All the Presidents' Pets

by Mo Rocca

  “A heroic horse, indeed,” said Mr. Peabody, “and a striking contrast with Royal Gift.” With that he handed me a written log signed by none other than George Washington.

  17

  First in War, First in Peace, First in the Field of Animal Husbandry

  The chart was a day-to-day comparison of the behavior of Nelson versus the behavior of Royal Gift.

  Nelson the horse Royal Gift the donkey

  Day 1 Up early. Plowed fields. Up late. Brayed loudly.

  Day 2 Up earlier. Plowed fields. Mild scurvy. Did not complain. Up later. Brayed more loudly.

  Day 3 Up early. Plowed fields. Shared barley with indigent sheep. Plowed fields some more. Swilled ale. Mounted mare in three minutes. Vomited on her.

  Day 4 Allowed young slave girls to brush mane and ride sidesaddle. Stole ham. Kicked slave.

  Day 5 Saved old woman from drowning in river. Refused reward of extra barley. Stared at self in mirror all day long, ignoring cries of old woman drowning nearby. Mounted new mare. Did not return calls from first mare.

  Day 6 Recovered stolen buckwheat from herd of rabid Hessian oxen. Sustained grievous ox-horn wounds. Returned home and plowed fields. Stayed up all night gossiping and belittling pigs and other livestock, depriving them of rest. Slept all day. Woke up and mounted third mare.

  Day 7 Drew up will bequeathing hooves for gelatin for poor children. Killed a baby partridge, “just to watch it die.”

  “The corrupting influence of royalism was never writ clearer,” said Mr. Peabody. “The behavioral profiles of these animals confirmed Washington’s deepest-held suspicions of the dissolute nature of monarchy. Especially at the end of his service, when he was tempted to retain the power and trappings that were offered to him as President, he pondered the noble example of Nelson.”

  I couldn’t help but think of Washington’s Farewell Address. “So when Washington warned us about the danger of foreign entanglements he was thinking of—”

  “Royal Gift, my boy, and those poor mares, not to mention the female donkeys, also known as jennets. In fact Mount Vernon opened the nation’s very first jennet crisis center, that’s how bad the damage was. ‘Take back the night,’ I can still hear them braying. Please don’t get up,” Mr. Peabody said as he cleared my plates for me.

  As impressed as I was by the document, I wasn’t convinced of anything extraordinary. “Okay, so maybe Washington was influenced by his pets. That’s no stranger than a few First Ladies talking to the dead,” I said, thinking of Mary Todd Lincoln, Florence Harding, Nancy Reagan, and Hillary Clinton.

  But Mr. Peabody wasn’t letting me off that easy. “It is hardly so random, Mo. The truth is far deeper than you realize. Moments ago, you recounted to me the decision by Cincinnatus to resist absolute power.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “He walked away from it.”

  “There’s the rub, my boy. He didn’t ‘walk’ away from anything. He was on horseback when he crossed the Tiber to return to his farm—but he was carried against his will. Cincinnatus, I’m afraid, had begun lusting for power. But his horse Sadie—that’s the modern translation of her name—refused to take him anywhere but back to the farm. In the end he simply relented to her better judgment.”

  Mr. Peabody took his time towel-drying the plates—with its ornate caryatids, the punchbowl required special care—and turned around to deliver his thesis.

  “Thus was born a compact between animals and human leaders. A compact bound by the indispensable ‘Sacred Animal’ component of proper decision-making.”

  “ ‘Sacred Animal’?” I said, rising to my feet. “Mr. Peabody, that’s an anagram for ‘A Salad Mincer’!” Those were the very first words he’d spoken from the kennel at Laurie’s book party.

  “It’s about time,” he huffed. “Now it must be acknowledged that the compact has not always been observed as it should be. Caligula was an especially incorrigible human. The only intelligent thing he did was appoint his horse to the Senate.”

  I couldn’t resist. “So I guess Caligula had good horse sense?” Mr. Peabody stared at me blankly.

  “Okay, Mr. Peabody,” I continued after an awkward silence. “You’re claiming that this ‘compact’ connects Cincinnatus and Sadie, with Washington and Nelson, with Hayes and Miss Pussy?”

