“A Dog’s Right Paw and the Death of Reason”

How a Joke Became a Hate Crime, a Historian Became a Heretic, and the West Mistook Hysteria for Justice

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Note: Originally written Sept 14, 2024, rewritten July 20, 2025.

A Scotsman, in a moment of impish genius, trained his pug to raise a paw in a gesture that, to the humourless, resembled a Hitler salute. For this canine prank, he was slapped with a criminal record—not the pug, mind you, but the man himself. He was no Nazi; it was a joke, and a funny one. Any small dog lifting a front leg looks vaguely like it’s auditioning for a Third Reich propaganda reel.

My own Toby salutes me several times a day, and I assure you, he harbours no allegiance to the Nazis, the Muslim Brotherhood, or Hamas. Yet I find myself suspended from my university for daring to note the historical dalliance between the Muslim Brotherhood and Hitler’s regime.

Feelings, it seems, trump history and truth in this spineless age. The thought police have spoken: offend the wrong sensibilities, and you’re done.

In Toronto, you can shout “Intifada Revolution” or “Death to Jews,” and the police will not only stand by but might offer you a coffee, sweetener included, if sugar offends your delicate palate.

But train a pug to paw the air? That’s a hate crime, my friend. I’m in my tenth month of suspension from my university for stating historical facts—facts like the Muslim Brotherhood’s cosy chats with Hitler, or Hamas’s lineage as their ideological spawn, as Egypt’s Grand Mufti recently affirmed.

(Hitler and the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem discuss how to brew the perfect cup of tea.)

My accuser, a Palestinian radical who’s never met me, rants that I’m a danger to children, though there are no children at my university; he is thus teetering on calling me a pedophile.

He’s angry, and his feelings and extreme emotions are encouraged to push reason out of the back of the palace and take their spot on the throne.

It’s vile, our culture worships feelings over evidence.

The lawyer investigating me at my university accused me of posting anti-Semitic posts on my accuser’s LinkedIn. It was a mad, delusional, childish accusation. She was implying I’d mastered time travel to forge documents before I even knew the person involved. The other day, it took me an hour to merge two PDFs—hardly the stuff of a master forger.

But she’s on the right side of the identity politics game, so reason has fled the scene, leaving only sanctimony in its wake.

We’ve lost our moorings.

The phrase “I identify as” is a verbal Aladdin’s lamp, conjuring genders, ethnicities, and soon, perhaps, ages.

Why not? If a white academic from the suburbs can claim Indigenous heritage because Uncle Hamish dreamt of a Pow Wow in 1958, why can’t I identify as being 25 years old?

Canada’s so off-kilter that saying “I’m Canadian” without a hyphen feels like a hate crime.

Students who have never read a book stand before my class, parroting ideas that would make the Shining Path blush, their “research” a Google search of four words slapped into a PowerPoint presentation.

They’re drowning in information, grabbing tossed rocks instead of life preservers, especially if the rocks are orange.

We’ve lost our moorings.

Christians, historically complicit in Jewish persecution—or at best, silent—watch as “F*** Zionists” echoes in university hallways.

Two anti-Semites lead the charge against me, and my colleagues, spineless as ever, won’t write to the Provost to defend me. They’d rather watch Schindler’s List and fantasise about their heroic alter egos than risk an email today—shame on those who call themselves Christian and stay silent.

They’re as meek as their 1930s forebears, and history, as Twain said, doesn’t repeat but rhymes. I’m told I’m off-base linking the Muslim Brotherhood, Hamas, and Hitler. Perhaps they were just discussing tea blends, not genocide.

We fetishise identity groups, trembling at the thought of offending someone with brown skin, even as they threaten to put cops “six feet under.” My accuser, free to defame me, calls me violent, yet I’m the one silenced.

The Human Rights Tribunal of Ontario (HRTO) forgot to include an appeal process for the accused. If you’re branded a Nazi, a racist, or a pug-salute apologist, you’re paddling down a creek of merde with a Costco box for a paddle. Good luck. My accuser, hailing from Bethlehem—once 80% Christian, now 10%—rants unchecked, but I call Hamas Nazis, and I’m the villain.

The HRTO’s weaponised compassion ensures equal treatment—unless you’re white or Jewish.

\Maybe I should try my Irish fairy gambit.

As an Irish citizen, my grandmother was raised with tales of mischievous, vengeful fairies who swap human children for changelings. If a student fails Economics 102, why not blame a fairy child? It’s their ethnicity, their creed—don’t mess with their human rights.

When I leave a burrito on my desk to appease the fairies, and the cleaner tosses it, he’s disrespecting my heritage. Off to the tribunal with him! Bigots wouldn’t know a fairy if it shat on them.

We’ve lost our moorings.

Disability? For the blind, deaf, or immobile, we must move mountains. But 20% of the population is disabled? According to the Canadian government, this is the number.

The ADHD racket smells like rich parents shelling out $3,000 for a diagnosis so little Angelika gets double exam time. Disabled.

The University Human Rights Office is a smorgasbord of grievances. Even a criminal record is a protected category—can you ask the new hire handling cash if they have a history of theft? Start a conversation with “Hey, Jailbird,” and you’re sunk.

We’ve lost our moorings.

Yeats’s Second Coming—not about Jesus, but a monster born of madness—nailed it in 1917: “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.”

The best lack conviction, while the worst brim with passionate intensity.

The morally upright are passive, while destructive ideas—coddling gender confusion in six-year-olds, excusing synagogue vandalism—run rampant. We drape ourselves in the tattered rags of empathy, but it’s lunacy in disguise.

Diogenes, lamp in hand, would search our campuses in vain for an honest man. We laugh at redemption, then tell kids God put them in the wrong body, offering dresses, drugs, and mutilation as salvation. It’s not compassion; it’s madness with a halo.

We’ve lost our moorings.

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