Entry
from the Diary of Barney, the White House Dog!!
Dear
Diary,
Well, it's been another long and bizarro day
at the White House. I don't know how much longer
I can stand it.The stress is making my hair
fall out and I think I'm becoming bulemic...I
can't stop making myself throw up. But then,
maybe I'm just getting an ulcer.
I never asked to be a celebrity dog. Give me
a few trees and parking meters to sniff in the
city or a patch of stinky mud in the country
to roll in and I'd be happy as a clam. (Are
clams happy? I'm skeptical.)
But here I am, stuck here at this big pile of
limestone with a lunatic and a pack of uptight
suits who could use some primal scream therapy.
That ballon-faced guy, Karl Rove, especially,
makes my skin crawl. He's all cute and lovey
dovey with me whenever G. W. is around (as cute
and lovey dovey as someone who looks like an
evil version of the Pillsbury Dough Boy can
be, that is). But the other day when G.W. went
down the hall to ask Condi a question, he kicked
me and told me I looked like a yak someone had
cut off at the knees.
Laura's not too bad, but I don't think they
can raise her Prozac dose any higher without
killing her. But G.W. - the lunatic - is my
biggest problem. He's getting creepier all the
time. I thought he was harmless back in the
early days - he even played a pretty good game
of Frisbee. But lately, he's been going around
the bend faster than a pulp truck going down
Pike's Peak without brakes.
Take last night. Laura went out to a Christian
Women against Everything meeting. As soon as
she was gone, G.W. said "Yipee! Let's go play
soldier!" That's his favorite game now.
Whenever
Laura is out, he locks himself and me up in the
Lincoln Bedroom and gets out the uniforms and
tape deck. It wouldn't be so bad, but we play
German soldier! As in World War II. He
dresses up like a general and dresses me up like
a lieutenant. Then he plays the "Flgiht of the
Valkyre" by Wagner and makes me march up and down
for hours.
When he got bored with that, he took me off to
the big bathroom, the one with the old-fashioned
clawfoot tub. He filled it up with water and bubble
bath and played his favorite bathtime game: "Make
the Rubber Ducky squeal." That didn't last long,
though. He got all upset and started to cry because
the ducky wouldn't squeal. Last bath night, he
must've squeezed the ducky so hard he popped a
hole in it, so now all it will do is sort of whimper
and sigh. I know just how it feels!
This
past several days have been a real trial. G.W.
keeps grabbing me and sniffling, "You're my
only friend." I think I'm going blind from all
the photos he's had the press people take of
him holding me. He grabs my paw and makes me
wave. It's embarrassing! It used to be the old
guys at Amvets or the kids at some grade school
would take the heat off me and pose with the
poor slob for the camera. But now everyone ducks
and hide when they see him coming and it's all
on me.
Last week, he tried to get a bunch of school
kids at a ball park to pose with him. When they
started making excuses and started to move away
toward the bleachers to escape, he picked me
up and shook me at them, yelling, "Freeze! Or
my dog will attack!" That's when he tripped
and dropped me on my head. I'm still seeing
stars if I get up too fast.
I keep hoping he'll get impeached and have to
go back to Texas. We'd all be happier. But if
that doesn't happen, I think I might take a
chunk out of Karl Rove's ankle. Then maybe they
would send me to the pound and I could just
take my chances. At this point, anything would
be worth a try!
Copyright 2003 by Cheryl Seal
