by Mo Rocca
“You’re interested in the ‘Killer Bunny’ story,” surmised Helen. “Jody Powell really saved him on that one.”
President Carter ready to defend himself against a suicide (or homicide) nutria.
“Saved him?!” I said. Powell, Carter’s press secretary, had casually mentioned the April 1979 incident to AP reporter Brooks Jackson the following August, then lived to regret it when the whole press picked up on it. This was hardly a favor. “Powell ended up giving the press and the Republicans a perfect way to make Carter look foolish.”
“You do learn slowly,” sighed Mr. Peabody. “Powell averted a major crisis. First of all the animal was in fact a nutria.”
“A nutria?” I asked. “You mean the reddish brown semiaquatic fourteen-inch-long rodent with webbed hind feet and razor-sharp teeth for cutting through plants?”
“Yes, the one with the cylindrical, sparsely haired tail and soft gray under-fur that in fact can grow to a length of three feet.” Mr. Peabody always needed to top me. “Kenny had been a presidential pet, living at the family’s compound in Plains, Georgia, before falling under the spell of the Ayatollah Khomeini and becoming a radical Islamist. Out of safety concerns the Carter family expelled the nutria, renamed Khalid, which unfortunately remained in the area. Classified intelligence suggested that if given the chance, the nutria would do everything in its power to harm Carter. Diplomacy would not likely work.”
“So Carter had to use the oar,” I said. “But why would the administration intentionally leak this story?”
“To preempt a more damaging version of the story if it leaked through another source. Jody Powell knew the whole incident had the potential of revealing the power of pets. He rightly decided that marginalizing the animal with the mock sobriquet ‘killer bunny’ would cast the whole story in a ‘kooky animal tale’ light that the administration could live with,” said Mr. Peabody.
“Those press secretaries are crafty,” said Helen. “They share their secrets only with each other.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Speaking of which, do either of you know what’s written in the note passed on through the traditional press secretary vest?”
“Oh, that is something that even I’m not privy to,” said Helen.
Mr. Peabody remained silent on this count, then suddenly spoke up. “I really must continue cataloging,” he said. “Madame, if I may.”
“That’s fine, Tad.” (Tad apparently was Mr. Peabody’s first name.) “Mo can stay with me while I finish molting.”
Mr. Peabody receded into the darkness. It was the first time I’d had alone with Helen in a few days.
“I’m sorry Mr. Peabody was a little sharp with you. Sometimes he gets very tense, I don’t know why.” Helen walked over to her refrigerator. “Can I offer you something to eat?” Helen asked, pulling out a Tupperware container of beaver carrion.
“I’ve already eaten, thank you. Helen, I have to tell you again how grateful I am for all you’ve divulged to me. But again, I have to ask why. Why me?”
“Mo, let’s be realistic. I’m over two hundred years old. I’ll be lucky if I live another forty. Someone outside the White House—someone other than I—needs to know about the Presidential Pet line. It’s the surest way to guarantee its survival. And that’s immensely important—because without its survival, we lose an invaluable ingredient of good governance. Presidents need counsel—smart, honest, commonsense counsel. Without this ‘sacred animal’ ingredient, leadership is in a terrible state of imbalance. The executive becomes arrogant, drunk with its own sense of invulnerability. President Eisenhower came to understand this at the end of his presidency when he warned us about the ‘potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power.’ ”
“I thought he was talking about the military-industrial complex,” I said.
“ ‘Military-industrial complex’? Never heard of it, but I’m sure it’s an anagram for something pet-related,” Helen said with a shrug.
“So what do you want me to do with all this?” I asked. “Just carry this with me?”
“I want you to write it down, in a history that once and for all can be read by everyone.”
“You mean no one else has tried?”
“Others have tried,” Helen conceded. “Henry Adams gave it a shot. It was too literary. I considered Edmund Morris but he just kept procrastinating. I thought of Gore Vidal but he’s a historical fiction writer. You really can’t believe anything he writes. So the task now falls to you.”
She continued. “One day they may find these archives and destroy them. Then all evidence of the ‘sacred animal’ will be destroyed and we’ll be all the poorer.”
“Helen, this is a challenge I didn’t expect. For me to commit my name to this. Why wouldn’t you just—”
“Please don’t ask why I don’t write it. Just trust me that much depends on you rising to this. And if you ever doubt the importance of presidential pets,” she said, “consider the story of FDR’s Fala and Churchill’s Rufus.”
