All the Presidents' Pets (14 page)

She continued. “One day they may find these archives and destroy them. Then all evidence of the ‘sacred animal' will be destroyed and we'll be all the poorer.”

“Helen, this is a challenge I didn't expect. For me to commit my name to this. Why wouldn't you just—”

“
Please
don't ask why I don't write it. Just trust me that much depends on you rising to this. And if you ever doubt the importance of presidential pets,” she said, “consider the story of FDR's Fala and Churchill's Rufus.”

What she handed me then was not the transcript of a Fala fireside chat (that would have been way too obvious), but a speech by Winston Churchill's chocolate poodle Rufus. It was his eulogy to Fala:

In remembering Fala, one thinks of Marvell's line on the untimely end of Charles I: “He nothing common did or mean/Upon that memorable scene . . .” The scene of our meeting was the deck of the USS
Augusta
in the second year of war.

Spirited from lapping up the runoff of Pol Roger streaming out of the President and Prime Minister's dining cabin, our bond took on a heady exuberance. Heady, until I slipped and plopped right into the cold northern waters.

Not a human could hear my cries, and the fish were of little use. Now, it seemed, had come my darkest hour. It was in that bleakest of moments that Fala risked all, diving in and delivering me to safety by the scruff of my neck.

From that day forth he committed himself to the welfare of me and my people—and I to him and his people. A common interest and common destiny.

Though the story became one of humans conquering evil, it began with a sniff. I knew from the very first whiff of that great Scottie's behind that he was far from common. And so I say . . .

In War: Resolution

In Defeat: Defiance

In Victory: Magnanimity

In Peace: Goodwill

In Friendship: Fala

It was a beautiful passage. Helen took my hand in her claw.

“I want you to have something. No one—not even Mr. Peabody—knows I possess it. There is something known as the Fala Grail. There are three parts. The first is Fala's dog bowl.”

“Is that what Socks was referring to in his book?”

“That's right. The second is Fala's dog collar. We don't know where that is.” Then she moved over to the Houdon bust of herself. “The third is his favorite chew toy.”

Helen carefully lifted the bust and pulled out a chewed-up plastic Pinocchio toy. She placed it in my hand. “I want you to have it. It is extremely valuable.”

It was so small and yet it felt magical in my palm. A tiny chewed-up plastic relic.

FDR's Scottie Fala and his Pinocchio chew toy, the final piece of the coveted Fala Grail.

“Why is it so important?” I asked.

“Those radicals around the president—those who oppose the humane counsel of the ‘sacred animal'—believe that if they can obtain all three parts, they can once and for all assume the power and influence that Fala had.” She became grim here. “And then the real presidential pet will finally be rendered obsolete, stripped of its nation-saving power . . . dispensable.”

“Oh, Helen, I'm overwhelmed. But I just don't know if I can write this—”

“Please,” she said. “As you think about what I'm asking, think about Fala. And think about Barney.”

I had one last question. “Helen, Barney doesn't really have rickets, does he? I'm guessing it's just a rumor spread to undermine him, just like when Truman's Irish setter Mike was supposedly sent away for the same reason?”

“You're right about Barney, wrong about Mike. He really did have rickets. The Dixiecrats force-fed him candy as punishment after he convinced Truman to integrate the armed forces.”

My brain hurting from yet another factoid, I set out.

24

Eyes Wide Open

 

I needed some time alone to sort things out.

I climbed up from Helen's lair and out from under her desk. Even though it was late at night, I chose to exit through Helen's desk downstairs in the pressroom. I just couldn't deal with the gutter right now. Besides, reporters often stayed late into the night, so the security guard would think nothing of it if I left through the gate.

I nearly tripped over Helen's Easy Spirits, then climbed the steps into the Briefing Room area. I was about to walk straight out onto the North Lawn when I heard what sounded like a soft wail. It was coming from the direction of Scott's office, behind the Briefing Room.

