All the Presidents' Pets Read online

  Jim laughed and squeezed my neck a little too hard. “You just hush now, little Mo. You’re going to keep makin’ ’em squeal at home.” Then he yelled to the control room, “Now beam me up!”

  4

  Stepping in Dhue-Dhue

  The phone was ringing as I entered my apartment. I’d only been living there for a month and few people had my number, so I figured it was a telemarketer. “Yup,” I snapped into the phone.

  “Wow. Someone’s grumpy. Sorenson here.”

  “Eric! Sorry about that.”

  “No worries. I’m the one calling to say sorry. I’ve got some bad news. Hard Time’s been canceled. We just haven’t been pulling the numbers.”

  “You’re kidding!” I said, delighted. I instantly reined it in. This was supposed to be bad news. “I’m so sorry, Eric. We’ve only been on a month and we were doing better in the ratings, I thought. I’m pretty sure we were ahead of Oxygen.”

  “I’d have to check on that. But it doesn’t matter. A month is too long to let a news show struggle. Besides, Traficant finally lost it.”

  Eric explained that Jim had gone too far with his guest, former Health and Human Services secretary and current University of Miami president Donna Shalala. Inexplicably he started screaming at her for pulling Miami out of the Big East and joining the ACC, calling her first a secessionist, then a Nazi, a pinko, and finally a whore. Then he bit her. Shalala was fine; Traficant was in the hospital. Eric would be spinning this for weeks.

  Before he could finish I realized that Eric would be making a number of calls as the MSNBC schedule began yet another reshuffle. This was perhaps my only opening.

  “So what does this mean for me, Eric?” I said a little anxiously. “Do I finally get to go to the White House?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Eric began, “I do want you at the White House.”

  My heart began racing. “Oh, Eric, I’m just—”

  He cut me off. “It’s time the network had someone covering Barney.”

  “Barney who?”

  “Barney Bush.”

  Silence.

  “Barney is the President’s dog,” I said flatly.

  “You’re good,” he laughed nervously. “I knew there was a reason we were in the Mo Rocca business. Sure you’re not already covering this beat for us?” Eric had to know that this was something of a shock.

  “Sorry if I seem thrown off, Eric. It’s a lot to take in. I’m just trying to imagine my first question. Besides, doesn’t Fox have someone on this beat?”

  “Laurie Dhue is all over that story and it’s been a real ratings winner for Fox News, so it’s not going to be easy. But we believe there’s room for a second voice. And, Mo, we know you have something to say.”

  “To a dog?”

  “About a dog that happens to belong to the most powerful man in the world. You know, a lot of people believe that a pet is a window into a man’s soul . . . or something like that.”

  “Something like that.” I couldn’t help but get snippy. “Oh, and forgive my snide question about talking to a dog. As we both know, Laurie Dhue is the only one in the press corps who gets any access to the First Dog.”

  “Yes, that is the challenge, Mo, one we expect you to meet.” Eric’s voice was sharpening. “Look, no one said this would be easy. Remember, you wanted to be in the White House, one of the toughest beats to snag. Now you’re in the White House. You should be happy.” Whether or not Eric believed what he said, I got the point. I needed to back off.

  “Yes, of course,” I said as humbly as possible. I had a lot of respect for Eric. He’d served his country valiantly in Gulf War I (also known as “Operation Let’s See How It Goes And If It Doesn’t Work Out We Can Always Come Back Later”). He had little patience for whining. “This should be exciting,” I said with as much peppiness as I could muster. “Thank you, Eric.”

  Eric’s voice brightened. “Good luck, Mo. And careful getting through that pressroom doggy door. It’s a tight squeeze, I hear.”

  I hung up. Was I bitter? Not really, I was laughing. Okay, I was laughing bitterly. I’d never even had a dog and now I was going to be reporting full-time on one, against America’s cable news sweetheart.

  Laurie Dhue. Among the vast firmament of Fox News starlets Laurie was the brightest. Fox News chief Roger Ailes, the Louis B. Mayer of twenty-four-hour news, had early on chosen her as a favorite. She had the girl-next-door moxie of June Allyson and the lips of Lana Turner, shiny wet, like she had just eaten a pork chop. With the big blue eyes of Betty Hutton and the husky voice of Betty Bacall, she was the buxom blonde who appealed to all Fox News watchers, a wide-ranging group of conservative white men over fifty. Laurie was the Viagra in their Cialis.

