Let Me Tell You about Jasper . . .

by Dana Perino

  We paddled as fast as we could back to shore. Then we got him out of the kayak. I also knew he had to pee, but I couldn’t carry him, so I just rushed as quickly as we could up to the grass. He left bloody paw prints all the way up the dock.

  After Peter and Dr. Jeff, Grady’s dad and a physician, came off the dock, we turned Jasper over and the cuts were deep in two paws.

  Jasper didn’t make a sound, but it looked very painful. Jeff treated him and came by regularly to change the bandages and check on the wounds. Jasper was down for the count for about a week and received strong antibiotics from the vet. He spent hours quietly sitting, looking a little pitiful, and getting sympathetic messages from all around the world.

  Thankfully, he healed quickly and there was no permanent damage. We city folk learned our lesson that day—dogs should never get to run on sandbars where there are oyster shell beds.

  Bandaged paws after getting cut on the oyster shells in South Carolina. Sadly, no pearls were found… except this guy.

  In South Carolina, he spends his afternoons out on the porch, watching the world go by (a Carolina specialty). If we make a move toward the back door, he darts out before we do so that he won’t be left behind. On some of our bike rides, we go slowly so that he and Grady can trot alongside us up the road.

  But Jasper’s very favorite thing to do, and for which he’s become quite famous, is to ride in the sidecar of Peter’s Harley.

  Peter had long wanted to replace the motorcycle he sold when I lived in England with him and needed a car. I’d said I didn’t mind if he got one, but what was he going to do, leave Jasper behind on his rides? He’d already thought of a solution. He planned to buy a retired police cruiser with a sidecar. As luck would have it, there was one for sale in Savannah, Georgia. (When a man really wants something, he can find it!)

  When he brought the bike home, Jasper was afraid of the noise at first. But he wanted to be with his dad. So I got into the sidecar and Peter lifted Jasper in and he sat between my legs. From then on, the Harley has been Jasper’s domain. He lives to go for a ride.

  Peter bought him some Doggles and Jasper didn’t even flinch when we put them on, as if he knew he couldn’t ride without them. He looked like Snoopy fighting the Red Baron. I even tied a scarf around his neck.

  Look out Sons of Anarchy…

  The first summer Peter had the bike, Jasper and he rode in the local Fourth of July parade. Sadly, my flight had been canceled due to weather and I was stuck in New York, so I didn’t see it. I hated to miss it—especially because Jasper won Best Dog at the parade. We proudly display his trophy on the mantel. And every time we’re there for a visit and take him for a ride, folks point and laugh and clap. I can’t tell if Jasper is performing—but I know Peter is (and I love him for it).

  Jasper and Peter on the Fourth of July in the superhero parade.

  When Jasper’s not out riding or running around and I’m there, he will sit on the porch bed swing with me. He’s good company when I’m writing and working. I wrote most of And the Good News Is… with him by my side on the second floor, watching all the folks riding by on their bikes and walking their dogs. We’d just sway side to side since the swing can’t go forward and back because of a wall. He’s as content to sit with me as he is eager to get outside.

  In the evenings, we take the dogs down to the fire pits by the river and we let them wander around while people enjoy making s’mores and having a nightcap. There’s a mix of locals and tourists, lots of kids and dogs. We enjoy it when people recognize Jasper and ask to get a picture taken with him (he charges them in graham crackers). Jasper, of course, is eager to find as many broken cracker bits as he can. We turn a blind eye if someone gives him an extra one.

  In South Carolina, we’ve found the perfect place to live the life we want—one that fully incorporates our dog. We’re surrounded by neighbors and friends who feel the same way about their pets, so everyone gets along and helps watch out for the dogs. In fact, hardly anyone ever leaves a dog alone there. We can always drop Jasper off with a neighbor if we have to run into town, or we leave at least two dogs together so that they have company (which may explain the new generation of mixed breeds running around).

  No one thinks we’re strange or over the top with our dog there. Well… not that we’ve heard. They may just be too polite to say anything.

