Dog’s perspective unveils folly of political creatures
The mist still lingered at 2 p. m. Thursday, with a cool breeze swirling down Canyon Drive. Broom trees bloomed in bright fuchsia, the perfect weather for walking, but Queenie, our youngest dog, was not content.
It was just Buddyboy, Queenie and me venturing outside that day. Bandit’s legs don’t work so well, so he skips the longer walks.
Queenie has milkwhite fur, with patches of black and chestnut, including a circle around her left eye that makes her look like the Tareyton cigarette smoker who’d rather fight than switch brands. She was born on Dec. 9, 2019, which makes her a Sagittarius. My husband, Brian, calls her the most spoiled Pekingese this side of the Boxer Rebellion.
There’s a legend that the peke was born when Buddha shrank a lion to the size of a dog. Two thousand years in lineage later, they’re one of the oldest breeds known to man or womankind.
“Still,” Queenie insists, “We may have been domesticated, but we have never been tamed.”
“Why can’t I write my own column?” Queenie complained to Buddyboy. “You wrote one! Bandit wrote one! Zane and Aidan get $ 5 every time their name is mentioned. What do we get? Kibble!”
Buddyboy, her biscuitcolored adoptive father, looked up from checking his peemail, “Well first of all, you need to know how to write.” He wagged his tail, checked another California lilac, “And second of all, you need to know how to speak human.”
“Human?” Queenie responded. “Yes, you know the gibberish that Daddy, the guy on the other end of the leash, speaks. But trust me, you’re not getting into The San Francisco Chronicle, the Voice of the West, without speaking a little human. Maybe you should try Barkolingo.” Buddyboy paused, scratched his chin with his good back leg and asked, “Besides, what would you write about?”
“Well, the vice presidential debate last night for one. I mean, why make a fuss about the running mates, when really, it’s the walking mates that matter?” Queenie professed. “Humans are pretty silly if you ask me. In the debates, they argue but never get anywhere.”
“Not like us dogs,” she added earnestly. “We bark, we growl, and then we sniff each other’s butts. It’s much more civilized.”
“But who would Major debate?” Buddyboy countered. Major is the German shepherd who chose the Bidens in 2018 ( not the first hound to choose the vice president).
On the Republican side, Donald Trump was the first president in a century not to have a pet. Which may be the problem.
Fala ( Franklin D. Roosevelt), Checkers ( Richard Nixon) and Bo ( Barack Obama) were the most famous canines to live in the White House. But John Quincy Adams kept a pet alligator, a gift of the Marquis de Lafayette. James Buchanan kept an elephant. Teddy Roosevelt, who famously had a Teddy bear, also had a zebra.
We had reached the downhill part of the walk with a view of the La Grande water tank and, even farther along, Sutro Tower almost obscured in the midday fog. Buddyboy shrugged, “The way I see it, there are only three presidents who have ever gotten impeached. Two of them had no pets and the third had a … cat.” According to the National Pet Owners Survey, 63.4 million dogs have chosen to live with American families, or about 62% of all households.
“But whatever you do,” Buddyboy said while sniffing at a butterfly, “never discuss politics with Cheddar ( the cat who lives next door). I am, after all, a yellow dog Democrat, and Jon Carroll is right: All cats vote Republican.”
When we arrived back home, a blue bungalow, in the outer, outer, outer, outer Excelsior, Buddyboy jumped through the dog door with plans for the rest of the day.
“Let’s go inside, Queenie. I’ll teach you how to type.”
On the Republican side, Donald Trump was the first president in a century not to have a pet. Which may be the problem.