As I tiptoed closer the wailing got louder. Scott certainly wouldn't be working this late. Maybe an animal had made its way in and was trapped. As I neared his office, I could see that his door was only open a crack and a soft light flickered from inside. The noise from the office was much fuller now. The wailing I could hear was a woman's voice, not an animal's, and it was joined by the lower-registered moans of men—a few of them. The collective sound was both vaguely religious, almost chantlike, and unmistakably sexual.

Ever so carefully I pressed my chest against the wall, just beside the door's crack, then crept as slowly as possible, leading with my head, toward the opening. I stopped once I had a clear view. I felt sufficiently cloaked in darkness to stay for a good long look.

What I saw shocked me.

Inside, illuminated by a single candle on Scott's desk, stood a circle of nine individuals. They were clad in white robes, monklike cowls, with hoods concealing their heads. What appeared to be six full-grown men swayed and moaned, their palms facing up. One woman sang out. There was also one midget of indeterminate gender and one Sasquatch-size individual, presumably another man.

As they grew more excited, their bodies undulating, their heads nodding, the hoods began inching back from their faces. I could see now that the ritual participants included Scott McClellan, White House advisor Karl Rove, Fox News chief Roger Ailes, former press secretary Ari Fleischer, Senator Zell Miller, and Gephardt the Albino. When the hood dropped back from the head of the giant, I was shocked to see White House counselor Karen Hughes.

The midget's identity was still hidden by his or her hood.

The lone average-size woman began rocking back and forth so passionately that the hood flew back completely from her face. It was Laurie Dhue, her lips glistening more than ever, her eyes widening. She was panting heavily by now, between high-pitched wails.

Then something strange happened. Scott slowly entered the circle, drawn there it seemed by his co-ritualists' calls. As the others began growing louder and closing in on him, Scott began removing his robe. He pulled it over his head. Laurie was screaming like a banshee now as Scott threw the robe aside. It was almost as if Laurie was an audience member at some satanic Chippendales show.

I had barely a second to imagine another facile pop-culture comparison, though, when I noticed what Scott had revealed.

A pantless Scott McClellan was wearing only the ceremonial Press Secretary's vest. He began dancing, a man apparently possessed, as Laurie's shrieks grew wilder. It was a strange agitated dance, as if he were checking himself for fleas. He scratched himself with his hands and his feet, then shook his butt in the direction of each of the others. It was really more of a wagging motion. (Scott's right ass cheek, by the way, was tattooed with the letters “P.S.” My assumption was that the letters stood not for “Priore de Sion” but for “press secretary.”) Each of the others exaggeratedly sniffed in the direction of Scott's butt.

Finally Scott lifted a drinking cup. It looked like a very wide-rimmed chalice, but one without a stem—really almost a bowl, a tartan bowl. It was Fala's bowl! He grandly drank from it. When he was done he took a deep breath and howled.

Then Gephardt the Albino reached with his left arm underneath his right sleeve and from the upper arm removed a dog collar. It was Fala's dog collar! He carefully attached it to Scott's neck. Scott howled again, this time even more loudly.

At this point Laurie, worked up into her own ecstatic frenzy, let out a climactic yowl and collapsed onto the floor. The others began dancing around her.

I was terrified and yet I couldn't contain myself. “The Grail!” I said, just loudly enough that the still-concealed midget looked up at me, then down at my hand—at the Pinocchio chew toy!

There was no time to think. Only time to run.

25

The Great Hallucinator?

 

I burst through the doors, never once looking back, and ran straight for the security gate. I must have looked dazed because the guard asked if everything was okay as I stumbled onto Pennsylvania Avenue. I couldn't answer, I was in such a state of shock.

It was three-thirty in the morning and I'd just witnessed a terrifying scene. Worse yet, I'd been seen with the Fala chew toy. I needed to talk to somebody, anybody.

I ran down Pennsylvania Avenue, not knowing where I might end up. It was freezing cold and the street was empty, except of course for Condoleezza Rice, who was doing her midmorning sprints. She was so “in the zone,” she didn't notice me.

