A Few Thoughts from the First Dog
It’s a dog’s life was surely penned by some mongrel mutt, sniffing the butt of a registered poodle in the park or a yellow cur leaving a relic on the courthouse lawn. When you’re a Heinz 57 no one has expectations of you, cares about you or pays any attention to you. You can tear holes in the neighbors trash bag and dine on week old delicacies and when you’re done, roll contentedly in a pile left from the mutt three doors down. No one cares if your name is “Square”, “Pooter”, “Barfie” or “Dammit”.
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But when you’re the damn First Dog with a pedigree longer than most Ivy League college Presidents and have an address of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, it’s a lousy life. I couldn’t even get a dog’s name. Any dog across the street with the name of “Bo” is named “Bo” because “Bo” is “Bo”. Period! I’m named “Bo” because of some family great uncle “Diddlie”. Well, hey, that bites! If I was a mutt, enjoying the real dog’s life they’d name me after great Uncle Barney who was the town “alkie” and name me “Moonshine” or “Boozer”.
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I can’t even take crap without being chained to a Secret Service agent, spied on by twelve security cameras and followed by twenty two reporters. You try take a crap with an audience of millions and see if you smile about a dog’s life! When I’m done they don’t let me sniff it or roll in it. I’m lucky if I even get a chance to scratch around it.
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Then, they send me to obedience school. Hell, I was born with better behaviors than Chris Medlock, Sally Kern or Anna Falling. I’m groomed more often than Tom Colburn, combed better than Newt Gingrich and shampooed more often than Jim Inhofe. God knows I smell better than Sean Hannity and unlike Rush Limbaugh, have never been a drug addict.
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And this is a dog’s life? I want to hike my leg on the FOX News van, howl at James Dobson and everyone knows Sarah Palin still needs a good bite in the ass (but I know she’d bite me back.) But no, they chain me to the Secret Service agent, I wag my tail and run in a prescribed path. I have to pose for the cameras, posture for the media and God help me if I just once broke away and buried a bone in the White House Rose Garden. I’d probably find one of Dubya’s Weapons of Mass Destruction.
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Neutered at six months and house broken. It’s not like I shot my best friend on a hunting trip or tried to sell a Senatorial seat. Why weren’t THEY neutered?!?! And as for house broken, I hear Representative Sullivan from Oklahoma isn’t doing so good in that category? I’m sorry but this “dog’s life” thing is lost on me. Let me dig for a while a find the liberties buried by Dubya or the integrity buried by Mark Sanford. (Now there’s one to neuter!) I want to run on the Mall with Republican dogs, Democrat dogs and Ralph Nader. I want to eat an Easter egg, dig up tomatoes in the Presidential garden and go to Oklahoma to bite Randy Brogdon.
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But I aim to get them back. You think it raised some eyebrows when Michelle patted the Queen on her back. Just wait til the old lady visits the White House. I’ll be the only one on this side of “The Big Pond” who has ever looked up the Queen Mother’s skirt. And I won’t tell any of you if she’s really the queen or a king in drag.
It’s a dog’s life was surely penned by some mongrel mutt, sniffing the butt of a registered poodle in the park or a yellow cur leaving a relic on the courthouse lawn. When you’re a Heinz 57 no one has expectations of you, cares about you or pays any attention to you. You can tear holes in the neighbors trash bag and dine on week old delicacies and when you’re done, roll contentedly in a pile left from the mutt three doors down. No one cares if your name is “Square”, “Pooter”, “Barfie” or “Dammit”.
*
But when you’re the damn First Dog with a pedigree longer than most Ivy League college Presidents and have an address of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, it’s a lousy life. I couldn’t even get a dog’s name. Any dog across the street with the name of “Bo” is named “Bo” because “Bo” is “Bo”. Period! I’m named “Bo” because of some family great uncle “Diddlie”. Well, hey, that bites! If I was a mutt, enjoying the real dog’s life they’d name me after great Uncle Barney who was the town “alkie” and name me “Moonshine” or “Boozer”.
*
I can’t even take crap without being chained to a Secret Service agent, spied on by twelve security cameras and followed by twenty two reporters. You try take a crap with an audience of millions and see if you smile about a dog’s life! When I’m done they don’t let me sniff it or roll in it. I’m lucky if I even get a chance to scratch around it.
*
Then, they send me to obedience school. Hell, I was born with better behaviors than Chris Medlock, Sally Kern or Anna Falling. I’m groomed more often than Tom Colburn, combed better than Newt Gingrich and shampooed more often than Jim Inhofe. God knows I smell better than Sean Hannity and unlike Rush Limbaugh, have never been a drug addict.
*
And this is a dog’s life? I want to hike my leg on the FOX News van, howl at James Dobson and everyone knows Sarah Palin still needs a good bite in the ass (but I know she’d bite me back.) But no, they chain me to the Secret Service agent, I wag my tail and run in a prescribed path. I have to pose for the cameras, posture for the media and God help me if I just once broke away and buried a bone in the White House Rose Garden. I’d probably find one of Dubya’s Weapons of Mass Destruction.
*
Neutered at six months and house broken. It’s not like I shot my best friend on a hunting trip or tried to sell a Senatorial seat. Why weren’t THEY neutered?!?! And as for house broken, I hear Representative Sullivan from Oklahoma isn’t doing so good in that category? I’m sorry but this “dog’s life” thing is lost on me. Let me dig for a while a find the liberties buried by Dubya or the integrity buried by Mark Sanford. (Now there’s one to neuter!) I want to run on the Mall with Republican dogs, Democrat dogs and Ralph Nader. I want to eat an Easter egg, dig up tomatoes in the Presidential garden and go to Oklahoma to bite Randy Brogdon.
*
But I aim to get them back. You think it raised some eyebrows when Michelle patted the Queen on her back. Just wait til the old lady visits the White House. I’ll be the only one on this side of “The Big Pond” who has ever looked up the Queen Mother’s skirt. And I won’t tell any of you if she’s really the queen or a king in drag.
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