And They Call It Puppy Love
So Bill Clinton is taking that dog after all. "It's the President's desire to have one loyal friend in Washington," said White House Press Secretary Mike McCurry. What a compliment! The President played with a 3-month-old Labrador retriever on the South Lawn of the White House for all of, oh, a half an hour, and it appears that he has decided to keep it. After someone else trains it.
Although I'm glad for Mr. Clinton, really, I can well remember a little girl, not unlike myself—in fact, myself—who cried and cried for a dog for six years, until finally one summer, her parents, under the mistaken impression that her undiagnosed migraine headaches were the sign of some fatal disease, bought her one. That's how I got my puppy. I worked for my puppy. That's all I'm saying.
"I think he had a close encounter with the puppy and enjoyed the puppy," Mr. McCurry confided, "and bonding occurred." Hmm. Last I heard, bonding occurs when you apply denture cream to dentures and then press them against your gums.
I say, get out, li'l pup, get out before it's too late. Can you imagine the reports to come? "Today I think fetching happened, and also a Milk Bone was perhaps somehow involved."
And another thing. I didn't need CNN to name my puppy. I had a name already picked out. From literature. I didn't take suggestions off the Internet as Mr. Clinton may do. Furthermore, not housebreaking your own puppy is like not diapering your own baby. I don't have a baby, so that's just a guess.
The point is, when I got my puppy I didn't fiddle around with it in some sort of non-committal, maybe-I-won't-keep-it, maybe-this-puppy's-not-good-enough-for-me-'cause-I'm-the-President, gosh-I-can't-even-decide-what-to-name-it sort of way. I just took the puppy I got and was grateful. That's all I'm saying
Although, come to think of it, maybe that's the point. Why commit when you're the President and you don't have to? Why not leave your options open? Maybe after a month or two you won't want that stupid puppy after all. Maybe your $10,000-a-plate friends will be insulted that you consider the puppy your only true friend. Maybe looking carefree and outdoorsy like Jack Kennedy isn't such a great idea anymore. Maybe the "friend" who "gave" you the puppy will turn out to be on the board of a company that imports Milk Bone knock-offs from the Far East. It just seems that more often than not, these things have a way of coming back to bite you, and bonding occurs. That's all I'm saying.