The Leash Of Your Worries 

By Tony Kornheiser

Sunday, December 21, 1997; Page F01 

Dear Bill,

As a dog owner myself, let me welcome you to the wonderful
world of carrying a bag in your pocket every time you take a
walk -- though recent fund-raising disclosures indicate the vice
president can teach you about that.

And let me be the first to congratulate you on an incredibly
original choice of names.

"Rahm Emmanuel." 

Oh, wait. It's "Buddy." 

Hmmm. I guess "Spot" was taken.

My friend Gino told me about an acquaintance who went to the
pound to get a dog for his family and picked out No. 179.
That's what he wanted to name it: "Dog 179." But his wife
objected, so they agreed on something wildly creative,
probably "Buddy."

Actually, "Buddy" was an astute choice for a politician. So
often when politicians forget a name they end up greeting
someone by saying, "How ya doin', Buddy?" No aide will ever
have to whisper a name into your ear when you greet your dog.

(I find it interesting you named your daughter after a song,
"Chelsea Morning," and named your dog after a relative, in this
case your uncle. That's exactly how I did it with my son,
"Tubthumping Kornheiser," and my dog, "Grandma Tillie.")

I figure getting a dog probably had something to do with having
an empty nest now that Chelsea is away at college. But I trust
that a cat and a dog are enough -- since you're only a monkey
and a llama away from becoming Michael Jackson.

I have written extensively about my dog (actual unimaginative
name: Maggie) and her eclectic eating habits. Once she ate
$140. So my advice to you would be to not keep loose cash
around. Remember: Holding the cash is Al Gore's department.

If your dog is anything like mine, he'll go through the house
shredding napkins, tissues and paper of all kinds -- and now
that I think about it, that might actually come in handy for you
and Hillary.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Starr, but my dog ate the document in
question."

And here's another upside: Because your dog can't speak, he
can't testify against you.

Discipline is a real predicament, especially housebreaking.
Given the zeal they exhibit on their walks, dogs appear to enjoy
the smell of their own and other dogs', um, stuff. So no use
rubbing their noses in it. What works for Newt Gingrich will
not work for Buddy.

A few months ago, Maggie ate a hole the size of a coconut in
my Burberry raincoat. I'd left some used tissues in the pocket:
a perfect appetizer. This is a raincoat I bought in England in
1985 for $200 after the salesman assured me that I would have
it "for life." And he was right. I would have had it for life. I
should have had it for life. If not for this oversized rodent of a
dog.

The same raincoat now costs $725! I wanted to kill my dog --
microwaving was too quick. I wanted to saute her to death.
But instead I grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and began
screaming, "You ate my Burberry! You ate my Burberry!"
And, of course, I rubbed her nose in it.

For all my dog knew, I could have been singing "Louie, Louie."
But her dog brain got the message: "Smell that savory
Burberry! Have another bite!"

Oh, Bill, please don't wrap one of those red bandannas around
your dog's neck. I'm sick of seeing Labs and goldens with red
bandannas lying outside Starbucks, waiting for their owners to
come out sipping their double-decaf lattes. They look like a
mural of Willie Nelsons. 

Also, now that you have Buddy, he is going to get "pet cards."
I'm sure you've seen those -- another way for people to waste
money on their pets as opposed to donating to worthy causes,
such as retiring the DNC debt. People agonize over the correct
birthday card to get for some swaybacked, half-blind
Dalmatian: "Oh, this one isn't at all right for Brandy."

Now my dog can send your dog a card. (Of course I'd have to
select the card and tell Maggie, "Look what I picked out for
Buddy from you." And my dog would probably look at me
quizzically, pass gas and say something pithy like, "Woof.")

You know the deal about where dogs sleep, right? They hop
right into bed with you. Dogs attach themselves to powerful
people -- sort of like Dick Morris. You're the president, the
No. 1 alpha male. Buddy will recognize that. He'll sleep where
you sleep. The moment you get up, he'll get up. He'll always
have one eye out for you. One eye. Wow, you should have
called him "Sammy."

And last, perhaps you should consider getting another dog. My
friend Bob has a theory about the "donkey dog," which derives
from the practice of placing a donkey in the stable with a
racehorse for companionship. The stallion feels no need to
compete with -- or mate with -- the donkey. Buddy needs a
pint-size pal, maybe one of those pathetic longhaired dogs that
look like a bedroom slipper. You could name the donkey dog
something original, like "Bill Lann Lee."

I'm sure you understand this, because you've got your own
donkey dog, Al Gore.

Fondly, Tony 


© Copyright 1997 The Washington Post Company 

The Tony Kornheiser Unofficial Home Page