Man Sues Dog for $100,000: Unemployed, 8 ½-inch, pan-sexual mutt asked to fix collapsed U.S. health care system

Medical insurance refuses to pay for fractured skull

Lamont responds to power with smooches

By Nate Thayer

June 4, 2014

My pal, my dog Lamont, is going to be the ruin of me yet. The lovable but insufferable mutt has dragged me, once again, into another kerfuffle with polite society, this time plunging me into the deep end of Big Trouble.

Recently, agents of the United States government stormed Lamont's Washington D.C. home and served the 8 ½ inch tall insurgent mutt a court summons to appear in the Superior Court for the District of Columbia, Washington, D.C. in Case No: 2013-CA 8469 B in front of Judge Laura A. Cordero, for a lawsuit demanding the midget mongrel cough up $100,000 for causing the fractured skull and other grievous bodily harm to a human.

He has a court date to appear in Judge Cordero's chamber next Friday, June 13, 2014.

The U.S. federal government's latest strategy to fix the broken U.S. health care system is to ask my pal, Lamont, an insolvent, pea-brained, pan-sexual, black, unemployed, illegal immigrant, big-snouted, droopy-eyed, bow-legged, ridiculous looking, 8 1/2-inch-tall, two-year old mongrel canine born in a Mexican trash dump, to step in and solve the American health care crisis.

While Lamont couldn't be reached for comment, his spokeshuman—that would me—made clear he is innocent of the allegations. As is taught in the canine version of Dr. Martin Luther King's tactical guidelines for non-violent dissent, Lamont intends to fight Power with Smooches.

Sources close to Lamont, recognized as the swashbuckling Nelson Mandela like problem solver of his species, said he was busy playing with his tennis ball in the park and then, after snacking on cookies, would be taking a nap. Privately, the sources acknowledged Lamont was unavailable for comment mainly because he doesn't say anything because he is a dog and can't talk.

Like other world celebrities Bono, Cher, Pele, Snooki and Madonna, Lamont uses just one name.

Despite being a selfless internationalist and cross species public servant of substantial renown and accomplishment, most agreed a national health care policy which has been reduced to seeking the financial intervention of an insubordinate midget dog, might better benefit from a bit more tweaking.

Here are the facts:

The Plaintiff: Peter J. McElhinney, a U.S. federal government employee with full medical coverage who fell and broke his skull while jogging in Washington, D. C.

The Defendant: My pal, my dog Lamont.

Under "COUNT 1-NEGLIGENCE", Lamont is being sued for "causing severe physical injuries requiring ongoing medical treatment, severe pain, suffering, mental anguish, lost wages, and other damages."

Under "COUNT TWO-NEGLIGENCE PER SE", Lamont's long-suffering human—that would be me, Lamont's co-defendant—accused "of not having actual or constructive knowledge of the propensities of his dog, 'Lamont.'"

Let me be very clear on one point: I am in full possession of the "actual or constructive knowledge of the propensities" of my terrorist mutt, Lamont.  The subversive mongrel appears to be a fifth columnist agent, having sabotaged most aspects of my personal and professional life.

Lamont has effectively reduced me to the role of his butler.

Ever since he was born in a Mexican trash dump two years ago, smuggled himself into the cargo section of a United Airlines flight to Washington's Dulles International Airport, gave U.S. federal TSA agents the slip, and sought humanitarian sanctuary on my doorstep, the seditious mutt has been responsible for most everything that has gone awry in my life.

Frankly, he is lucky he is not human or he long ago would have been dead or in jail.

But in a rare exception to Lamont having a dark paw in most incidents of social upheaval, community outrage, and threats to national security that have occurred within a wide radius of Lamont's presence since then, the insufferable mutt is innocent of these—and perhaps only these–charges.

Let's set aside briefly—very briefly–the absurd state of affairs where a U.S. Federal Government employee with full medical insurance who was delivered by ambulance unconscious to hospital with numerous life threatening injuries, including a fractured skull, bleeding on the brain, permanent hearing loss, and a broken collarbone, deems his best option to avoid personal financial ruin rests in seeking financial assistance from a 8 1/2-inch tall, 30-inch long, goofy looking, unemployed, sexually ambiguous, financially insolvent–and I would emphasize–innocent, illegal immigrant dog to pay for his medical expenses.

