Read Online All the Presidents' Pets by Mo Rocca - Free Book Online Page B

They were each dressed up as different Presidents. They looked sad. No doubt Laurie and many of the guests here were pet owners. But these defenseless creatures were being ignored, relegated to props in Fox News’s transparent bid to show how all-American they were.
    A beagle dressed as Washington was particularly compelling. He fixed his eyes on me and I couldn’t resist moving closer.
    â€œHey there, boy, how ya doin’?” I said.
    â€œA Salad Mincer,” he said.
    The dog talked. It wasn’t the Scotch talking. I’d only been drinking for about twenty minutes.
    â€œWhat?” I said stupidly.
    â€œOh, you guys are BAAAAAAAD!” I turned to see ultra–right wing and ex–MSNBC talk show host Michael Savage, a dangerously teetering Cosmo in hand, being propped up by the rest of Bravo’s
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
cast. Michael was the brand-new Fashion Guy, a promotions stunt that had added some oomph to the show’s flagging ratings. (The original Fashion Guy, Carson Kressley, was booted off the show after his wife and two kids stepped forward and demanded that he stop living a lie and return to his native West Virginia.) The New Fab Five were coming toward me.
    I turned back to the beagle. He was sniffing the dachshund’s ass now. “What did you say?” I asked again.
    â€œI said, ‘You guys are B-A-D, BAAAAAAAAD!’ ” Michael leaned up against the kennel. “Hiya, sailor, have you met Ted, Jai, Thom, and . . .”
    â€œKyan,” said the Hair Guy, clearly losing his patience.
    â€œAll of youse, don’t be so baaaaad,” slurred Michael. “So what’s your name?”
    The last thing I wanted to do was get acquainted with Michael Savage. A beagle had just spoken to me.
    Before I could shake him, though, the kennel was being wheeled out by two workmen. “Where are the dogs going?” I asked a young woman who seemed to be in charge.
    â€œBack to the agency. They’re rentals,” she said. Just as the kennel was disappearing through the double doors leading out to the loading dock, though, the beagle slipped out and darted ahead. No one else seemed to notice.
    â€œWait!” I shouted and ran out through the doors.
    Out on the loading docks, the young woman was taking notes on the animals. “Okay, you’re good to go,” she said to the workmen.
    â€œNo, you’re not. You just lost a dog,” I huffed.
    She looked at me blankly. “We came with four. We’re leaving with four.”
    â€œBut the beagle. You’re leaving him behind. You can’t just—”
    â€œSir, there was no beagle,” she said.
    â€œBut I know I saw—”
    â€œYou heard the lady,” said a vaguely Germanic monotone voice. “There was no beagle.” I turned to see Gephardt the Albino staring down at me. My blood was chilled.

8
    The Lair Down There
    Â 
    All night long I thought about what the beagle had said to me. “A Salad Mincer.” Was this some sort of anagram? Anagrams were a passion of mine so I instantly decoded the beagle’s message as an anagram for, among other things, “A Carnal Deism” and “A Manacled Sir.” But they didn’t seem to mean anything.
    The next day’s White House press briefing was relatively quick. My question was also much more concise: “Mr. Secretary, Andrew Johnson left scraps of cheese for the mice that lived in the White House during his term.” True indeed. “Is the President concerned that Wisconsin’s economic troubles may put that swing state firmly in the Democrats’ column?” I must say it was a crafty way of asking a current-events question in the guise of my beat, and this time no one laughed. Granted, most everyone was hungover, including Scott, who had shown up at the party after I had left.
    â€œNo I don’t think so . . . well, maybe . . . Whatever . . . it’s all