All the Presidents' Pets (12 page)

19

The Dog of War

 

I instantly recognized the voice from C-SPAN Radio's Saturday-afternoon broadcasts. It was LBJ. Mr. Peabody helpfully handed me a written transcript with footnotes from historian Michael Beschloss.

JOHNSON:
Him,
 
⁹
my friend, how are you doing?

HIM:
Just fine, Mr. President. Just fine.

JOHNSON:
And how's the little lady? You know I love Her.
 
¹⁰
The two of you need to come on over and let Lady Bird fix you some leftovers.

HIM:
Thank you, Mr. President. Last weekend we snuck out to take a peek at Route 95, just south of the city. Mrs. Johnson has done a fine job beautifying that highway.

JOHNSON (laughing):
There you go sugaring me up. You're just about the smartest son of a bitch I ever met. I told you before, I'm sure glad to have you inside the doghouse pissing out, 'stead of outside pissing in. [momentarily distracted] Bob, get me a fresh roll, will you?
 
¹¹

HIM:
Well, thank you, Mr. President.

JOHNSON:
Now, Him, you're about as wise as a tree full of owls and as busy as a man with one hoe and two rattlesnakes—you don't mind all these animal expressions, do you?

HIM:
Not at all, Mr. President.

JOHNSON:
Good. Then you won't mind my saying that being President is like being a jackass in a hailstorm. There's nothing to do but stand there and take it. But this time I can't just stand there. A couple days back the destroyer USS
Maddox
got into a little back-'n-forth with some of the North Vietnamese in the Gulf of Tonkin. One attack I can handle. But then earlier today one of our sonar men thinks he just may have detected a
second
attack. Now there are no actual reports of an attack, visibility is seriously limited, and sonar is extremely unreliable, but I really don't want to look like a wuss next to Goldwater.
 
¹²
[to McNamara] Thanks, Bob. Now why don't you ever say hello to Jumbo.
 
¹³

HIM:
Well, Mr. President, I must be truthful. I'd caution you against using today's suspicious sonar report as an excuse to escalate what could very well become a quagmire in Southeast Asia. Why not just wait to act until we're sure we have our facts straight? I'd hate to see all that you want to accomplish in health, education, and civil rights eclipsed by thirty thousand body bags coming back on your clock—all because of what one man
thinks
he heard. Even my ears deceive me once in a while—and I've got ears more—

JOHNSON:
Did you say something, Him? Louder than a cat pissing on a flat rock in here.
 
¹⁴

HIM:
I was just saying, Mr. President, that—

JOHNSON:
Couldn't agree more, Him. I'm going on TV tonight to announce a strike on North Vietnamese bases. We'll take out their petroleum reserves before sunrise. Looks like we've got a real Gulf of Tonkin incident on our hands.

HIM:
Actually, Mr. President—

JOHNSON:
Don't you worry, I'll go to Congress for a war resolution pronto—give them the old Johnson Treatment—though I gotta say that a joint committee's as useless as tits on a bull.
 
¹⁵
[background laughter] Valenti loves that one.

HIM:
Mr. President, that's not—

JOHNSON:
Thanks for your support, little feller. You're the best.

Mr. Peabody stopped the tape.

“Of course Johnson got his resolution and a terrible war with it,” said Mr. Peabody. “Him had been right to be skeptical. Johnson himself admitted later that our navy was probably ‘shooting at whales out there.' When things went bad and Him said ‘I told you so,' the President took it out on Him.”

Mr. Peabody showed me the infamous picture of Johnson lifting Him by the ears.

“I know that picture,” I said. “Johnson said that he was just playing.”

“Hardly. His ego was too big and too fragile to withstand any criticism. On the other hand, when things went well, the ‘Johnson treatment' was quite different.”

Mr. Peabody then handed me a picture with LBJ and his later dog, Yuki. “Here they are, celebrating passage of the Voting Rights Act of 1965.”

LBJ, angry over Vietnam, takes it out on adviser Him the beagle.