I ended up at Candy's apartment building in the Adams Morgan neighborhood and pressed down on the buzzer. There was no response.

“Candy, where are you?”

I kept pressing until she finally buzzed me into the lobby. I ran up six flights, pushing past a meth dealer and two prostitutes, until I came to her apartment. I rapped loudly on the door. Barely awake, she opened it a crack, only as far as the chain would let it. She was dressed in a purple robe, her hair piled messily on top (a look Candy herself called “sex hair”). Even at this hour she stood in her trademark three-quarter-turned position.

“Candy, something terrible is happening.” I was breathless. “I've got to talk to you.”

Candy looked skeptical. “It's not a good time, kiddo.”

“Look, Candy,” I said. “I know that Pasquale is in there with you, but
I
need you right now.”

“Pasquale? I think you mean Alonzo.”

“Whatever, Candy. I'm in crisis.
Please.
”

Candy wouldn't look me in the eye. “Listen, Mo, things have been getting a little too weird with you. First the pussy talk with President Fox. Then the all-fours routine with the First Lady.”

“Caaaan-dy,” beckoned a Latin voice from inside.

“Bring it down a notch, hot stuff,” shouted back Candy. Then she looked at me again. “Sorry, Mo. I just can't do this anymore.”

It hurt her to do it but she closed the door on me. The last thing I heard was Candy yelling back to Alonzo: “Looks like Carnivale's getting started early this year!”

There wasn't time to mourn the loss of my friendship with Candy. I tore down the steps, nearly trampling an old Guatemalan woman selling carnations, and started running as fast as I could along the Potomac River toward the Maryland suburbs. It was 4
A.M.
now. The only sound I could hear was Condoleezza Rice swimming laps across the Potomac.

I wasn't in great shape so I didn't make it to Wolf's house in Bethesda until daybreak at 6
A.M.
I kicked off my shoes and started clanging his chimes frantically.

Mihoko the ancient serving girl opened the door. I pushed past her and ran out back.

I stopped dead in my tracks. “Oh my God, Wolf!” I felt like I'd been cheated on. There in his backyard Wolf was teaching kendo, the art of Japanese fencing, to Anderson Cooper.

Wolf turned to me. He wasn't smiling.

“Wolf, I need to talk to you,” I said.

Wolf put down his wooden sword, or
bokken,
then turned to Anderson to ask for a moment.
“Chotto Matte Kudasai.”

“Hai,”
Anderson assented with a quick bow.

Wolf walked over to me, looking grim. “What's up, Mo-san?” he asked curtly.

“Wolf, I'm in trouble. Big trouble. There's a group of people at the White House. They might try to hurt Barney. And now they might try to hurt me. I need you now more than ever.”

“I'm sorry, Mo-san, but you are not welcome here.”

“Why?”

“Your recent behavior has dishonored both yourself and your sensei. Our very own CNN poll shows that 91 percent of the American people believe you are a danger to Barney. The margin of error is only 3 percent.”

“I'm
a danger?! Oh, Wolf, what happened to us?” I looked over at Anderson, who was studiously practicing his lunges. “He's even wearing my
dogi,
” I added wistfully, using the Japanese word for “uniform.”

“Mihoko will see you out,” Wolf said stonily.

I started to walk out when Wolf's Akita puppy gamboled out from the house.

“Ki O Tsukete, Aaron!”
(“Be careful, Aaron!”), yelled Wolf, scared that I might harm the little dog. Wolf scooped the puppy up in his arms as Anderson leaped between us, twirling his sword in my face.

“It's
not
a baton,” I hissed before turning and marching out.

As I walked out through the front door, Mihoko let go one parting shot—“Don't let door hit in ass on way out!”—before slamming it shut.

Rejected by two of the people I thought I could rely on, I had one last place to go. I ran back downtown to visit with the man I looked up to more than any other.

Abraham Lincoln. Daniel Chester French gave me an icon to which I could pray without any compunction. No one could ever call him a false idol.