  When Peter and Jasper drive home, they usually do it over two days to break up the long road trip. Jasper can get restless in the car, so Peter stops often and lets him wander around and stretch his four legs. Then last winter, when I called to check on their progress, Peter said that Jasper was panting a lot and that he was a bit worried. Of course that meant I was sick to my stomach wondering what could be wrong. Thankfully, it wasn’t an illness; instead, Peter realized that he’d accidentally turned on the rear heated seats in our new vehicle. Jasper was melting from the inside out and had no way to alert the driver. The good news was he got to ride with his head out of the window for the rest of the way home.

  A superior traveling companion we couldn’t ask for. Whether we’re in the city or the country, Jasper makes everywhere a better place.

  A city dog by day; a country dog at heart.

  A Day in the Life of Jasper

  (AS TOLD BY JASPER PERINO)

  5 a.m.—New York City—the city that never sleeps, even if you’re dog tired. The trucks start coming by before dawn and when I hear “beep beep beep” I get up from my bed on the floor, stretch upward and downward as dogs do, and walk to my mom’s side of the bed—because she never rejects me. I flap my ears, shaking the sleep out of my head. Then I sit and wait for her to say, “Come on up, Jasper.” She pats the bed. I don’t want to seem too eager, so I wait a couple of beats. “Come ON, Jasper.” She can’t get back to sleep while I’m just sitting there staring at her, so I hop up.

  Jasper sleeping with his sock monkey.

  My mom and I have a routine in the mornings. When I get on the bed, she turns on her side as I twist around finding my spot. “Cuddle in,” she says and then I land with a thump, my shoulder blade digging into her stomach, which is the best way to assure I get close enough to her. “Jeez, Jasper,” she says. Then she pats my head and puts her arm over my side. She grabs ahold of one of my legs, and my dad lays his hand on top of hers. We sleep for another hour or so, ignoring the horns honking down below as people get their day started.

  6:30 a.m.—My dad gets up and opens the window shade so that my mom can watch the sunrise. Then he goes to make her Strawberry Carnation Instant Breakfast and English breakfast tea—he brings it to her in bed, just like his dad did for his mom. They train them well in jolly old England. I open one eye but otherwise don’t stir. My mom says her prayers and starts reading the news clips of the day. If I roll over onto my back, she snaps a picture, laughs, and sends it to her girlfriend. She thinks it’s their little secret, but I’m on to them. Eat your hearts out, ladies.

  7:30 a.m.—Dog park! Central Park is leash-free from 6 to 9 a.m. every day. Morning walks are my favorites. Usually my dad takes me while my mom pitches stories for The Five and posts pictures he sends to her. We walk about three miles. We stop at the pond to look at the fish, then we walk up to Bethesda Fountain near Big Dog Hill and back to the baseball fields. That’s where I run around with my pack, an assortment of terriers, poodles, ridgebacks, whippets, and shepherds. I’ve known most of these dogs all my life. There’s Hershey, Lily, Zeke, EZ, Otto, Bear, Bella, Martina—and many more. Our play fighting looks and sounds vicious, especially in slo-mo video, but we’d never hurt a fly. When we get home, my dad makes my breakfast and my mom wants a full report. It’s funny to hear him tell her what happened—as if he knows what we were thinking! On weekends when she joins us at the park, I show off a bit with leaps over tall fences and what they call my “Silly Two Minutes” on the ivy near the bridge.

  9 a.m.–1 p.m.—A dog’s gotta nap. After breakfast I usually hang on the couch with my dad while he works on h
is laptop. He doesn’t mind too much when I want a little attention and lay my head down on his keyboard. I’ve been on more than a few Skype calls with his clients. Sometimes he plays a YouTube video for me because I like to watch puppies playing—it never gets old.

  1 p.m.–2 p.m. I can’t read a clock but I can tell time. Around 1:00, I start listening for the elevator because that’s when my dog walker, Barbara Stevenson, comes to pick me up. I love Barbara! I always greet her with a toy, such as my sock monkey or moose.

