We saw you on a mossy hillock near the University of Washington's marine biology lab on San Juan Island. Your eyes stared down at us. Eyes with nothing in them. Not even death. Not even election anxiety. Just the blank indifference of an animal eye. Your only movement: the hinge-like articulations of your satellite ear. Unlike Donald Trump, you had the high ground. Like Donald Trump, you were fearsome. We'd been warned about bucks raging around the grounds at this time of year, the peak of their rutting season. You were looking for a doe. You wanted to grab her by the hind. You would not hesitate to skewer a mere human with your head-weapon. So we had three choices: (1) run at you screaming with the fire of our race, (2) walk east along the perilous cliff bordering the Strait of Juan de Fuca, (3) walk deeper into the woods but still across your path. Sunset was 30 minutes out. The day was darkening. Having no arrows, we decided to pick up a rock and cross your path, slowly but confidently, your eyes on us. We passed you without incident.


Through an open door to a fenced-in loading dock off a sketchy alley leading to the parking lot of the world's crappiest futon store, we saw you. You were sitting in folding chairs in an overlit, thoroughly-TRUMP-signed room making phone calls. We got out of there as fast as we could. We didn't want your nasty futons anyway.


We saw you while canvassing the Sunday night before the election. You were in your home, chilling and watching TV. You answered the door and were really excited that we were out there canvassing, doing something for democracy. You offered us crackers and cheese. You were really cute. If we'd been canvassing solo, we might have taken you up on your offer.


We saw you—a young male/female couple—on the southbound light rail train on a recent Friday night eating sandwiches with cold cuts in them. Occasionally, the way you carelessly bit the sandwich would cause the meat to stretch a great distance, sometimes even falling to the floor. At one point, the guy, while still chewing his food, kissed his girlfriend on the cheek. You two looked like a commercial for veganism.


We saw you on our neighborhood's Buy Nothing group on Facebook. Rather than offering up gently used kids toys or well-loved furniture, you offered up rides to the Greenwood Library's ballot drop box to people with disabilities and elderly folks who may have needed help getting around. We're not sure if anyone took you up on your offer, but in the midst of this garbage fire of an election season, your post was a reminder of the good in this world.


You emerged from behind the front gate of a fine-looking big brown house with white trim in Madison Valley. The fat red vacuum you pushed through the gate clashed with the soft upscale tones all around. In your other hand—it appeared to be hard to squeeze through with everything—was a bucket with several bottles of cleaning solution. You walked slowly to a silver SUV in the driveway. Even after everything was put away, your black apron removed, your nose blown at least three times (presumably from the dust), you still stood with the trunk door open, facing outward at the end of the driveway, guarding the place you'd just finished cleaning.


You three dozen pigeons almost smashed your beaky faces into the pavement trying to all get to a pile of vomit on Jackson Street in the Central District on the Monday before the election. You were racing against time. The thing was, the pile of vomit was smack in the center of the street, right on the double yellow line, and the cars and buses were coming. But which one of you found this pile first and how? And which human stepped in the middle of the street, not at a crosswalk, to hurl? Was it out a car window? You didn't care. You only knew that it was there now and you made your break for it. recommended