  It was a combination that had made her release of Red, White and Barney: My First Dog (Random House, $29.95) a gigantic best-seller last Christmas. The authorized “dogography” was a coffee-table book that featured a red-white-and-blue-clad Laurie frolicking with the Scottish terrier all over the South Lawn. The access she’d been granted was truly astonishing, though the book seemed to feature the author more than the subject. It’s true that the “centerfold” shot of Laurie and Barney splashing in the fountain was split pretty evenly between reporter and dog, a “fair and balanced pose,” the caption coyly read. I particularly liked the shot of a teary Laurie saluting our troops with one arm and snuggling Barney in the other at Andrews Air Force Base.

  Some Democrats complained about the shot of the two of them in front of the FDR Memorial. Laurie sat in FDR’s lap and Barney blocked the small statue of the thirty-second President’s own Scottie, Fala. The Dems claimed that the shot was meant to suggest that Bush had eclipsed FDR as a “War President” but even they conceded that Laurie was a huge hit. “I about expected Roosevelt to get up from outta that chair, he must have been so excited,” cracked Georgia senator and Fox News contributor Zell Miller.

  Naturally Laurie became the envy of a whole bevy of Fox beauties. The vixenish newsreader Kiran Chetry called her “the Beltway Boys’ Goodtime Girl,” a reference to Fox’s bad boys Morton Kondracke and Fred Barnes. The lusty Linda Vester whispered about “Laurie’s Little Helpers,” pills that she purportedly took to keep pace with her grueling studio schedule. These were all lies.

  The luscious Laurie shrewdly held her head high and Mr. Ailes rewarded Laurie’s hard work by giving her her own hour-long weekday show about the First Dog. The Dig Story with Laurie Dhue featured a “Daily Doggie Treat” (her version of O’Reilly’s opening “Talking Points Memo”), fierce debates over pet care, clips from Here’s Boomer and Benji, and a few car chases thrown in for good measure. On the screen, just above the terror alert, was a clock counting down to Barney’s next birthday. Inset above that was a live shot of the entrance to Barney’s doghouse. Alongside that was the temperature reading from inside the doghouse.

  The show featured a parade of retired generals, former prosecutors, royal watchers, and administration representatives who came by, not only to gush over images of Barney, but also to remind Americans that Barney wanted us to support all the White House’s initiatives.

  As National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice reasoned, “The President believes that true Americans love dogs, in particular Barney.”

  “And Barney, it is fair to say, loves the President,” added Laurie.

  “The President believes that that would be a logical extrapolation,” Condi confirmed, before reaching a final computation. “Therefore it is the position of this administration that true Americans love the President.” Case closed.

  The network backed up Condi’s contention with regular polls. A weekly Fox News/Opinion Dynamics poll asked Americans if they liked Barney. An average of 94 percent said yes. A nearly equal number answered yes when asked if Barney liked the President.

  In his lone appearance on The Dig Story, Newsweek’s Jonathan Alter questioned how America could be sure that Barney supported privatization of Medicare, a doctrine of preemptio
n, and a constitutional amendment prohibiting same-sex marriage. He was promptly shouted down as a cat person by former Dukakis campaign manager and Fox News contributor Susan Estrich.

  The political analysis sometimes took a darker turn. Former Clinton advisor Dick Morris occasionally dropped in to explain exactly how Hillary murdered Bill’s Labrador Buddy in 2001.

  But the emphasis of The Dig Story was upbeat and informative, and Laurie guided it all very skillfully. She’d brought the same enthusiasm and pearly white wattage to her earlier coverage of the standoff in Kashmir. Mr. Ailes and the rest of the News Corp. suits took notice. As for the locals, if Hindus and Muslims could agree on one thing, it was that Laurie’s career was going nuclear. Their predictions were right on: within a year she was covering Barney and Fox News had increased its lead over CNN considerably. Fawning Internet bloggers instantly crowned her “Miss Shock and Paw.”