  Barbara and I cover a lot of ground, from Central Park West to Broadway to Columbus Circle and then back through the park where I stalk a few squirrels and pigeons. I like to keep my hunting skills sharp in case I ever need to use them. Occasionally, she hails a taxi and rolls down the window for me to stick my head out for the ride to pick up another dog. I pretend not to see the tourists who point and laugh—have they never seen a dog in a cab?

  2 p.m.–5 p.m.—More napping, this time on the bed or the chair. I especially like to lie on the clean laundry—it smells so good. Sometimes I stand on the ottoman that was supposed to be for my mom’s feet to rest, but she gave it to me so that I can look out the window and see what’s going on out there. Often I’ll go with my dad to run an errand. My favorite is the bank where the folks there have treats for me. I’m supposed to get only one, but with this face I always get two. We also go to the post office, and I sit at my dad’s feet while he mails packages. I try to blend into the carpet because I’m not supposed to be inside. Once when he was told there were no dogs allowed, my dad in his British accent said I was a therapy dog. Which is true, in a way, since I tend to make people feel better.

  Just another day at the bank.

  5 p.m.—Every day my dad has this ritual to sit on the sofa and watch The Five. He types notes about the show and sends them to my mom during the commercial breaks. A few times, I’ve had the chance to go to her studio and sit in for a segment of the show. That’s always fun. I’m a bit of a natural, actually—I just sit there and look into the camera and people kind of love it. My mom makes me wear a tie when I’m on set—she’s a bit old-fashioned that way.

  Jasper getting his hair and makeup done before going on set.

  Jasper in the Green Room before his appearance on The Five.

  Jasper on The Five, in his bow tie, of course!

  Jasper comes on set of The Five for his birthday.

  6 p.m.—My internal clock tells me it’s time to head out with my dad to meet my mom at Columbus Circle as she walks home. I never quite know when she’s going to appear, so I’m on full alert. And when I see her—oh it’s crazy. My tail wags me all around. I jump up and grab onto her hips, trying not to knock out one of her teeth when I reach up for a kiss (she’s my mom!)—I’m just so enthusiastic sometimes I can’t help it. She never gets mad at me, though. It makes me think that I should try to get away with more.

  7–10 p.m. I like it when my parents stay home in the evenings. My mom takes off her TV makeup and changes into something comfy. Then she sits on her side of the couch and I scramble up to nuzzle in as we watch the last part of Special Report. She’s always telling my dad to shush when this guy Charles Krauthammer starts talking. I guess he’s a genius, at least that’s what she says. After Charles is finished, I get to have my dinner. Meat and kibble—it always tastes so good!

  My favorite show is Wheel of Fortune, which they watch after Jeopardy! (That show is too hard for me.) I get a kick out of Pat Sajak—it’s like he’s always just about to tell a joke. That guy’s got the life—what a job!

  Before we settle in to watch some shows, one of my parents gets on the floor by my toy box and we have a big game of tug-of-war. I can pull my mom across the floor, which she thinks is hilarious. My dad’s trick is to hide a toy under his torso, and I humor him for a bit until I really want it back. Then I lick his ears, which makes him crack up and he drops his guard. I win every time.

  I watch TV for a while and my parents do some last-minute work. Then my mom asks my dad to “help us” and he gets up and moves me around until I’m on my back and she can hold me like she did when I was a pup. It’s pretty sweet. We stay like that until it’s time for my “last wee.” Sometimes I just can’t be bothered because I’m so cozy, so my dad has to play a game of hide-and-seek with me. I’ve always been scared that they’re going to leave me, so he knows I’ll jump up to make sure he hasn’t disappeared into thin air.

  We head down in the elevator where I sit and look at my dad’s pocket. I wait for him to say his line, “What do we do in the elevator?” Well, I sit and then he produces a biscuit, broken in half, so it feels like I’m getting two treats. It’s a play that’s run off-Broadway every day of my life.

