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Joey and Chandler, my 8-year-old cats, wound their fat tuxedo bodies nervously around and between my ankles over and over.

Trump was on TV spewing nonsense, and they were all pointy ears.

“No. The mean man is lying, boys.

It’s all he knows how to do. Haitian immigrants are not going to eat you.

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I promise.”

Joey, the calmer one of the two, appeared to relax a little. By which I mean he fell into a happy slumber almost immediately. Chandler, who is famously more anxious, was less convinced.

He growled at the orange man still spittling and sputtering utter foolishness while the nice lady in the presidential pantsuit maintained the bemused expression of someone watching an opossum read a book.

She’d never seen anything like it and neither had America.

“Don’t worry, Chan,” I said, ruffling the fur behind his ears, a move he normally finds calming.

“The moderator just pointed out that story has been thoroughly debunked. The orange man often makes things up and proclaims them true.”