I am not trying to shift responsibility away from the serially seditious mutt. The Incident with the Irish Jogger comes on the heels of numerous other cases of mayhem and turbulence resulting from Lamont's antics that preceded Pete's encounter with the concrete walkway and his resulting fractured skull and other critical medical calamities.

My pal, Lamont has an impressive fan club. They run the gamut from the drunks and homeless who frequent the park benches who he never fails to individually greet, to a diverse community of canines and their humans.

But, despite a considerable loyal support base resulting from his considerable charm, infectious personality, unique pluck, innate intelligence and devastating, non-traditional good looks, there has also been a small cabal of opponents.

The leading cadres consist of a coalition of a small but fervent minority of other canines, who Lamont has shown a propensity to beating up for no good reason, who are in league with a group of short humans under the age of eight.

Lamont has a particular fetish for young human children, preferably under four. The feeling is mutual, usually.

There was the time that Lamont tackled the young child whose guardian turned out to be a person of some renown and influence.

One day, Lamont and I were bounding about the park when he spotted a said short person, accompanied by a couple of adults and a dog. Lamont came to a halt. He stared straight at her. He began to whimper and wiggle furiously. Then he bounded at full speed to give her a personal greeting. As all eight inches high of Lamont galloped towards the base of the statue of Abraham Lincoln, he passed ignoring her dog and he passed ignoring her grown-ups. Then lift off! Wheels up, Lamont with tongue wagging was airborne and made full body contact with the child who, also, became airborne, crash landing on her back at the base of the statue of the author of the Emancipation Proclamation, Lamont's tongue smooching her face furiously, the copious moisture of his saliva mixing with her equally copious tears.

Arriving seconds behind him, I freed the poor child from the grip of Lamont's unquenchable affection and, on my knees, looked up into the eyes, peering over his glasses perched on his nose of the ravaged child victim's adult guardian, which were skyward, about one meter above, framed by a very decided scowl, staring at me. They belonged to Senator Carl Levin–as in Senator Carl Levin, Chairman of the Armed Services Committee, Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs, Subcommittee on Federal Financial Management, Government Information, Federal Services, and International Security, Subcommittee on Oversight of Government Management, the Federal Workforce, and the District of Columbia, Chairman of the Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations, Ad Hoc Subcommittee on Contracting Oversight, and Select Committee on Intelligence. Both Lamont and I fled.

"Lamont, pal," I huffed as we exited_, "If you aren't more careful you are going to get us both in BIG trouble."_

Lamont looked up at me and said: "Relax! I had fun. What's wrong with you people?"

Lamont is also committed to protecting political freedoms and canine civil rights.

Lamont insists on Proclaiming his Emancipation from the bondage of the modern day chains of repression, the hated Leash Laws, and engaging in what he considers a personal act of non-violent civil disobedience by daily walking the leash free picket line in solidarity with all those in bondage, past and present.  Lamont considers running free in the park named in honor of the heroic icon of freedom, the American president, Abraham Lincoln, who was also our first gay, mentally ill head of state who went to war to end slavery, the canine equivalent of sitting at a Whites Only lunch counter.

As a first generation immigrant, he appreciates the opportunities afforded by civil society defined by rule of law and Lamont is committed to his civic duty to defend freedom for all. Especially his own, to frolic and romp unchained without armed agents of the State intervening to stifle his pursuit of happiness.

Technically, it is against the law for a dog to be unleashed in Washington, D.C. and violations can result in arrest and detention without habeas corpus benefits, the right to a trial, an appeal, a jury of one's peers, or to even present a defense.  Penalties can include arbitrary sentencing to indeterminate incarceration, and even state sanctioned death. From Lamont's perspective it is unjust that there is a little publicized parallel canine judicial system—a Dog Gitmo in the heart of the cradle of liberty, Washington, D.C.

He remembers the wise adage of the rise of fascism. "First they came after the Jews, but it wasn't us so no one cared. Then they came after the Catholics, but it wasn't us. Then they came after the Gays, and when they came for the Dogs, there was no one left to fight to keep us free."

Or something like that.

There was the storied event when Lamont led a community protest confronting Neo-Nazi protestors who rallied in Washington's Abraham Lincoln Park in the fall of 2012.