  Once my dad forgot something in the apartment and he left me in the hallway after he called for the elevator. He wasn’t back by the time the doors opened, and on instinct I stepped inside. Then the doors shut behind me. I’d never been in an elevator on my own before. I tried to be brave but I started to panic as the elevator went down. I looked at the buttons, but it was all Greek to me. Suddenly the car stopped and then started going back up. The doors opened on our floor and my dad was there saying, “Oh thank God, Jasper! Are you okay?” But he was laughing, too. When we got upstairs that night, he told my mom what happened. Let’s just say that she didn’t think it was funny. She really let him have it!

  Aside from mishaps like that night, our last trip outside goes smoothly. I hurry to get my business done so that we can go back upstairs to my mom. She always gives me a bit of her hand lotion before we go to sleep—I lick it off my paws so that I won’t try to lick her hands. Pretty smart on her part—it’s what they call a win-win. Kind of like my life with them.

  Jasper’s face when I met the late Jake-Dierks Bentley’s dog, in Nashville.

  Jasper Grows Up

  I’ve always been interested in time—how it passes, how we remember it, when it slows and when it flies. In fact, time was the subject of my speech that won the Colorado state speech and debate tournament in 1990. And so while I know there’s nothing I can do to slow down the clock on life, I can’t help but look at Jasper and worry about the end of his.

  Paw prints in the sand. One of my favorite photos from the beach in Quogue, NY.

  Jasper is four years old now. No longer a puppy but young enough to have a puppy’s characteristics. Jasper’s lean, athletic, and strong. “Fit as a butcher’s dog,” Peter says. And except for the occasional cut paw or stomach bug (called collywobbles in England), he’s healthy.

  Strike a pose: Jasper playing in his bed. Notice that, in deference to Gutfeld, I cropped the junk out.)

  He hardly ever needs a telling off—he’s well behaved and easy to take care of. We take him with us into shops that allow dogs, and he’s an angel. Everyone loves him. (Especially the ladies. I tell my single male friends that they should take him out to the park for a couple of hours—they are destined to meet a few young ladies on that walk.)

  I can tell he’s older now, because he sleeps a bit longer and doesn’t need to go out as much as he did as a youngster. And he can be left on his own for a couple of hours without any problems (except for the occasional protest pee in South Carolina when he knows he’s missing out).

  Coppertone Dog.

  And I also know he’s aging because I can see little white bits of fur growing under his chin and in tiny spots on his cheeks and his paws. It crushes me. I don’t want him to grow old. I want him to always be my puppy Jasper. And I get a lump in my throat when I think about it. Dog owners always count the years.

  My head tells me I just need to enjoy him fully and to take good care of him and not worry about the end, but my heart… well, it breaks because of the inevitable.

  That’s one of the reasons I’m so excited to share these stories with you. Writing about Joco, Henry, and Jasper commemorates them on the page. And it makes me realize how blessed and full of love my life is.

  So enjoy Jasper, America. H
e is our dog.

  Introducing

  @FiveFanPhotoshops

  When Jasper was about five months old, I started seeing posts on Twitter from someone named “FiveFanPhotoshops.” The tweets took photos of Jasper, a co-host of The Five, or someone from the cast of Red Eye, and Photoshopped them into other scenes, often relevant to something we’d just talked about on the show or a major event, like a holiday, movie release, or sporting competition. The work was excellent and laugh-out-loud funny. And I had no idea who was posting them. Every time I saw one, it was like getting a surprise gift.

  I retweeted the photos, and my followers loved them. Jasper’s fan base grew. And I was a direct beneficiary when it came to growing my number of Twitter followers.

  When I added a Facebook page, I noticed that any post about Jasper would get tons of likes and comments, but anything I posted about politics or even mentoring advice for young professionals didn’t get as much attention. However, if I posted something that FiveFan had created, it almost broke the Internet á la Kim Kardashian.

  Over time, I realized that Jasper and FiveFan had done something for me that I hadn’t been able to do for myself—given me an avenue where there was less work and more joy, more laughs, and an additional identity beyond politics. I realized I had a whole new direction in which to grow and have fun.

  I figured out how to connect with FiveFan, and we were fast friends. Now I count him among one of my few confidants.