When I’m elected President in 2016, you had better believe that some things are going to change. First, you can be damn sure that my motorcade will not roll right in the middle of the bicycle lanes on Pennsylvania Avenue just to get me to the inauguration. I mean, seriously. DC cyclists have more than enough to deal with between homicidal motorists, inexplicable traffic circles, and designer dogs on flexi-leashes trying to take a chunk out of their calves. They certainly don’t need the President rubbing their noses in it by willfully ignoring the “bicycles only” signs.
The other thing that’s going to change is the selection of the First Dog. Of course if my Faithful Hound Winston is still with us, then he’ll automatically assume the post and will no doubt love every minute of stealing food from tables, terrorizing the staff, and digging through the Rose Garden for unidentifiable smelly things. This will automatically change things at the White House because Winston is that greatest of American breeds; the mutt. He was a stray that we rescued from the animal shelter and everyone who’s met him as attributed a different breed to his lineage. I have heard people confidently proclaim him a bulldog, a pitbull, an American Foxhound, a Great Dane, a Boxer, a Ridgeback, and even a Greyhound. The truth is that only Winston knows what his lineage might be and he’s not telling.
Presidents past have given great thought to the kind of dog that they should have roaming the White House, and there is usually quite a bit of fanfare concerning the breed and breeding of whichever dog is ultimately chosen. For example, the current First Dog, Bo, is a Portuguese Water Dog, a fairly rare breed reputed to be hypoallergenic. I consider this a travesty of course, because he’s not even American! I believe that the mutt is a far more appropriate dog for the White House. A creature of muddled blood lines whose characteristics are uniquely their own and unreproducable, mutts are nonetheless more likely to be hardy creatures who will do the job (whatever job) as well or better than some fancy inbred bitch who’s only claim to fame is that her sire once won third place in Best in Breed at Westminster.
If I am forced to choose a First Dog during my tenure as Commander of Cheats, then you can bet that I’ll be taking my motorcade to the nearest animal shelter. Maybe I’ll pick some scruffy terrier mix and laugh when (without prompting) it bites the ankles of the Joint Chiefs. Or perhaps I’ll adopt a fearsome-looking pitbull that wouldn’t hurt a fly, but will nevertheless “encourage” lobbyists to keep their distance and their meetings short.
If ever there was a country that deserved to have a mutt as a mascot it is this one. Can you really imagine a more perfect symbol?