You know, dogs are funny things. One minute you are thinking, "What in the world possessed us to willingly bring this dirty, hyper, bug-ridden, furry, in-your-face, giant-clawed mess of an animal into our lives?!" Then the next minute you are out in 28 degree weather, at night, with a little flashlight, walking alongside Interstate 10 desperately hoping that you won't find that dirty, hyper, bug-ridden, furry, in-your-face, giant-clawed mess of an animal dead on the side of the road.
How does this metamorphosis happen? Do they have some kind of brain super-power that takes over all rational thinking? Because I am thinking the President of the United States of America, one of the most powerful men in the world, should not own a dog. Children, yes. Dog, no. Because one night, when he is exhausted from meetings, deciding to blow up small countries, a $1000/plate dinner, and tucking in his daughters, he will look around to find a friendly, non-argumentative, happy-to-see-him face, and little Fido will be missing.
First, Mr. President will crawl around looking under the bed to see if Fido is just asleep somewhere. Then he will proceed to calling him, waking up his wife and daughters,and asking whether they have seen the dog in the last few hours. Next, Mr. President will enlist the entire Secret Service on a search for Fido. All the while, Mr. President will grow more and more frantic, thinking, "I shouldn't have ignored Fido earlier today," or "I should have let him lick my plate," or "I shouldn't have kicked him when he tinkled on the United States Seal." In a span of 15 minutes, the whole Cabinet will be assembled in the War Room, sleepy and wondering what kind of national emergency is crashing down upon their heads. Mr. President will have the FBI and CIA and HSA sending pictures by fax until finally, as pure terror bursts through the President's brain, he will shout, "I don't care if we have to nuke the country! Get some lights out there!"
As soon as he storms from the room, there little Fido will be. All wiggles and jumps and licks and wagging tail, so incredibly happy to see his person that it seems his insides will just turn inside out. And Mr. President will drop down on all fours and talk doggy talk (which sounds a lot like Elmer Fudd) and wiggle and wag and happily scoop up and pet that dirty, hyper, bug-ridden, furry, in-your-face, giant-clawed mess of an animal.
I can't explain what comes over a person. I only know it does. I just hope we don't wake up one morning to find the charred remains of Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvannia and New Jersey.