As a rising, internationally renowned cross species rights activist and international peacemaker, Lamont was credited by Law Enforcement officials with single-pawedly diffusing a dangerous racial and religious confrontation in the nation's capital after the notorious anti-dog, white human supremacist hate group, the Aryan Nations, gathered at the headquarters of the canine superhero's turf, Abraham Lincoln Park. Ordained minister Morris Gullet, the leader of Aryan Nations ensconced in his rural Louisiana underground bunker, said: "Jesus said 'give not that which is holy unto the dogs, unto the beasts of the field, or to the Negro.' This statement is a racial message– and the words are 'beasts of the field' translated 'dogs' in the Scripture. Well, we have many beasts of the field in our country at this time."

Gulett refused to show up at his own rally after Nazi forward observers reported that Lamont intended to personally lead a counter demonstration.

And there was the armed Washington D.C. Metropolitan Police Officer on a bicycle, who made the mistake of riding past Lamont in Abraham Lincoln Park under the misimpression that his assigned patrol area included penetrating Lamont's area of operation.

The Peace Officer, fortunately, did not shoot Lamont after the mutt chased after him insistent on biting his jackboot and nipping at his heels.

And let's not neglect the impact Lamont has had on my personal life. One friend, who was a potential love interest fool enough to express a desire to meet the storied mutt at my domicile, had her reciprocal affections quite quickly extinguished when Lamont ripped her pierced earring out in his signature less than suave attempt at wooing affection from others. The future ex-wife-never-to-be was rather affable regarding it all–that is once the diamond stud was retrieved–and fled my house with remarkable civility and grace, though a tad unnerved.

Then there was a woman, with whom I was rather smitten, who fled my bed (which, of course, was shared with Lamont) after objecting to her "so-called sex life", proclaiming she was "tired of being the meat in a Lamont and Nate sandwich" as she stalked out of my house in protest one morning.

These do not include the uncountable kerfuffle's Lamont has instigated with other canines.

So, this whole wiggling-vigorously-whenever-he-sees-me, smooching-me-all-day-and-night-like-the-insatiable-attention-slut-he-is, crying-out-as-if-he-is-being-waterboarded-whenever-I-leave-his-presence, gazing-at-me-with-dreamy-goo-goo-eyes-beneath-my-feet-all-day shtick comes with a very dark side.

Let's be honest here: there is no arguing Lamont has a few life lessons that need to be pounded into him before he realizes that earth does not spin on the axis he seems to think it does.

Meanwhile, in the wake of the current legal crisis that threatens to bankrupt his butler—that would be me—and threatens to interrupt his cookie supply, Lamont is currently asleep on the couch and remains unrepentant, wiggling and smooching and thinking that life remains just grand, unfazed by the court action asking him to step in and take responsibility for an utterly failed national health care policy in the most powerful, wealthiest nation on earth.

The lawsuit in U.S. Superior Court reads that "Defendant NATE THAYER carelessly, recklessly and negligently failed to have his dog 'Lamont' on a leash" and that " 'Lamont' ran onto the trail and collided with the Plaintiff PETER J. MCELHINNEY causing him to fall to the ground" and "suffer(ing) severe physical injuries requiring ongoing medical treatment, severe pain, suffering, mental anguish, lost wages, and other damages."

Let's take a look at the legal merits of the current court action filed against Lamont.

Other than the "mental anguish" part, which I can attest Lamont has a history of inflicting, not irrelevantly targeting me, the remainder of the legal accusations are pure poppycock.

My pal, Lamont, and I were enjoying our evening constitutional around 6:00PM on January 9, 2013 in Abraham Lincoln Public Park, a public space in the shadow of the White House where citizens, both canine and human can take in exercise and fresh air after an arduous day of running the machinery of the Free World.

As dusk fell over Washington, D.C., near the base of the statue of the man who authored the Emancipation Proclamation and freed the slaves, my nation's first mentally ill, gay head of state, Lamont was romping with his canine buddies, racing at the speed of football wide receivers round and round yapping and barking and growling and engaging in faux fisticuffs with each other, the ten-pound-when-wet-mongrel demonstrating his impressive athletic skills and evasive maneuvers on a grassy field where a few dozen canines and their humans gathered nightly.

