PRS Operatives have learned that Hillary has a dog. This struck us as strange, because Mrs. Clinton just never struck us as much of a “dog person” any more than she is a “people person,” despite her best campaigning efforts to appear to be the latter.

True to form, PRS Operatives have managed to gain access to the Hillary Pooch and even got the chance to get an interview. Interview? Absolutely. We used a variant of Wooftalk translation software, which we believe has been extensively used here.

PRS: Thanks so much for taking the time to talk with us today.

Dog: You’re welcome.

PRS: So, I see that you’re a Dalmatian.

Dog: Yeah. What tipped you off? Must have been the spots.

PRS: I’m sorry; I was just trying to be friendly. Of course, you’re a Dalmatian.

Dog: No need to apologize. Maybe I should apologize. I get cranky sometimes.

PRS: Do you know how is it that Hillary happened to choose a Dalmatian?

Dog: Well, her campaign handlers said that it would be a good idea, PR-wise, for her to have a dog. You know, make her more human and all that crap. So, the question of what kind of dog she should get was put before a focus group.

PRS: That question was put before a focus group? Seems like a strange thing to ask a focus group.

Dog: Are you kidding me? That woman doesn’t do a goddamned thing in public that isn’t first tested in a focus group. Remember that bullshit southern accent? Focus group, and they sure screwed that one up, didn’t they! OK, so anyway, the “What kind of dog should Hillary have?” question was put to a focus group. The results showed that a white dog was unacceptable, as was a black one. Some kind of a race thing. They concluded that the dog should be both black and white, and they suggested a Dalmatian.

PRS: Interesting. How is it that you, in particular, were chosen? Were you purchased from a breeder, because to my untrained eye, you appear to be a pure breed?

Dog: Nope. Her handlers found me locked up at a local pound (the focus group insisted that Hillary’s dog must come from a pound, not from a breeder and definitely not from a pet store).

PRS: How did you end up in a pound?

Dog: Sad story. I was a firehouse dog for a couple years. Man, what a great gig that was. Terrific food and plenty of it. I had lots of human companionship. It was super.

PRS: What happened?

Dog: Stupid me. I managed to get a sassy little Irish Setter in trouble. No one was the wiser until the puppies came out looking really strange and all spotty and shit. Off to the pound I went. I spent a few weeks there, and then Hillary’s people came to the pound looking for a Dalmatian. They were cooing about the seriously important and seriously smart woman I would be living with. Damn, I figured that I had hit the lottery! I was happy as hell when they brought me to her place.

PRS: By the way, how long have you been living with Hillary?

Dog: Three or four months; I’ve lost track.

PRS: How is it working out for you? Living with Hillary.

Dog: Man, this gig really stinks – big time! You have no idea.

PRS: How so? You look healthy, so I assume she is feeding you well.

Dog: Hardly. All I ever get from her is fast food wrappers. And, man, she sure generates a shitload of them. I’m supposed to survive by licking the damned wrappers. Like a dog can survive on a smattering of ketchup and a slather of melted cheese. If it wasn’t for one of the guys on her Secret Service detail who brings me good stuff to eat every day, I’d look like one of those pitiful dogs on the ASPCA posters that you see in convenience stores.

PRS: That’s awful. Maybe she is just very busy and forgets to feed you.

Dog: Bullshit. She’s made it clear that she doesn’t want to bother with me and that I’m here strictly for public relations purposes. I tried to make friends with her a couple times. You know, running up to her all happy face and bouncing around as she walks in the door, but each time I tried, she kicked me and said, “Will SOMEBODY get this goddamned mutt away from me.” Also, whenever she is in a bad mood, I can count on her throwing stuff at me. Hit me with a lamp once. I hear she has a pattern of doing that.

PRS: She kicks you and throws stuff at you? How many times will you let her do that before you take a bite out of her?

Dog: Dude, you gotta be kidding me. You never heard of Arkancide? Remember the dog that she and her husband had in Chappaqua? They said he was run over by a car? You think I believe that shit?

PRS: Can you recall a time when she treated you the worst?

Dog: Hell, yeah. It was a couple weeks ago during that debate when she screwed up the question about the drivers licenses. She had left the TV on at home, so I watched it. When she screwed up those questions, I laughed so hard I shit. I mean I really shit. Messed up the living room floor real bad. I couldn’t help myself.

PRS: So, what happened?

Dog: When she finally arrived home, half in the bag, and saw the mess, she really kicked hell out of me. All the while she was kicking me, she was screaming something about “that sonofabitch Russert.” It went on for at least an hour. I was sore for days.

PRS: That’s horrible.

Dog: Dude, “Horrible” is an understatement. Believe you, me.

PRS: Does she ever have guests over, and, if so, how does she treat you on those occasions?

Dog: Yeah, she has guests from time to time, and she pretends to like me. She pets me in front of them and says shit like, “Meet Spot. Isn’t he cute?”

PRS: “Spot?” Not very original is it?

Dog: Focus Group; what can I tell you? When I was at the firehouse my name was Rex – an ass kicking name, no? The focus group hated it. Too aggressive.

PRS: Sorry. I interrupted you. You were talking about her guests.

Dog: Yeah, her guests. Things sometimes get really wild when she has certain guests over. Lots of booze and smoking, and it ain’t tobacco, if you catch my drift. Lots of government types and an occasional visit by well-built man named Sven. On each occasion, I’ve seen her give him money as he is leaving. Some weird shit goes on with Sven, let me tell you.

PRS: Does anyone other than Sven stand out in your mind?

Dog: Absolutely, it’s her friend – the one she calls “Pearl,” who is always going about being the SPEAKER in the House or some shit. When she shows up, things get really crazy. You just never know what to expect.

PRS: Such as?

Dog: OK, the last time that “Pearl” was here, the two of them must have drunk a case of Cristal and smoked what looked like a half a pound of what they described as “some really kickass herb.” They were laughing and dancing around half-naked to Pearl’s Grateful Dead albums. It was quite disgusting to see. But, it got worse.

PRS: Worse? How so?

Dog: Well, after they danced all over the place saying shit like, “Power to the People!” The watched a couple midget wrestling DVD’s. I think Pearl brought them over too. Then it got even worse.

PRS: Really? What happened?

Dog: After the midget wrestling thing, they both put on dog costumes.

PRS: You’re shitting me.

Dog: No way. They really did. They put on dog costumes and started barking and growling and wrestling with each other on the floor. Then, after they both looked real tired, they stayed on the floor on all fours, and they each turned their heads toward me, batted their eyes and gave me that “come hither” look.

PRS: Holy crap! Are you saying that they wanted you to …?

Dog: Look, I’m not sure what they wanted, but all I know is that I was scared shitless, just thinking about it.

PRS: So, what did you do?

Dog: I pretended to have a seizure. I think I scared them. They took off their dog costumes and called a Secret Service guy in to take me to a vet, where I was shot full of drugs that sent me into doggie La-La Land. I was shuffling around here half stupid for days.

PRS: Christ, that’s horrible. Is there something I can do to get you out of here?

Dog: I doubt it.

PRS: Waddya say I call PETA?

Dog: Are you shitting me? Those crazy bastards are big supporters of hers.

PRS: Hell, I’ll just write her telling her that I know about the way she has abused you.

Dog: I wouldn’t do that, Bro.

PRS: Why not?

Dog: Arkancide. Listen, I gotta go. She’s due back, and if she learns about this, she’ll make that Michael Vick guy look like goddamned Mister Rogers.

PRS: OK. I’ll stay in touch.

Dog: Yeah, you do that, Bro.