The Rich and Famous

This blog is part memoir, part political satire. I originally wrote it about a month before the 2016 election. (743 words)

The Rich and Famous

Peter Altschul, MS

“My human met Hillary Clinton,” black Lab Heath told standard poodle Hunter. They were lying next to each other on a king-sized bed.

“The creator of the Hillary biscuit?” Hunter asked, licking his lips.

Heath looked puzzled.

“What? You’ve never heard of Hillary biscuits? They’re made of wholewheat flour, steak bites, garlic, shallots, white wine, and other spices. They come in a wicker basket. Known as the Basket of Edorables.”

“At the time, this Hillary was the FLOTUS,” Heath said, drooling.

Hunter yawned.

“In the late 1990s, my human and his boss won an award for their work assisting an Arizona community to find ways to prevent teen pregnancy.”

“Was your human’s service dog recognized?”

“Of course not. But Dunbar played a key role. Assisting his human to get to meetings in scorching heat, rains, and a snow storm. Lying quietly at his feet so that the humans in the room could relax.”

“Why this obsession about sex?” Hunter growled. “Things would be much better if they did things doggie-style.”

“Anyway,” Heath said, “the humans and Dunbar were invited to the White House to receive the award, along with a group of other humans. They believed that some HHS bureaucrat would be speechifying.”

“The Horny Hound Society?”

Heath smiled. “No. Something to do with human health.

“So there they are in this bland White House room,” Heath continued. “The humans were milling about with Dunbar sleeping on the floor. Suddenly, a bolt of excitement shot through the room; even Dunbar raised his head.”

Hunter yawned.

“`It’s Hillary!` my human’s boss nearly shouted. And Dunbar started snoring.”

“No biscuits?” Hunter asked.

“No. But she thanked the humans for bringing communities together to address the problem of those horny human teens. She shook some hands, ignored Dunbar, and left, leaving a jolt of positive energy in her wake.

“Then my human, his boss, and Dunbar went to visit my boss’s niece, who at that time was a White House intern.”

“Monica?”

“No. But as soon as they walked through the door, Dunbar started sniffing the carpet. It turned out that Buddy had just left.”

“The Clinton dog?” Hunter asked. “The one who died heroically chasing a car?”

Heath snorted. “And the cause of human harumphing about Clinton irresponsibility.”

“Dog whistle! Dog whistle!” Heath and Hunter howled, leaping off of the bed and dashing through the house.

“Humans!” Hunter panted. “Speaking in code. Then calling this code a dog whistle.”

“My human also met Rudy Giuliani,” Heath said, flopping onto the floor.

“The former New York City mayor who doesn’t like the color black?”

“He likes black Labs,” Heath said. “He even agreed to adopt a black Lab who had flunked out of guide dog school.”

“How touching,” Hunter said, his head in the air.

“So my human was at this reception honoring the mayor in this hotel ballroom. The humans were drinking wine and snacking on yuppie nibbles while Dunbar was hanging out hoping for dropped crumbs.”

Hunter yawned.

“Then my human heard the mayor’s voice coming closer and closer, finally stopping right next to him. Dunbar’s tags rattled as the voice continued, and when my human reached down to investigate, he grazed another hand on Dunbar’s head. The hand jerked away towards the voice, which continued its drone.”

Hunter snorted. “Did he at least apologize? Introduce himself?
Give Dunbar a treat?”

“Nope.” Heath grunted. “My human says that Rudy pawed others while preaching abstinence.”

“But we’re not hypocrites!”

Heath jumped to his feet. “No! We want dogs to act exactly as we do.”

They sauntered into the kitchen. Hunter opened the refrigerator door.

“No biscuits,” he said, peering inside. “But this turkey and baguette will do.”

“Now Rudy is a major mouthpiece for Donald Trump,” Heath said through a mouthful of turkey.

Hunter leapt to his feet, a piece of baguette wrapper dangling from his muzzle.

“I know all about Trumps! They’re the smallest dogs of each puppy litter! I met one when I moved into this house.”

“You mean runt?”

“No! No! Trump! Trump!” Hunter howled, dropping the baguette wrapper. Heath inhaled it before it hit the floor. “This dog had really small paws and yipped for attention! She picked fights with other dogs! She became pregnant before her first birthday!”

Heath grunted. “Dude, you’re talking about runts, not Trumps.”

“Well, if the tail fits, wag it!” Hunter barked.

And they dashed outside, their tails wagging.

paltschul@centurytel.net
http://www.peteraltschul.com

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