Abraham Lincoln Park was first the location of a Union Army hospital during the American Civil War in the mid-19th century.  On the night of January 9 last year, it was, once again, the scene of bloody carnage, and, as has proven the norm whenever disaster strikes, Lamont was in the vicinity.

The horrific sound of a skull cracking against concrete behind me forced my attention away from keeping an eagle eye on the antics of Lamont, and I turned to see a man, outfitted in spandex, with an IPod attached by Velcro to his arm, and earplugs in his ear, splayed unconscious, bleeding from his forehead and ears, his body motionless, unconscious and lifeless.

A grim loud silence enveloped the entire Abraham Lincoln Park, as all dogs and humans came to a halt, as happens when a potential tragedy is occurring in one's midst.

Pete McElhinney, an Irishman working for the U.S. federal government as a curator at the Smithsonian Museum, had apparently been jogging on his evening constitutional, went airborne,  and landed on his head on the concrete walkway. I say apparently because of out of the 30 or so humans in the vicinity, all of whom were watching their dogs engaging in the canine version of the evening's cocktail hour, no one actually saw Pete fall. Because we were all watching our dogs. Who were not on the concrete sidewalk behind us where Pete lay unconscious. And none of whom had collided with Pete.

But I rushed over to the Pete, stabilized him, administered first aid and called an ambulance.

"Don't move," I said, as I held his head firmly down with my left hand while restraining Lamont from bestowing smooches on the man with my right hand.

On my knees, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911. "I need an ambulance in Lincoln Park," I said.

"What happened?" the Emergency response dispatcher asked calmly.

"A jogger has fallen and is unconscious."

"OK. Listen to me closely. Is the man conscious and breathing?"

"Yes. He is complaining of head and neck pain and bleeding from the head."

"OK. Don't let him move. Hold him still. The ambulance is already on its way and will be there within a few minutes. What is his name and where does he live?"

I held the phone to my ear with my shoulder, while one hand kept Pete's head firmly immobile and the other tried to restrain the whimpering, now guilty-looking, droopy eyed Lamont from smooching Pete. "What is your name? Don't move. An ambulance is on the way. Where do you hurt?" I asked him.

"Pete," he moaned, clearly in seriously pain, in a thick Irish brogue. "My head–I think I dislocated my shoulder." There was a marked bulge where his arm, normally, should have been attached to his shoulder.

"Pete, where do you live and what is your phone number. Do you have a phone number for any family or friends I should call. Don't move. Help is on the way," I tried to reassure him. He groaned cooperatively, as my mongrel pal, Lamont, with a chagrined expression sat staring up at me sat next to me, fearing his cookie privilege's might be in jeopardy.

I stayed on the phone with emergency medical professionals taking their instructions and administering them to Pete for the 20 minutes before the ambulance arrived and Pete was attended to and placed on a stretcher and inserted into the emergency vehicle, and departed.

The only reason Pete, who was still knocked senseless by the time paramedics arrived, knew my name was because I took down Pete's phone number and I slipped my card into his pocket as he was wheeled by stretcher from the park.

I called him in hospital to check in on his well-being. Pete was released from hospital after a week, the doctor's having determined he fractured his skull and had bleeding in the brain. There was a threat, because of the location of the skull fracture, that spinal fluid might leak and cause permanent paralysis. He remained deaf in his right ear, but the doctors were hopeful it would return after time. He did not return to work for a number of days after his release. Only after a month was the medical device holding his injured shoulder removed.

But Pete did return to the dog park immediately upon his release to thank those of us who had helped him during his horrific accident. Specifically, he extended effusive gratitude to me for my rather minor efforts on his behalf. When he returned to thank us for our assistance at the park, the affable Irishman said he remembered nothing of the accident and we all chatted about who had seen what trying to reconstruct the events. "I don't remember anything. I just remember I was running and then waking up in hospital," said Pete.

There were about 30 other humans and their canines who gather nightly in Lincoln Park who also were nearby when Pete fell and cracked his skull, and after Pete was carted off by stretcher, we all asked each other if anyone saw what had happened. Everyone remained baffled, each saying they first heard the sound of someone smacking into concrete and then saw Pete sprawled on the concrete facedown, unconscious.

