Dear Bill Clinton, Beware Puppy Love

The Boston Herald
December 19, 1997

Dear Bill,

So you went and got yourself a puppy. Oh, I know he is beautiful and loving and adorable and he smells so sweet and his fur is soft and when he looks up at you with those big copper eyes, you know there isn't anything in the world you wouldn't do for him. A ball of fur that sheds and drools and whimpers in the night, and you're totally hooked. Go figure.

But, hey, I understand. I've been there, right there, in your shoes. Fact is, I'm there still though it's seven years later and my Lab is old now and not quite so beautiful anymore. Her shiny black fur is white around her lips and her teeth are long and sallow and she's a tad overweight. Oh, all right, she's a lot overweight. But I don't care. I wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her neck and feel her warmth and inhale her outdoor smell and I'm happy.

"Come here and give me a kiss," I'll say. And she does, even if she's stretched out under the table in her favorite spot fast asleep. Even if it's damp and her hip is hurting and it's difficult for her to get up.

Kissing is about the only thing that Molly does when asked. A quick lips on lips, though, and then she's out of here, as if embarrassed to be caught doing this very human thing.

All other requests (commands are not in Molly's vocabulary) she dutifully ignores: Sit. Stay. Down. Come here.

Say what? she says with a look.

Molly simply will not come when called. Unless, of course, you sweeten the offer with a "Do you want a bagel, Molly?" Or, "How about a cookie?" Or, "Want to go for a walk or a ride?" Then she beams herself beside you and yelps and jumps and knocks everything over with her tail because food and walks and rides are her favorite things.

She's a bit of a klutz, however. I think it's a Lab thing. She is so splendidly happy all of the time that her long tail wags non-stop at such a rate that if it went around and around, she'd live her whole life high in the air, a whirling, black, barking helicopter.

That's the endearing thing about Molly, about all Labs whether they're brown or black or yellow. They're intrinsically happy and they're sweet and so totally adorable that even when they eat the rungs on the kitchen chair and the molding on the dining room door and the bottom of a bookshelf, even when they devour a tube sock and need a $ 900 operation, and even when, having been operated on and hospitalized once, they sneak back upstairs and forage through the waste basket and ingest Jockey for Her Pantyhose, which wrap around their intestines and they need yet another $ 900 operation, you still love them.

You don't like them much at these moments, and you certainly don't understand them, but the moments pass and it's back to square one and love at first sight and 'til death do us part.

Truth to tell, Bill, you're in for it with this dog. He already has you where he wants you. I see it in his big eyes. And I see no contest in yours.

Buddy will have you trained in a flash. He'll bark and you'll come running. He'll whimper and you'll murmur, "What's wrong, puppy?" He'll trot to the door and you'll leap to your feet.

"Just this once" are the words that will do you in. Oh, just this once can't we give him our leftovers? Dog food is so bland."

"Look at him lying there. Isn't he the cutest thing? Just this once let's let him sleep on the couch."

"He's so lonely down in the kitchen. Listen to him. He's crying. Just this once can't he come upstairs?"

"Oh, you want to get into our bed, puppy. Okay, Buddy, but just this once."

It happens. It will happen. I know.