pat.”

“Your dog.”

“That’s right. England’s bucking for war, and Hitler’s not the man I thought he was. Not the man da Vinci thought, so, I’m not talking to da Vinci for a while, I’m mad at him. He and Napoleon can go to hell!”

“Yes, sir. I can’t exactly do that, I’m sorry, sir,” Hester apologized for the limitations of her psychic powers.

“I wasn’t speaking literally, Hester. No, I must talk to my dog, Pat. He’ll know what to do.” The Prime Minister leaned forward watching the clairvoyant place her hands on the crystal ball and begin rubbing.

“Spirits! Please, call for us the spirit of Pat, the dog!” The psychic started whistling, “Here boy! Come, Pat! Come on, boy! Run into the light! Are you there, Pat? Can you hear, us, boy? There he is, Prime Minister! Do you see him? He’s right there at your feet!”

The Prime Minister was delighted, seeing the ghost of his dead dog. “Pat! Good boy! Now, I need you to help me. You were right about Hitler, he is very dangerous, you were right; that idiot, da Vinci, was way off. England’s asked us to fight, I need to know, should we declare war on Germany? Wait, Pat. One woof for yes, two for no. Really? That’s what I was thinking. Good boy.” The Prime Minister threw a ghost bone for his ghost dog. “Here, Pat, fetch!” Prime Minister King looked up at his medium, Hester. “Thank you, that will be all.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister.” Hester took the crystal ball from the desk, placed it back in her purse, bowed, and left the office.

Prime Minister King picked up the telephone and dialed his minister of foreign affairs. He let his other phone ring three times before he picked it up. “Hello, me? Guess what, we’re going to war. Ghost dog. No, you can’t argue with a ghost dog. Call a cabinet meeting first thing in the morning. Oh, and me? Don’t forget not to mention you got the advice from a dead dog. Right. Good night, me.”

Prime Minister Mackenzie King hung up the phone and threw himself a ghost bone. He got up from his chair to fetch it.

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