The tape and supporting pictures lent irrefutable support to Helen's and Mr. Peabody's assertions. Pets were still actively advising Presidents, or at least trying to. But with each question answered, another took its place: “Why would today's press ignore all this?” I asked. “It's such an amazing story, with such major consequences for our country.”

“The answer is quite simple, my boy,” said Mr. Peabody. “Most don't know about the role pets once played. The White House, in the clearest sign yet of its contempt for the fourth estate, has successfully erased almost all evidence present and past. What remains is here.” He gestured to Helen's archives.

LBJ celebrating passage of the Voting Rights Act with Yuki the mutt.

“So the other members of the press don't even know . . . ?” I asked.

“Most
of them don't. And that of course is a bad thing for the public. The press are the guardians, the watchdogs, of the public interest. When the White House achieves total isolation, it becomes dangerous—for the people . . . and the pets.”

“Dangerous?! Mr. Peabody, let's cut to the chase here. Is Barney in any sort of danger?”

Mr. Peabody turned and faced me directly, clearly laying it on the line.

“Let me be very clear, Mo: The President genuinely loves having a ball of fur to roll around with and baby-talk to in an unnervingly childlike fashion.” Mr. Peabody slid open a different cabinet door, revealing a plasma screen playing the President's latest Barney holiday video. In it the President was pretending to sleep when Andrew Card, dressed as Santa Claus, tiptoed in with a gift-wrapped Barney. President Bush “woke up” and opened the package, surprised and overjoyed by his gift. Barney looked miserable as the President jumped up and down on the bed cradling him.

Mr. Peabody continued. “These images suit the press office just fine. They make the President ‘likable.' But mark my word: If Barney tries to influence the President in any substantial way—if he tries to be anything more than the public relations tool that they want—then the inner circle will turn on him.”

A final thought on this subject occurred to me. “Mr. Peabody, the press at large may not know anything about any of this. But at least Laurie Dhue would know, wouldn't she? She has complete access.”

Mr. Peabody raised one eyebrow. “A fine question, Mo. A very fine question. Now, if you don't mind, I've got some paperwork to take care of.” And Mr. Peabody receded into the archive stacks.

20

Book Clubbed

 

The next day I awoke—in my own apartment—with a renewed sense of purpose. I would no longer dance around my beat, searching for clever ways to ask about other topics.

Today members of the press corps were covering an event that was part of Laura Bush's annual National Book Festival. These events had made news, because of both the diversity of writers—many of them fiercely outspoken opponents of the President—and the unanimity of praise among these authors for Mrs. Bush. She won over virtually everyone she met.

As luck should have it the topic of that day's gathering was animal literature. Among today's guest authors was former First Lady Barbara Bush, author of
Millie's Book,
the “autobiography” of the elder President Bush's springer spaniel and a gigantic bestseller. The late Millie was mother to the current President Bush's first First Dog, Spot—himself only recently deceased. (Some speculated that he'd choked on a dog biscuit.)

The elder Mrs. Bush remained one of the modern White House's great characters. An event with both Mrs. Bushes was not to be missed. Helen was feeling under the weather so she would not be attending.

The rest of us were ushered into the East Room for the opening of the day's event by the First Lady's press secretary, the boyishly good-looking Gordon Johndroe. Gordon was far less guarded than Scott. With the chipper energy of a student council president, he reflected the First Lady's open, easy air perfectly.

The honored guests were seated in a semicircle. Laura Bush rose to meet us and put us all at ease with a gentle “Good to see you all,” her soft twang unfailingly charming. She wore a modest blue suit and a big Texas smile. Before returning to her seat, she gave Candy a little squeeze on the arm. “I'm thinkin' about you, darlin',” she said in a hush.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bush,” said Candy, sniffling. It occurred to me only then that today was the anniversary of the violent rodeo death of Candy's lover Chet. With all that Mrs. Bush had going on, it impressed me that she could remember such a personal detail.

Laura Bush took her seat at one end of the semicircle. Filling out the other seats were
Cujo
author Stephen King and Amy Tan, who brought along her dog Mr. Zo, subject of her next book. Marxist lesbian poet activist Gambia Baraka, sister of the radical New Jersey poet laureate Amiri Baraka, sat at the end opposite Laura Bush. Despite her politics, Gambia's recently published retelling of Ashanti animal folktales had captivated Mrs. Bush.

