DOGGY THOUGHTS FROM BO, THE PRESIDENTIAL POOCH.

Dear Diary,

Holy crap! 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue! Who knew I’d end up here?

I’ve been told there had been a good deal of buzz in the Canine Community, every time Himself went on and on about getting a dog for his daughters. Most of that blabber happened before I was born, but I sure heard my share of it. I never paid much attention to it though, figuring that the chances of getting picked by Himself and Bigfoot to be the “First Dog” (I freakin’ hate that) are about as great as getting hit by a piece of space junk on an odd-numbered day.

But as luck would have it (I’m not sure at this point that the luck was all that “good”), I ended up here at the White House. I’ve decided to jot down my thoughts from time to time to cover my ass just in case Himself decides one day to throw my ass under the bus and, besides, if I lose this gig, maybe I can get a book deal. I know you’re thinking, “Yo, Bo. Dogs can’t write books.” Well, let me remind you that Himself wrote two of them.

So, let’s begin.

The first days around here were really nuts. It seemed that every asshole in the Western Hemisphere was crawling all over one another trying to take my photo. Himself’s press guy said something about a “photo-op,” but for me it was more of a “photo-plop,” because I ended up shitting on the carpet. Friggin’ noise and the lights did it, for sure.

Oh, I almost forgot. There was one super asshole in the bunch. The press guy said she was an important network news anchor, as if I knew what the hell that meant. Anyway, she was being real nice to me in a perky sort of way in front of the press guy. When he turned away from her to talk with someone else, I gave her foot a sniff (We dogs do that). The bitch shooed me off with her foot, sorta kicked me, she did. I was pissed, and, speaking of piss, I ran up to her and pissed all over her Manolo Blaniks. She didn’t look so perky wiping piss from her foot and her fancy footwear. The press guy called her Katie Something-or-other.

People are already asking me how it is to live in the White House. The truth is that I only get to go in the fancy-schmancy parts of the White House for those photo-op things, which I have come to hate, big time. I spend just about all my time in the “residence” portion of the White House. The residence isn’t as big as most people think. Hell, I’ve already been stepped on three or four times. It always happens in the dark. Here’s the thing. I’m mostly black, and so are they (Well, Himself, not so much). So, when it’s dark they can’t see me and I have trouble seeing them (although I can usually hear Himself talking before I see him – does he ever shut up?), I wind up getting stepped on. The other problem is the size of Herself’s feet. Did you ever get a load of those feet? Man, has she got a good grip on the ground or what? When she’s stompin’ around in the dark, there’s just no goddamned place to hide.

Hey, you know how they say that dogs are smarter than some people? It’s true. Check this shit out.

I cannot tell you how many people speak to me in Portuguese. Really. Yeah, I’m a Portuguese Water Dog, but what makes those dumb bastards think that just because I’m a Portuguese Water Dog, I understand goddamned Portuguese? I wanna say, ”Yo, asshole. Do you speak German to every goddamned German Shepherd you see?”

Yo, I was born here, not in freakin’ Portugal. Speak freakin’ English!

Dammit, I gotta cut this short. I hear Bigfoot stompin’ around and she’s mad as hell. I’ll bet she found the fresh turd on the bedroom carpet. I gotta hide under a chair or something.

Later, Peeps.