  The executives at CNN sniffed at their rivals’ “craven disregard for hard news.” “A full hour on a dog?” network president Jim Walton scoffed to a group of television critics not long after firing Connie Chung for the second time. CNN’s coverage of Barney was only a half hour each day, he haughtily assured them, “unless of course a canine emergency warrants expanded coverage.” Otherwise CNN would not give short shrift to the stories that mattered. “A little blond girl could very well be kidnapped in the next few weeks. Then once again people will discover that they can depend on CNN.”

  It was easy to get caught up in the insular world of cable news concerns. Yes, America did love Barney. He was an adorable dog. And apparently America couldn’t get enough. But I couldn’t help but wonder if that made him newsworthy. I needed to maintain perspective, so I called my father to get his reaction to my job offer. I suspected that he’d be disappointed, which might not be such a bad thing. I might then have the courage to hold out for something better.

  “Wow, Laurie Dhue has very big lips,” he murmured, before snapping out of his reverie. “Well, son, you made it to the White House. I’m proud.”

  “But, Pop, I’ll be covering a dog.”

  “Who doesn’t love dogs?” Then he sounded suspicious. “What are you, son? A cat person?”

  “No,” I answered defensively. “Of course not.” My head was spinning and I needed a special kind of counsel. I hung up, then dialed a number I knew by heart and waited for the soothing voice on the other end. He picked up.

  “Wolf, it’s me,” I said. “I need to see you.”

  5

  The Karate Yid

  As soon as I pulled into Wolf Blitzer’s suburban Maryland driveway I began unwinding. Perhaps it was the balmy breeze blowing the chimes at the front entrance or the smell of jasmine in the air. I removed my shoes, placed them alongside two other pairs, took a deep breath, and rang the bell.

  The door opened and immediately the smile warmed me. In his dragon-patterned kimono, Wolf was the personification of peace.

  “Mo-san,” he sighed, opening the screen door with one arm, embracing me with the other, then ushering me inside in one gentle fluid motion. I’d forgotten the sensation of tatami under my feet. “Forgive my informal appearance,” Wolf said. He was wearing the cotton yukata kimono, rather than the more formal silk one. “I’ve just come from a very hot bath.”

  “Believe me, I’m just glad you could see me,” I said.

  “Well then, today is a day for the garden,” Wolf intoned. “Mihoko,” he said to his ancient serving girl, “could you bring us tea in the garden?” Mihoko set down her still-wet scrub brush and disappeared into the pantry. Wolf led me out through the back.

  Wolf’s Japanese tea garden was one of the Washington area’s best-kept secrets (as was the fact that Wolf is actually Japanese). A path of polished stepping-stones led down around a koi pond that held at least fifteen fish, some nearly a meter in length. Meiji-era stone lanterns flanked each end of a footbridge that led over the pond and into a small meditation house with shoji screen doors covered in a translucent, pine-laminated paper. A variety of evergreens, including a stunning collection of bonsais, warmed the environment. Outside the surrounding walls suburbia sprawled and honked. Inside Wolf’s garden it was Kyoto before Commodore Perry’s arrival. And Wolf was a master sensei.

  We sat cross-legged by the koi pond.

  “Bernie’s gotten so big,” I marveled, pointing at one of the fish, named after one of Wolf’s former CNN colleagues.

  “Fate has been kind,” concurred Wolf.

  Years before, I’d come to Wolf’s garden seeking advice. My boss at CBS’s Early Show had asked me to spend a week at Ringling Brothers Circus School learning to fly the trapeze, something Charlie Gibson from Good Morning America had done only three weeks before. After meditating, Wolf had advised me to call in sick rather than look like an also-ran. In exchange for his counsel I’d repainted the garden walls. It all seemed like yesterday.

  “Now what troubles you this day?” Wolf asked now.

  I explained my new assignment. “I’m torn, Wolf. I certainly don’t want to run from my fate.”

  “Indeed. So much is preordained. It was my fate to have a beard. It was my fate to have this wonderful home and garden. It was my fate to spend months at a time in Qatar, a country pronounced far differently than it is spelled.” He smiled. “It is okay to laugh.”

  I didn’t realize he’d made a joke. I forced a chuckle.