Pete and I kept in touch, calling each other numerous times in the weeks and months after his accident.

Pete wrote me in one email: "Thanks so much for all your help when I was injured. I don't remember anything that happened. The last thing I remember was jogging and then I woke up in hospital."

Within weeks Pete became decidedly unimpressed with the U.S. healthcare system. An Irishman, he was used to countries where one gets free national health care when one suffers grievous injuries. The issue of accumulating bills capable of bankrupting the victim simply is not an issue.

Within a couple of months, Pete complained to me that his insurance was refusing to pay for medical bills that had now exceeded $17,000 for the hospital stay, and thousands more for the ambulance ride, the doctor's bills, physical therapy sessions and more.

His insurance company argued to him that the ambulance ride to transport his unconscious self and his fractured skull to the hospital emergency room was unnecessary and initially refused to cover the costs. The insurance company initially refused to pay for his week in hospital, arguing it was not their responsibility because he was admitted under the category of "for observation" and therefore his injuries were not serious.

They argued that the fees for his medically ordered physical rehabilitation therapy sessions to help him regain full use of his shoulder were unnecessary and said they would only cover $50 of the $150 dollar charge per session.

They contended they were not responsible for the medical bills to continue to treat and monitor the recovery of his still limited hearing damaged by the blow that fractured his skull.

And arguing with the medical insurance companies was driving him crazy, Pete told me. It was endless paperwork and telephone calls and being put on hold and demands to provide documentation.

"Pete," I said. "Do you have a lawyer? Do not talk to the insurance companies. If they know you are not a lawyer, they will nickel and dime you with the intent to wear you down to try and get away with paying as little as possible."

But it was too late by the summer of 2013. Pete had already been bullied into signing paperwork agreeing to the insurance company demands that they were not liable for a host of the medical bills Pete had received.

"Did you sign anything with them? I asked him.

Yes, he had, he said. He had agreed to outrageous terms allowing the medical insurance company to legally refuse to cover the costs associated with his broken head and related life threatening injuries.

His insurance company had refused to cover his injuries. His bills were mounting. Bill collectors were calling. And, on top of his bills for his physical injuries, Pete was being driven mad by the uniquely American experience of having one's life threatened with financial ruin because of a collapsed national health care policy.

Pete said he had a relative who was a lawyer who he had consulted to try and figure out who could possibly be able to pay for his medical bills. The problem was Pete had been snookered into signing his rights away by the usurious thugs who run the medical insurance industry.

Pete had investigated if the city was possibly liable, but Abraham Lincoln Park is actually federally owned property, administered by the National Park Service. Pete inquired as to whether they might foot his medical bills. Since it didn't appear the National Park caused Pete to fall, I did not think that was a worthwhile pursuit.

By July, Pete was broke, being driven mad, and desperate. "I just want someone to take this whole problem away. It is ruining my life and driving me crazy," he told me.

Pete even inquired as to whether asking the people who gathered with their dogs each evening in Abraham Lincoln Park and helped Pete when he was injured could chip in and help pay his mounting bills.

"Do you have any insurance?" Pete asked me.

"Nope," I said. "Besides, even if I did they wouldn't cover it because I didn't do anything to cause your injury."

"Pete, first of all, you are talking to the wrong guy. I don't even have medical insurance, little less cash reserves."

Pete was at the end of his rope, but remained good natured and effusive in his thanks for my sympathy and advice. I had just previously offered to get a lawyer friend to look over his medical bills pro bono and the documents he had signed with his insurance company after his injuries to see what his advice might be.

Then an ominous email arrived on July 17, 2013.

"Hi Nate,

Good to talk to you today. I really hope we can work together to cover my medical expenses for my fall back in January. I really am not a litigious person, but my insurance is not covering the bills and they are mounting.

All the best for now,

Pete"

Uh Oh. Pete appeared to have made the acquaintance of one of my countries notorious personal injury lawyers.

I called Pete, who turned down my offer of help a bit abruptly and, thanking me again, said he was going to "pursue options on his own."

Fast forward a few months to March of this year.

In early March, I launched a crowd sourcing campaign to fund the production of my book "Sympathy for the Devil: A Reporter's Memoir from Inside Pol Pot's Cambodia", where I asked for support where people could pre order copies or makes donations to cover the final pre-publication production costs. Immediately, the response appeared encouraging. On March 4, I received a message posted as a comment to my website http://www.nate-thayer.com from a fellow who indicated he wanted to support the publication of my book.