Finally, Barbara Bush sat in the center on what could only be described as a throne. She was impeccably put together, her Greenwich Granite exterior worn not one bit since the days before the Clinton interregnum. She heartily lobbed one at an old pal: “Don't think you can hide from me, Angle,” she called out to Fox News's Jim Angle. “I'm not blind yet.”

Jim blushed. “Good to see you, Mrs. Bush.”

“All right, that's enough. Where's the real star?” she snapped. Who else could she have meant? Laurie, dressed in an elegant elephant-print suit—in honor of the Republican royalty—spoke up.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bush. It's so good to have you back at the White House. Of course it's not like you really ever left.”

Barbara Bush chortled. “George and I like to call those eight years our ‘hiatus.' ” The press corps laughed as she took a swig of her iced tea. “And might I add, Laurie, that lipstick looks sensational.”

Once the din quieted, Laura Bush rose again to address us. “Welcome all to this very special gathering of some of my favorite authors. Like pieces of a vibrant mosaic, the books they have written add new color and form to an already existing body of great—”

“This room really is drafty, don't you think?” The elder Mrs. Bush was casually starting up a conversation with Stephen King. An embarrassed Laura Bush turned around and looked at her mother-in-law.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Laura dear,” said Barbara Bush. “I didn't realize you'd started speaking.”

Laura Bush, always deferential, simply nodded. “That's all right, Mother.” She turned back around and continued. “It has been said that a good book is like an unreachable itch; you just can't leave it alone. That's certainly an analogy a household pet might understand.”

The press corps laughed obligingly.

The elder Mrs. Bush again turned to Stephen King. “It surprises me, but sometimes she can be funny.” King seemed as uncomfortable as were the rest of us with Barbara Bush's candid remarks. She then turned to Amy Tan and gestured to a table at the side of the room. “Now how on God's green earth did they get those tablecloths so white?”

“I don't know. Ancient Chinese secret?” an unamused Amy Tan answered drily.

Barbara Bush just shrugged, then stuck out her right hand. “So what do you think of my nails?”

The dead silence that followed was broken once again by the demure Laura Bush.

“Well then, let's have some questions.” The younger Mrs. Bush didn't play favorites. She called on Kate Snow first. “Yes, Kate.”

“Mrs. Bush, how important is reading?”

“Call in the think tank,” barked Barbara Bush sarcastically. “We'll be up all night on this one.”

Perhaps it wasn't the toughest question, but Laura Bush gently answered it: “Kate, it's very important for all of us as individuals and as a community to read. You know, I have always believed that the importance of a book lies in its power to turn a solitary act into a shared vision.”

Kate smiled. “Wow! Thank you, Mrs. Bush!”

Laurie was recognized next. “Yes, this is a question for the first Mrs. Bush: How truly wonderful was Millie?”

“Now
that's
a question. Thank you, dear,” said the elder Mrs. Bush. “Well, as all of you know,
Millie's Book
sold a tremendous number of copies. This was because she was a cute, pretty, and
very
obedient dog. And because a certain grandmother with pearls did the writing for her.”

The press corps were besides themselves with the giggles, furiously writing down everything she said. I could just imagine Mr. Peabody's anger at that kind of condescending statement.

Barbara Bush continued. “As many of you may know, Bill Farish, the ambassador to England, gave us Millie. He was managing my Georgie's blind trust at the time and we went to visit him on his Kentucky horse farm. God, that place was fantastic. Makes this place look like Abu Ghraib. Anyway, not long afterward Georgie and I went quail-shooting at Farish's ten-thousand-acre ranch in Beeville, Texas—I know quail's big across the pond,” she said with a nod to Stephen King. “Well, it was there that we decided to mate Millie with one of his prized spaniel—”

“ENOUGH!”

There was silence. Gambia Baraka, clad in a flowing dashiki and traditional
kanga
headscarf, had stood.

“On behalf of those without voices, I say ENOUGH!” Gambia's hands were dramatically raised and she looked skyward.