  “Indeed it does,” he replied. “And the essence of this compact between President and pet was very clearly promulgated at the founding of this nation. You’re familiar with John Jay, I assume.”

  “He was the first Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and the author of five of the Federalist Papers,” I answered. While Hamilton and Madison had apparently competed over whose contribution was greater, it was easy to forget that there was a third writer. I’d always wondered why Jay was only able to turn out five against Hamilton’s fifty-two and Madison’s twenty-eight. Writer’s block?

  “Someone needs to do some fact checking,” Mr. Peabody admonished me. “John Jay wrote one hundred and six of the most exciting and persuasive papers in support of the Constitution and the role of the executive, in particular. This way, please.”

  Mr. Peabody led me over to the periodicals section of the archives and pulled out an edition of the Independent Journal, one of the two papers which originally carried the Federalist Papers. This edition included “Federalist No. 173: The Mitigating Role of The Presidential Pet against Tyrannical Rule in the Executive.” It read in part:

  Men of factious tempers or sinister designs or suspect capacity may, upon obtaining suffrages, betray the interests of the people. While Republics may best favor the election of a proper guardian of the common weal, the final safeguard is the counsel and advocacy of an animal of the non-human species. In other words, our system is good, but not foolproof. A blockhead could very well get elected president and if he’s surrounded by madmen and unchecked by Congress or the judiciary or the press, we’re all screwed. So make sure he listens to his pet. PUBLIUS

  “By many estimations, this is the particular article that tipped the scales in favor of ratification,” said Mr. Peabody. “People felt more comfortable with the assurance that a pet would be on hand.”

  “If it’s true, it’s pretty sensational,” I admitted. “What happened to John Jay’s other Federalist Papers?”

  “Most of the others were about pet care. They’re fairly outdated now. I mean really, does anyone still recommend the use of leeches on a gassy cat?” Mr. Peabody asked. “Sadly they’ve all been expurgated from the modern editions of the Federalist Papers, though I do have most of them on microfiche.”

  If this was all one big lie, it was a doozie for sure, and brilliant. For the moment I chose to give him the benefit of my many doubts. “All right, Mr. Peabody, I can maybe understand the need for a special kind of advisor at the beginning of the republic to represent the wishes of the people. Few Americans were allowed to vote after all. But once we became more of a democracy, the people were more directly in charge and—”

  “—and the role of the presidential pet simply evolved. It became no less important. During Andrew Jackson’s term, Alexis de Tocqueville was impressed enough that he—”

  “—wrote about Jackson’s foul-mouthed parrot Pol?” I guessed. Pol was infamous in his day, especially after cursing throughout Old Hickory’s funeral.

  “You catch on quickly. ‘Old Hickory’ was our first president to represent the ‘common man.’ And who better to speak for the American people than a common gutter-mouthed parrot? S’il vous plaît,” he said as he pulled volume 3 of de Tocqueville’s Democracy in America and tossed it to me. It was so heavy that I nearly fell backward. I opened it up to the bookmarked passage.

  “The Peculiar Mouthpiece of the Common Individual in American Democracy” read in part:

  I confess that in America I saw more than America; I sought there the image of democracy itself, with its unbridled character, its prejudices, and its passions. What I found was President Jackson’s parrot Pol issuing pronouncements like:
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  Veto the National Bank, dammit!

  Oppose the South Carolina Ordinance of Nullification, dammit!

  Our Federal Union: It must be preserved, dammit!

  Suffrage for all white men, dammit!

  Spoils system, dammit!

  Recognize the Republic of Texas, dammit!

  I like cheese, dammit!

  Mr. Peabody replaced the volume. “Suffice it to say, Pol did not suggest the eviction and murder of the Creek Indians. Though his apparent enthusiasm for the spoils system is a bit troubling.”

  18

  A Conspiracy So Great

  The learning curve was very steep but I prided myself on being a quick study. “All right, Mr. Peabody, I can accept that pets played this role way back when. So what happened?”

  “Two words: Theodore Roosevelt,” Mr. Peabody intoned. “A man of unquestionable genius, but also a man who wanted to, in modern parlance, ‘supersize’ the presidency and consolidate his power. He knew that with the advent of sound and motion-picture technology, the President would be seen and heard by Americans on a mass scale. And he wanted to control and enhance his image. So he did something brilliant.