I got there at 7
A.M.
Condi had just finished rappelling off the Washington Monument and was doing her cool-down javelin throws. She jogged off, probably to begin her rounds on the Sunday news shows.

A couple hundred yards away late-night straggler Ann Coulter was hiking across the lawn barefoot in a skimpy black cocktail dress talking with Hannity. Colmes trailed behind, holding her high heels.

“Oh, please!” she scowled. “Lincoln was about as Republican as Bill Weld.”

Once they'd passed I was alone, the Mall desolate. I walked to the top of the memorial's steps and looked up at Lincoln. It was just the two of us, and I instantly felt calmed. I held in my hand the Fala chew toy, perhaps the only thing standing between the safety of the presidential pet and a complete takeover by the President's inner circle of radical Barney opponents. So much was at stake and while I was no believer in voices from the dead, I held out hope that maybe some answers would come to me if I meditated long enough.

I got down on my knees and bowed my head. “Oh, Mr. President,” I whispered, “what has happened to the White House? You were just a simple rail-splitter from Hardin County, Kentucky, born in 1809 to undistinguished parentage. But you were an honest and wise leader with a diverse Cabinet that you listened to. It was a glorious intellectual ferment, a constant exchange of ideas. You actually engaged the press in a rich dialogue. Your correspondence with Horace Greeley about the Union and slavery—”

I would have continued but when I looked up, something miraculous had happened. Lincoln's right thumb and forefinger were reconfigured in an “L” shape on his forehead.

“Mr. President!”

Then something even more magical happened. Lincoln spoke. “Sorry, guy,” he said, “but someone needs a reality check.” He had a high, thin voice. “I appointed a diverse Cabinet because I'd made campaign promises. And as for the press, I was a master manipulator. I offered one Democratic editor the post of minister to France just to get him off my back. And don't get me started on Greeley. I had to humor him since the guy was ripping me a new one every chance he got. He even called for my resignation at one point.” Lincoln threw up his hands. “Give me a break!”

That Lincoln sounded like ABC's John Stossel was something of a letdown, but I was riveted by his words.

“Here's the thing: editorial writers know zip about running the country,” Lincoln continued. “Don't get me wrong, I like that Tom Friedman fellow, even if the whole ‘Arab street' line is a little played out,” he added tartly.

“Well, no one created metaphors like you,” I gushed. “By the way, can I tell you what a huge fan I am of your House Divided speech?”

“Thanks. I lost my Senate race after that so I've always been a little insecure about it.”

“Anyway,” I said, “I guess I am a little naive. You were a politician after all. You had to do some pretty unsavory things to get your way.”

“No kidding. I suspended the right of habeas corpus, I imprisoned southern sympathizers without trial. This is true. But give me a break!” Once again I cringed. “I was trying to save the Union, folks! To give hope to the world for all future time, people. These were big-ticket items—not midnight basketball penny-ante b.s.”

I hadn't planned on talking with Lincoln this night so I wasn't really prepared with questions. “I hope this isn't too personal, Mr. President, but I've read that you could sometimes get a little, well, gloomy. How did you get through it all?”

“Gloomy? Try bipolar,” he said. “Of course it didn't help much that I married a lunatic. To stay focused and keep my spirits up I relied on my better angels,” he said, referring to his first inaugural address. “And if you don't know who they are by now, you're more clueless than General McClellan. Better Angels, come on out.”

Two goats galloped out from behind the statue.

“It's Nanny and Nanko!” I said. Nanny and Nanko were the rambunctious goats who belonged to Lincoln's youngest son. He used to attach kitchen chairs to the goats and ride them around the house.

“Those animals were smart. They knew that the best thing they could do was keep me entertained,” said Lincoln as the goats took center stage and began doing a jig. Lincoln was in heaven.

“Mr. President,” I said, “it's clear to me that every presidential pet has had a different way of serving its administration. I don't know much about Barney's strengths and weaknesses. But I fear for our country if he's not able to speak his mind to the current President. He may be our last best hope.”