  “Remember, Mo-san,” Wolf continued, “sometimes we must simply trust the plan that has been laid for us. Perhaps you are meant to report about a dog. The important thing is to pursue your destiny with mustard.” He of course meant “relish.” Wolf could be forgiven the occasional malaprop, having learned English in a California internment camp.

  “So maybe I was meant to cover Barney? Because if I knew for sure that things would work out, I would give myself into fate and just—”

  Wolf had risen to his feet, grabbed a bottle of Pledge, and moved over to a lovely lacquered console table against the wall, by the entrance to the house. He sprayed the table, then gently shushed me. “Wax on, wax off,” he said as he wiped the table clean. As always I followed along and for a moment I felt genuinely transported to a happier plane, accompanied by a siren’s song. (Mihoko was standing in the threshold singing.) When it was over the table looked great, and I felt as if I was walking on air. Whether or not it was the work of the lemon-fresh fumes didn’t matter. The tension-related aches and pains of the last few hours disappeared.

  Wolf led me to his crouching bowl (tsukubai, in Japanese) at the end of the garden to cleanse our hands and feet in the purifying waters. (I’d rigged the bamboo spout on yet another visit.) Mihoko followed, clack-clacking in her traditional geta sandals, and wrapped my feet in a hot towel before serving us tea.

  “I feel better, Wolf.”

  “Clarity is good,” he said, closing his eyes and tilting his peaceful Asiatic face up into the sun.

  I knew what Wolf was trying to tell me. “This assignment could be a very good opportunity,” I said. “I will cover Barney. Thanks, now I should go.” I started to leave, but Wolf gently held me back and extended an open hand to me.

  “When you can snatch these pebbles from my hand, it is time for you to leave.”

  Without thinking I snatched the pebbles.

  “Great. Okay, now you really do have to leave. I’m subbing for Paula tonight and I’m interviewing Tito Jackson in about ninety minutes. It’s an exclusive.”

  6

  Fast Times at White House High

  The following Thursday was the first day of the rest of my life. I woke up at 4:30 in the morning, staring at the ceiling and rehearsing my first question for my first White House briefing. I hadn’t felt such nervous excitement since the morning of my first day in the third grade after I’d left Catholic school and been thrown into the public school system. Would I make friends? Would I make good grades? Would I get knifed? (As a nine-year-old, I’d made the mistake of watching Blackboard Jungle the night b
efore.)

  I was as prepared as I could be, having acquired and read every book in the Presidential Pet canon. Niall Kelly’s Presidential Pets was the best, superior to Vera Foster Rollo’s Presidents and Their Pets. As for Janet Caulkins’s Pets of the Presidents, it was too derivative. Margaret Truman—daughter of Harry—lent an insider’s perspective to White House Pets, which was precisely its downside. She furiously spun her father’s exiling of Mike, their Irish setter, to a Virginia farm. (She blamed Secret Service agents for feeding him candy and giving him rickets.)

  As for Doris Kearns Goodwin’s No Ordinary Ferret, it read suspiciously in parts like several of the others.

  My studies had consumed me and I’d barely stepped outside in the last week, furiously taking notes on my research.

  There were some interesting patterns, as many of the pets bore an uncanny resemblance to their owners. William Howard Taft, our fattest Chief Executive, had a Holstein cow named Pauline. Peace-lover Woodrow Wilson had a gentle sheep named Old Ike. (Old Ike delighted visitors with his habit of chewing tobacco. Just like Wilson’s League of Nations, though, Old Ike suffered a sad end. He developed an addiction to nicotine and died a junkie on a Maryland farm.)

  Andrew Jackson, the first “Common Man” president, kept a cursing parrot named Pol. Pol even screamed obscenities during Jackson’s funeral service, doubtless to the delight of “Old Hickory’s” risen spirit.

  The misshapen Zachary Taylor (giant head, short legs) had an equally odd-looking horse, the knock-kneed Old Whitey. The Yankee Coolidges shared two very patrician collies, Prudence Prim and Rob Roy. And Teddy Roosevelt, the indomitable former asthmatic, adopted a one-legged rooster with almost manic energy. TR’s children made a crutch for the bird. (With thirty-six pets, Teddy Roosevelt held the record for the most.)