  “He gave the correspondents covering him a pressroom in the White House,” Mr. Peabody continued. “The reporters were now organized under his roof. They would now get their stories in a more orderly, controlled way. Controlled, of course, by the White House. And the story they would consistently get and disseminate was one of an increasingly superheroic Chief Executive. In the case of President Roosevelt, the White House’s strategy was an immediate success. The reporters became his de facto publicists.”

  As a longtime fan of TR and a member of the Theodore Roosevelt Association, I was naturally sensitive to any suggestion that he was less than superhuman. “Mr. Peabody, are you denying that President Roosevelt really did all those great things? What about the Panama Canal, the trust busting, conservation?”

  “Now, now, my boy. All of those things indeed happened. But what you of all people should know is that Mr. Roosevelt had thirty-six pets, more than any other President.”

  “That’s right, and Coolidge is right behind with thirty-three.”

  “I think you mean thirty-two,” he said coolly.

  “No, Mr. Peabody. I think I mean thirty-three.”

  “Don’t sass talk me when you know very well that Coolidge’s mynah bird was a vice-presidential pet!”

  I stood corrected.

  “Now, as I was saying,” he continued, “Theodore Roosevelt had the most presidential pets. And with that many pets, TR, a man even his most ardent partisans would describe as egomaniacal, felt particularly vulnerable to charges that he relied on the counsel of others. But rely on them he did.”

  Mr. Peabody sat me down on Helen’s ottoman and began grilling me rapid-fire: “Quickly now, who convinced him to double the number of national parks?”

  “Um, Algonquin the pony?”

  “Who convinced him to support striking mine workers?”

  “I don’t know, Josiah the badger?”

  “What about the Panama Canal?”

  “Maybe Baron Spreckle the hen?”

  “The Sherman Antitrust Act?”

  “Slippers the six-toed cat?”

  “The Pure Food and Drug Act?”

  “Father O’Grady the guinea pig?”

  “The Roosevelt Corollary to the Monroe Doctrine?”

  “Uh . . . gee, I . . .”

  “I can’t HEAR you!”

  “Jonathan the piebald rat?”

  Mr. Peabody was all up in my face screaming.

  “RESOLVE THE RUSSO-JAPANESE CONFLICT?!”

  I started cracking. “Oh gosh, um, the zebra? I—I don’t know his name.”

  “I’M WAITING!”

  “Uh . . . Xander? Claude? Phyllis? I—I—I—”

  “DO YOU WANT ANSWERS?!”

  “I—I—I—”

  “DO YOU WANT THE TRUTH?!!”

  “. . . Ned?”

  “YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!!”

  I snapped. “JUST STOP IT, MR. PEABODY! I don’t know the zebra’s name. Okay?” I broke down sobbing. “You happy now?”

  Mr. Peabody sat down next to me and gently patted my head. “There, there, my boy. The zebra had no name. I was just testing you. You have to be strong to handle the kind of information I’m giving you.”

  He handed me a tissue. I wiped the tears from my eyes and pulled myself together. “Okay, I’m back now. So Teddy Roosevelt’s White House began taking control of the press so it could tell its own story—with him as the one and only star.”

  “I couldn’t have put it more succinctly,” he said. “Not long after TR’s tenure—in February of 1914, to be precise—the reporters created the White House Correspondents Association. The White House, now under the nominal control of President Woodrow Wilson, was just fine with this. Now the members of the press corps could be tracked all the more easily.”

  “Wilson certainly benefited from a tight rein on the press,” I said, blowing my nose. “After his stroke in 1919, his wife practically ran the White House.”

  While Baron Spreckle the hen advised President Roosevelt on the incitement of Panamanian rebels and the terms of the Hay-Bunau-Varilla Treaty, Eli Yale the macaw, seen here with Theodore Jr., actually surveyed the route of the Panama Canal by air.

  “They called her the First Woman President or the Presidentress,” Mr. Peabody said. “But by now you should realize that ‘they’ got it wrong. Edith was shielding her husband from the press because he was holed up with his ram, Old Ike, desperately trying to salvage his bid to join the League of Nations.”