Candy turned to me. “Look for Tom Ridge to come bursting through the doors any second now.”

Gambia lowered her arms, then fixed her gaze at not Barbara, but Laura Bush, and began a fiery soliloquy: “How can you, Mrs. Bush, a woman who professes to minister on behalf of the weakest among us, submit to the shackles—the shackles, I say, of this whitocracy? A slave-owning devil-ridden monetocratic coldheart-ocracy! Do you not hear the spirit calling you to break free, Laura Bush, break FREE, I say! Because like a caged bird no more, you cannot ignore the CHAINS holding you back, Laura Bush. It is TIME, Laura Bush.” She had risen to a fever pitch. “And if I must slay you to free you, Laura Bush, then that I will do. Because, Laura Bush, IT IS TIME TO BE SET FREE!!!”

The doors did fly open and two ATF officers stormed in. And not too soon, since Gambia had blatantly threatened the First Lady. Mr. Zo was hiding behind Amy Tan.

But Laura Bush motioned for the officers to stand back. Instead the younger Mrs. Bush walked toward Gambia and grabbed both her hands.

“Gambia,” she said with an almost glassy-eyed serenity, “that was absolutely beautiful. The passion you bring to your life's work inspires in all of us a journey of discovery that can only lead to a better place. We all thank you.”

There was an extremely tense silence before tears began welling up in Gambia's eyes. She suddenly embraced Laura Bush.

“Oh, Mrs. Bush, I want so to reject the goodness of you,” Gambia cried. “But the spirit won't allow me!”

“Just cry it out, Gambia, cry it out. I'm here for ya',” the First Lady said.

Barbara Bush, who throughout the tirade just stared at Gambia with a look of calmed bemusement, simply shook her iced tea glass. “If you're finished,” she said to Gambia, “could you freshen me up? And don't forget the lemon.” Before Gambia could react, a shout went up from David Gregory.

“Sacre bleu! C'est Barney!”

It was in fact Barney, who came trotting through the open doors.

“Well, look who's here,” said Laura Bush, crouching over and clapping her hands for Barney to approach. The dog began crossing the room to meet her but when he was only halfway across, he stopped and stared—right at me.

“Here, Barney,” said the First Lady, but Barney wasn't moving.

“Okay, people, hello-o? Who's he looking at?” asked Norah O'Donnell. Photographers were snapping away but Barney kept staring ahead, at me. What's more, he looked like he needed to say something, desperately.

I pushed between Terry Moran and Jonathan Alter—now wearing a neck brace—and impulsively went down on all fours and began crawling toward Barney. One of the armed guards began moving toward the dog from the opposite direction. And yet Barney didn't move at all. His eyes were still fixed on me. I accelerated my pace, as did the guard. It was a race to the dog.

Just as the guard began drawing his weapon, I pulled right up to Barney, my face against his. “What is it, Barney? What are you trying to tell me?” I said, not in cloying doggy-baby-talk, but like a prosecutor whose witness is finally ready to speak.

The laughter that rose from the press corps instantly shifted to gasps when the guard's weapon came up against my temple. I could hear Laura Bush rushing over to ease the standoff. “Officer,” she asked gently, “may I offer you something to read?” I ignored it all while I was face to face with Barney.

The President's Scottie looked me right in the eye, then gave out four barks. They were distinctive barks, the last one almost a whimper. Phonetically it would be written something like this: “Derrrr Thay Grrrib Curioooo.” Of course, the “L” and “S” sounds are notoriously difficult for Scotties. With that in mind, I immediately reduced Barney's sounds to the closest English words and repeated them back to him.

“Daresay . . . glib . . . curio?” I asked. But by that time Gordon Johndroe had pushed the guard back and swooped up Barney in his arms.

I was left on all fours—and expecting another angry call on my cell from Eric within the next ten minutes. The only other thing I noticed was Laurie Dhue staring at me coldly—an expression I'd never before seen from her.

“I'll tell you one thing,” said Barbara Bush. “Millie never would have created this kind of fracas. Now would someone please get me my iced tea?”