Obamas have a golden opportunity
Momentous decisions await Barack Obama. The presumptive Democratic presidential nominee has to figure out a running mate, reboot his campaign for the general election, develop more detailed proposals for the economy, foreign policy, education and the environment.
And one more thing.
The dog.
He, in consultation with his wife and daughters, has to decide what kind to get. For his girls, Sasha and Malia, it likely ranks right up there with Mideast peace under the heading of "Urgent Business."
As Michelle Obama told a conference of women in October, "Their main concern about this whole race was whether or not they could get a dog, that was the bargaining chip. It's like, 'You want to run for president, we're getting a dog.' And let me tell you we talk about that dog every day. . . . What breed, how big, how small. Yesterday morning we talked about names. I said, 'Look you are getting a dog, just knock it off.' "
While it might be presumptuous to insert myself in certain policymaking areas of the campaign, on this matter I feel particularly well-qualified to advise.
I, too, was once blackmailed by a child, worked over every day like a mugging victim in a Chicago alley.
Joshua, our older son, was relentless in pursuit of a pet from the time he was 7 until the day he turned 10. And, like the immutable forces of erosion, he wore my husband and me down centimeter by centimeter, week by week, month by month.
Once mighty parental mountains, we were reduced to molehills. And then, with the complicity of a loving uncle who one day declared, "The boy needs a dog, so I bought him one for his birthday," our primary season was over. We'd lost the superdelegates and didn't have the popular vote.
Josh won.
And Gabe came home.
Gabriel, named for the archangel, was a 4-month-old golden retriever. Red as a new penny, soft as a down comforter and scared out of his wits at being loaded in the car that first time, he threw up a mother lode of puppy chow in the back seat on the way home.
Josh and I slept beside him on the floor that first night, taking him out every two hours just in case. Sleep-deprived, we were already crazy in love with this guy.
Our younger son, Gideon, was 8 at the time. Severely disabled, Gi can't talk but he can certainly communicate, often with hugs and wild kisses. Cerebral palsy means he has a tight grasp but poor release, and so a puzzled Gabe would find this smiley kid who didn't seem able to let go attached to him. Gabe's patient gentleness was always equal to Gi's enthusiasm.
Our golden taught us things the Obamas may come to know. Like when the tortured teenage years hit and few things are more mortifying than kissing your mother in public or having her even, you know, touch you. ("Mom, pleeeeease don't hug me anymore," Josh would beg. ) And yet, my reticent adolescent instinctively understood expressions of affection are always OK, never awkward between a boy and his dog. And so Gabe gave my for-a-time gawky teenager an unembarrassing way to talk baby talk to him while scratching his stomach.
Last month, on the morning of the Pennsylvania primary, Gabe and I went out for an early run. But he seemed suddenly unwilling to even walk. Our vet, the next day, found a tumor.
On the Sunday before the Indiana/North Carolina elections, we all wrapped our arms around Gabe and kissed him goodbye. And wept as we buried him with his throw toys and Frisbees in the yard beside the daffodils.
Clearly, there is a reason they call them golden.
One hasn't lived in the White House since Gerald Ford was there.
Maybe one will again.