“Hey, good line. I share that opinion. But who am I? The world will little note nor long remember what I say here, but—”

“No, it won't!” echoed a deep and menacing voice.

Suddenly Lincoln's face clouded over!

“What's happening?” I yelled. A beautiful scene had just turned dangerous. I looked at Nanny and Nanko, who started bleating in terror. I turned back to Lincoln's statue. But as the cloud cleared, Lincoln was no more. The head on the statue was Richard Nixon's!

“Richard Nixon! What have you done with Lincoln?”

“Sorry, kid, but now he belongs to the ages—and he ain't coming back.”

“What is it that you want?”

“You're a little too curious about presidential pets and I think you need to back off—or you'll get your skinny little tit caught in a wringer!”

“You stole that line from John Mitchell. Well guess what? I'm not scared of you. You always hated the press. And you did bad things. Okay, you also did some good things, like opening relations with China and starting the EPA. I believe the National Endowment of the Arts began under your watch as well.” I wanted to be fair. “But you tried to make yourself unaccountable. Well, President Nixon, I'm no lapdog!”

“Now, now, let's relax.” He leaned toward me. “There's no reason we can't be friends. Bebe! Get our friend a drink.”

Suddenly Nixon's best friend, the Cuban American banker Bebe Rebozo, walked in. He was immaculately dressed in white trousers, Gucci loafers, and a guayabera linen shirt.

Bebe approached me with a mojito in hand. I couldn't see behind his sunglasses—the kind I'd always associated with Meyer Lansky—but I felt threatened, even if I was momentarily taken with his vintage Seiko.

“Please, have a mojito,” he beckoned as he moved closer. Just then Checkers, Nixon's vice presidential dog, bounded out from behind the statue and began pulling on Bebe's pant leg with his teeth.

“Checkers,” scowled Nixon, “get back from there!”

But Checkers wasn't obeying.

“Please, have the mojito,” persisted Bebe as he moved still nearer, the dog futilely trying to hold him back. That's when I noticed Bebe slip a white powder into the drink and stir.

“No, thank you, Señor Rebozo. I'm fine.”

Bebe was becoming more aggressive. “You like the mojito,” he said hypnotically. I started backing up down the steps, determined not to be poisoned by Bebe Rebozo on the steps of this temple.

“No, really. Thank you, Bebe, but I'll pass.”

“Mo-ji-to,” he chanted.

I was walking backward down the steps more quickly and nearly tripped a couple of times. Bebe wasn't slowing down, though. At closer range I could see that behind his sunglasses he was eyeing my Fala chew toy. I clutched it even tighter.

I'd come to the bottom of the steps and continued walking backward, the pace still quickening. Bebe wasn't letting up.

“Checkers, get back here!” barked Nixon from his chair.

It was then that I decided to make a run for it. But as I turned around, I ran right into the edge of the Reflecting Pool. I teetered for a moment before regaining my balance, when a blinding whiteness came rushing in from my left. It came so quickly, I didn't have a chance to turn and see what it was barreling toward me. Suddenly a large cold hand gripped my neck from behind and plunged my face into the pool.

I'm not sure how long I was under because everything went black. I only heard voices—a stream of voices from the present and the past:

“You have dishonored yourself and your sensei,” said Wolf.

“I'm sorry, Mo. I just can't do this anymore,” said Candy.

“ ‘Swing low, sweet chariot,' ” sang Marian Anderson.

“What's next, a memorial for Jim Jeffords?!” said Ann Coulter.

“Give me a break!” said Lincoln.

I assumed I'd passed on. It hadn't been such a bad life, I thought. A little on the short side, yes, but not if I'd been born in Bangladesh, where the life expectancy for men is forty-eight years. And let's face it, I never once had to deal with monsoon season.

Just as I was making peace with the humiliation of drowning in the two-foot-deep Reflecting Pool, someone grabbed the neck of my shirt and fished me out. It was Laurie Dhue.