A friend, who has worked with various celebrities as a personal assistant and a dresser called. He was leaving town, and needed me to cover for him. “It’s easy!” he said, “you just have to stop by and feed him ― I’ve left everything out with a note!” He gave me an address that leads to the top floor of a six floor walk up apartment building.

When I arrived, I unlocked the door, unsure of who or what I would be feeding. The door opened into a family/television room ― the curtains drawn, a large TV blaring on the wall. On the glass coffee table sat a large metal dog bowl. A bag of kibble sat near the door. And on the sofa, Donald Trump, in a large adult diaper, sat sleeping with his chin on his chest. I filled the bowl with nuggets and slid it toward him on the table.

As I looked at him sleeping, I was filled with disgust, and then flooded with pity. He is obviously sick. Disabled. Infantile and senile. Feeble. Something was profoundly wrong with him. He then woke and without acknowledging me in any way, began gobbling the food, chewing loudly with his mouth open. I decide that it would be too cruel to let him just starve to death, but at least he was contained ― as he could never be able to walk up or down all those stairs.

I did the bare minimum for him, only what I would offer to any suffering stranger, any human being. I got him a cheap pre-paid flip phone for emergencies only. All his previous handlers abandoned him. He seemed debilitated. Yet somehow despite his incompetence he was still able to head an angry, divisive, xenophobic campaign.