"I'd very much like to give you a donation to keep on doing what you do so very well. Unfortunately, I'm against paying via the Internet and phone as I have been burned in the past….Is it possible to meet somewhere sometime over coffee or a beer or two," He wrote., concluding "Thank you for all that you do. I truly enjoy reading the truth. No one else reports on what matters, and if they do, I can't seem to find it.

Sincerely, & thankfully,

Stuart W. Macpherson"

I called Stuart, who was effusive in praise claiming he had read my work extensively and wanted to support the book project with what he implied was substantial financial backing.  As Stuart lived in my city of residence, Washington, D.C, I agreed to his request to meet in person and invited him over to my house to meet over coffee.

Stuart arrived a few days later, and I welcomed into my home. Once across the threshold of my doorway, he gave me a smarmy, guilty insincere smile.

"I am not here to donate for your book. I am here to serve you court papers for a lawsuit against you," he said.

That is when I learned that Pete is suing my dog, Lamont, and, "per se", me.

Not only had the mutt,Lamont, snookered me into a legal action threatening to bankrupt me, he managed to put my book crowd funding campaign $100,000 in the red from the get go to boot.

Lamont has his own blog, Lemuttlamont.wordpress.com. On it, he describes the purpose of his musings at https://lemuttlamont.wordpress.com/about/:

"My name is Lamont.

I was born a poor little black dog and discovered abandoned, buried in a trash dump in an obscure corner of rural Mexico on April 4, 2012.

I smuggled myself across the border seeking a better life and now live happily in the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Washington D.C., where the Big Dogs who control the Free World live.

Daily, I patrol my domain to greet My People, attentively observe the state of my world, and schmooze with the canine and human hoi-poloi as an active participant in the dog equivalent of the high powered social circuit.

Here I write my observations, from the perspective of a eight inch high, 10 pound immigrant mutt, of the entertaining, if peculiar, habits of the Washington power elite, offer my observations and commentary on vexing problems of local, national, and international import , detail the goings on of the sometimes-but-not-usually mean streets of Urban America, and update The People on the various antics I get up to in the process of enjoying my life immensely.

I gather these musings, always keeping a keen observant eye open, while I pee and sniff and smooch my way around my new domain of the Capitol Hill neighborhood.

Much of my time is spent paying homage in the nearby park named after that heroic American icon, Abraham Lincoln, our first gay, mentally ill president, where I Proclaim my Emancipation daily from the bondage of the chains of the dreaded modern day leash laws and frolic with my many new human and canine friends.

I am always accompanied by my butler and public relations damage control human, Nate, who sometimes gets frustrated at the amount of angst I cause him as I find myself in a myriad of pickles and kerfuffle's caused by my unpredictable antics. But we will always be best pals."

The Superior Court of the District of Columbia legal action concludes by "demanding judgment against the Defendant for compensatory damages in the amount of One Hundred Thousand Dollars ($100,00.00), plus interest, costs, and what further relief this Court may deem appropriate."

On May 21, Lamont received a comment on his blog page https://lemuttlamont.wordpress.com from Attorney Frank E. Hudson the 3rd.

"I write you on behalf of the Law Office of Kirk Rankin & Associates. Mr. Rankin represents Peter McElhinney in a lawsuit against you in DC Superior Court. You were served with the Summons and Complaint but have not filed an Answer, so the Court has entered a Default against you. Please contact our office at (703) 532-2700 to discuss this matter."

My recommendation to Attorney Hudson is: If you want to try and hold the black, pan-sexual, illegal immigrant, mongrel canine born in a trash dump in Mexico responsible for the collapsed U.S. health care system, while skimming a few bucks off of the top to line your pockets with one third of the winnings from the poor fellow with the fractured skull, good luck to you.

If you are going to try to out smart the wily canine, you are going to lose. I know about these things, believe me.

Lamont has chosen to be judged in the court of public opinion.

My guess is the insufferable mongrel will come out on top in his usual, inimitable way. ■

Archived from lemuttlamont.wordpress.com (Jun 2014). Recovered via Live Web Scrape.