Kickass, the doorstop dog, joins the keeper in waiting, waiting, waiting; and in marveling at how waiting defines life, and, of course, death. So now the waiting is not for the arrival of a Santa Claus type imaginary character, but for the departure of a poisonous real figure.
The keeper once left a theater after the first act of “Waiting for Godot” when he failed to find satisfying entertainment in the Samuel Beckett drama that one reviewer said is a play where “nothing happens twice.”
This may mark the keeper as limited in artistic appreciation and lacking in taste when it comes to “waiting”, but his age immunizes him from concern over such thinking, and he proclaims—with a certain bit of fanfare, that he has never waited for anything so anxiously and enthusiastically as he now waits for the end of the long, miserable Trump disaster.
Waiting, according to the keeper, can be either positive or negative depending on the occasion, and it often requires concentration to produce maximum satisfaction. That explains why the keeper and thousands of his ‘waiting” ilk will be spending the next few days staring hypnotically at the TV set, perhaps with a drink in hand, and muttering to themselves: “I can’t wait for that SOB to be kicked the hell out of our lives.”