A howling debate
The president definitely needs a dog, but do I?
So there will be a puppy in the White House. Mazel tov, Malia and Sasha. Your father promised you one in front of many millions of people around the globe, so he can't welsh on the deal without skipping town under the cover of night.
Every family should have a dog. Every president needs at least one for photo ops. George W. Bush has Barney and Miss Beazley. Ike had Heidi. Nixon, of course, had Checkers. My personal favorites were LBJ's Him and Her.
If a prez doesn't have a dog, it means he's a communist and he loses the entire dog people vote, a disturbing bunch who stretch from the redwood forests to the gulfstream waters. Obama's presidency could hinge on getting this one right.
Obama, like Bush, will engage in the presidential kabuki dog dance when, after descending from Marine One on the south lawn of the White House, he stops to scratch the ears of a canine. This performance is for the benefit of the media scrum. It's meant to say, see, I'm just like you except I've got a helicopter and you don't. The nanosecond the prez and said animal enter the White House, said prez bails and some poor prole takes over dog duty.
That's the great thing about the White House. Some invisible biped walks the animal, cleans up after it, takes care of its shots, you name it. Hell, I'd get a dog with that kind of bench strength. It's like the Victorian regimen when children, fed and scrubbed, were presented to parents for four minutes at the end of the day.
No scary dogs allowed. Bad juju. No pit bull or Rottweiler, no Doberman or Akita. No little yappy things either. No Chihuahuas. A woman in a magazine ad some years ago said that anything under 15 pounds is not a dog. I'm with her.
I'm expecting a flood of invective from dyspeptic dog people defending each scary breed I've mentioned. They'll say the animals are really warm and fuzzy, great with the family. Only when pressed do these people ever concede, rather elliptically, that the dog is not altogether spectacularly wonderful with other dogs. Read: It will streak across two blocks to the springer spaniel minding its own business and rip its throat out in front of a swarm of 8-year-olds. Don't start with me.
Malia needs a hypoallergenic dog. No problema. There's a laundry list of breeds that fit the bill, from the Xoloitzcuintle, to its look-alike, the Peruvian Inca Orchid. Don't even think about a boutique dog. These creatures were invented on a slow Tuesday when, on a bet, someone concluded you could sell anything to yuppies looking for the next new thing. Think precious.
The Labradoodle is a walking absurdity that on its best day looks like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. Consider too the Malti-Poo, the cockapoo, and the goldendoodle, which is getting a lot of ink these days. Folks, dogs were not meant to be hybridized like grapes.
A dog is a dicier proposition outside the White House gates. You're your own pooper person, for starters. Anyone old enough to remember negotiating New York sidewalks like minefields showered hosannas upon New York Mayor Ed Koch when he signed into law in 1978 the first pooper-scooper law of any major city in the country.
It was, by a long shot, the most popular thing the man ever did. Cities and towns across the country stumbled over themselves to do the same thing. Many New York dog owners howled. Spare me. There was, is, and never will be nothing cute about dog poop.
The urban dog wars are vicious, and I steer clear of them. Instead, I bring the dog thing close to home, my home. At issue there is the debate between the Observer and his better half, Barbara, whether to get a dog.
A dog is wonderful at the right times in your life. This is not one of them. I grew up with dogs. My favorite was one we got from the MSPCA we named Whitney because it was found chasing its tail on the Whitneys' lawn. It turns out Whitney needed significantly more help than we could offer him.
I'm clamlike happy without a dog, but Barbara really wants another. She's still mourning the death two years ago of Cocoa, her beloved Portuguese water dog, who had been with her for years. I appreciate her huge loss.
But I'm very clear up front about my position: I don't want one. I start with dog walking. Who's going to walk Fido at 6:30 a.m. in a cold hard rain? Who's going to walk Fido in a winter blizzard at 9 p.m.? Who's going to walk Fido at 6:30 a.m., period? Not this little black duck.
Then: You want to travel for a week or two? Add at least $50 a night for a kennel. And: Have you checked out the prices at the vet these days?
Barbara counters that we'd save money on vacations precisely because we can't afford the kennel fee. She likes the unconditional love from a dog you can't get anywhere else. (So what am I, chopped liver?) She says owning a dog would help her get out of bed in the morning. She says it's nearly impossible to be depressed with a dog by your side.
All good points. But again, I come back to the sunrise plastic bag brigade. The ball is in Barbara's court. She must swear she will walk the animal, every day, every year, for the life of the dog. She can't do that, so the Observer should win. That said, I'm worried about this one.
Sam Alllis can be reached at allis@globe.com 