Back in the day we once had a dog called Lucky.
Lucky was a bit of a bitser with a tuft of hair plonked on his head that would run wild with him in the same direction as the cars he chased.
We never really knew why Lucky chased cars and I suspect he didn't either, and as to what he would do if he ever caught one, I don't think Lucky had a clue.
But chase cars he did and his name came from being very lucky that he stayed alive for so long after many near misses, many coming courtesy of the hound dog tuft of hair that at times covered his eyes and caused him to run blindly down the road to nowhere.
There are many parallels between our car-chasing dog and the Republican presidential candidate in the Excited States of America, Donald Trump.
For one they both don't seem to have any idea what they will do if and when they win the prize and catch the car, or in Donald's case the presidency.
I find the whole American political parade a fascinating piece of theatre to watch and ever since my first stint of living and working there I have continued to follow it with both fear and loathing as well as total entertainment enjoyment in the theatre it produces.
My introduction was kickstarted in 1985 when working on the Donner Summit of the Sierra Nevada mountains, shovelling snow off the huge log cabin houses of wealthy Californian skiers at a place called Soda Springs.
Reno was only a hoot and a holler across the border and when the sun came out and the snow melted away we were off to chance our arms in the bright lights of Las Vegas.
At the same time down the road at the Californian state capitol of Sacramento, Ronald Reagan had just won a second term as president and the chance to see both Blue Eyes, (Frank Sinatra his campaign entertainment officer), and the palomino-riding president practise his lines, was too tempting to pass on.
Watching political theatre live really did make me ask the question who really was pulling the strings of the presidential puppets. And it still does today.
All Reagan had to do was win the hearts of the wild west and the Bible-belting south with a Hollywood smile and a well-rehearsed speech, and before you could say "howdy partner" he was elected for a second term.
I remember my first white Christmas up on the Sierra mountains for a few things. It was a record cold winter when I could ski to work, and I got to hear Blue Eyes sing about something I too had dreamed of.
And I clearly remember the snow piled high up on the roofs and on the sides of the roads as we went about our work each day.
Equally I remember the high piles of BS fed to the American people by would-be presidents and how starstruck were the voters who bought into it big time.
And now we have a new cowboy riding into town to take on the presidency, only this time it's not on the back of a Hollywood horse but more inside a Trojan Trump Boeing 747 private jet.
They say that Trump is spending $1 million a day on his campaign, and as for the unconfirmed quote that $2000 a day of that goes on kai for his hair - it could well be hair-say.
For many New Zealanders the political process of choosing a president of the most powerful country in the world seems about as important as who wins the best ball boy contest at the Australian Open.
But it really does matter and it should be taught given the influence it will have in all of our and our tamariki's lives. As should the theatre of their political campaigns and how to read what are the issues behind the puppets and their puppeteers who are paraded before the American public.
Nothing changes when nothing changes, and until the wealthy can walk in the shoes of the poor the Trumps of this world will continue to marginalise the weakest in society.
Giving Trump the reins of the Republican horse will be like signing a blank cheque, and given his track record the money will remain with the wealthy and middle class of America.
One thing is for sure, there is a lot more political theatre to come and if Donald does trump Lucky our car-chasing dog - and catches the prize of presidency - there surely will be hell toupee.
- Tommy Wilson is a best-selling author and local writer