  Mr. Peabody handed me a picture of an ailing Wilson with Old Ike curled up at the foot of the bed with a steno pad.

  “That’s just wrong,” I said uneasily.

  “What do you expect? He was a university professor. They’re the kinkiest.”

  “Good point.”

  First Lady Grace Coolidge and Rebecca the raccoon, before a rabid Rebecca savagely attacked presidential son John in the Vermeil Room. Rob Roy the collie came to the rescue.

  “Of course, occasionally signs of the real influence of pets appeared.” Mr. Peabody pulled back a curtain, revealing a copy of Mrs. Coolidge’s official White House portrait in which she appeared with her collie, Rob Roy. “Insiders knew that this was a gesture of thanks from the Coolidges after the dog rescued their young son John from a ferocious raccoon attack in the Vermeil Room.”

  “That sounds like the plotline from any old episode of Lassie.”

  “Well, where do you think the producers got the idea for the series?” asked Mr. Peabody.

  “Wow,” I said, then paused. “Am I getting any credit for this?”

  “I’m afraid we don’t do work-study at the presidential pet archives.” Mr. Peabody continued with his lecture. “Finally the four-times-elected President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, a great man, but nonetheless one who liked power even more than his fifth cousin Teddy, appointed the first White House press secretary, Stephen Early, and the press came under even tighter control.”

  “Actually, Hoover’s press secretary, George Akerson, was the first,” I said haughtily, getting back at Mr. Peabody for making me cry earlier.

  “I stand corrected,” said Mr. Peabody. “Akerson is easy to forget, as is Hoover’s elkhound Weejie. Both of them knew that their President was toast and spent most of their time packing his bags for the Waldorf. 8 Stephen Early was the first press secretary, I should say, to move aggressively to shield the inner workings of the President from the public.”

  “I guess that’s true,” I said. “In over twelve years in office, FDR was photographed only once in a wheelchair.”

  “And the tremendous contributions of Fala the Scottie were hidden from the public.”

  It was undeniable that Mr. Peabody had built a compelling case. Still one question kept gnawing at me. “Mr. Peabody, it’s not like modern presidential pets are hi
dden from the press. Millie, Socks, Buddy, and Barney—they all get overwhelming coverage.”

  “Coverage of a different kind. They’re portrayed as cute playthings, so that the President can look even more imposing. It’s terrific propaganda for the White House. But quite frankly it’s insulting to any self-respecting four-legged presidential pet scholar.” I assumed he meant himself. “ ‘Man’s best friend’ has become a cruel mockery of the role these pets were meant to play—and still play.”

  “Still play?”

  “The tapes don’t lie.”

  With that Mr. Peabody slid open a cabinet door, revealing a wall of recording equipment. He clicked PLAY on one of the recorders.

  “He’s gone off riding with Camilla again. I’m so terribly lonely in this dreary palace,” said the halting voice of a vulnerable young British woman. “It seems my only friends are the Queen’s corgis.”

  Mr. Peabody abruptly hit STOP. “Pardon me, that’s the Diana, Princess of Wales, tape. I meant to play this.” He grabbed a tape labeled August 4, 1964, inserted it, and hit PLAY.

  19

  The Dog of War

  I instantly recognized the voice from C-SPAN Radio’s Saturday-afternoon broadcasts. It was LBJ. Mr. Peabody helpfully handed me a written transcript with footnotes from historian Michael Beschloss.

  JOHNSON: Him, 9 my friend, how are you doing?

  HIM: Just fine, Mr. President. Just fine.

  JOHNSON: And how’s the little lady? You know I love Her. 10 The two of you need to come on over and let Lady Bird fix you some leftovers.

  HIM: Thank you, Mr. President. Last weekend we snuck out to take a peek at Route 95, just south of the city. Mrs. Johnson has done a fine job beautifying that highway.

  JOHNSON (laughing): There you go sugaring me up. You’re just about the smartest son of a bitch I ever met. I told you before, I’m sure glad to have you inside the doghouse pissing out, ’stead of outside pissing in. [momentarily distracted] Bob, get me a fresh roll, will you? 11