What she handed me then was not the transcript of a Fala fireside chat (that would have been way too obvious), but a speech by Winston Churchill’s chocolate poodle Rufus. It was his eulogy to Fala:
In remembering Fala, one thinks of Marvell’s line on the untimely end of Charles I: “He nothing common did or mean/Upon that memorable scene . . .” The scene of our meeting was the deck of the USS Augusta in the second year of war.
Spirited from lapping up the runoff of Pol Roger streaming out of the President and Prime Minister’s dining cabin, our bond took on a heady exuberance. Heady, until I slipped and plopped right into the cold northern waters.
Not a human could hear my cries, and the fish were of little use. Now, it seemed, had come my darkest hour. It was in that bleakest of moments that Fala risked all, diving in and delivering me to safety by the scruff of my neck.
From that day forth he committed himself to the welfare of me and my people—and I to him and his people. A common interest and common destiny.
Though the story became one of humans conquering evil, it began with a sniff. I knew from the very first whiff of that great Scottie’s behind that he was far from common. And so I say . . .
In War: Resolution
In Defeat: Defiance
In Victory: Magnanimity
In Peace: Goodwill
In Friendship: Fala
It was a beautiful passage. Helen took my hand in her claw.
“I want you to have something. No one—not even Mr. Peabody—knows I possess it. There is something known as the Fala Grail. There are three parts. The first is Fala’s dog bowl.”
“Is that what Socks was referring to in his book?”
“That’s right. The second is Fala’s dog collar. We don’t know where that is.” Then she moved over to the Houdon bust of herself. “The third is his favorite chew toy.”
Helen carefully lifted the bust and pulled out a chewed-up plastic Pinocchio toy. She placed it in my hand. “I want you to have it. It is extremely valuable.”
It was so small and yet it felt magical in my palm. A tiny chewed-up plastic relic.
FDR’s Scottie Fala and his Pinocchio chew toy, the final piece of the coveted Fala Grail.
“Why is it so important?” I asked.
“Those radicals around the president—those who oppose the humane counsel of the ‘sacred animal’—believe that if they can obtain all three parts, they can once and for all assume the power and influence that Fala had.” She became grim here. “And then the real presidential pet will finally be rendered obsolete, stripped of its nation-saving power . . . dispensable.”
“Oh, Helen, I’m overwhelmed. But I just don’t know if I can write this—”
“Please,” she said. “As you think about what I’m asking, think about Fala. And think about Barney.”
I had one last question. “Helen, Barney doesn’t really have rickets, does he? I’m guessing it’s just a rumor spread to undermine him, just lik
e when Truman’s Irish setter Mike was supposedly sent away for the same reason?”
“You’re right about Barney, wrong about Mike. He really did have rickets. The Dixiecrats force-fed him candy as punishment after he convinced Truman to integrate the armed forces.”
My brain hurting from yet another factoid, I set out.
24
Eyes Wide Open
I needed some time alone to sort things out.
I climbed up from Helen’s lair and out from under her desk. Even though it was late at night, I chose to exit through Helen’s desk downstairs in the pressroom. I just couldn’t deal with the gutter right now. Besides, reporters often stayed late into the night, so the security guard would think nothing of it if I left through the gate.
I nearly tripped over Helen’s Easy Spirits, then climbed the steps into the Briefing Room area. I was about to walk straight out onto the North Lawn when I heard what sounded like a soft wail. It was coming from the direction of Scott’s office, behind the Briefing Room.
As I tiptoed closer the wailing got louder. Scott certainly wouldn’t be working this late. Maybe an animal had made its way in and was trapped. As I neared his office, I could see that his door was only open a crack and a soft light flickered from inside. The noise from the office was much fuller now. The wailing I could hear was a woman’s voice, not an animal’s, and it was joined by the lower-registered moans of men—a few of them. The collective sound was both vaguely religious, almost chantlike, and unmistakably sexual.
Ever so carefully I pressed my chest against the wall, just beside the door’s crack, then crept as slowly as possible, leading with my head, toward the opening. I stopped once I had a clear view. I felt sufficiently cloaked in darkness to stay for a good long look.
What I saw shocked me.
Inside, illuminated by a single candle on Scott’s desk, stood a circle of nine individuals. They were clad in white robes, monklike cowls, with hoods concealing their heads. What appeared to be six full-grown men swayed and moaned, their palms facing up. One woman sang out. There was also one midget of indeterminate gender and one Sasquatch-size individual, presumably another man.
As they grew more excited, their bodies undulating, their heads nodding, the hoods began inching back from their faces. I could see now that the ritual participants included Scott McClellan, White House advisor Karl Rove, Fox News chief Roger Ailes, former press secretary Ari Fleischer, Senator Zell Miller, and Gephardt the Albino. When the hood dropped back from the head of the giant, I was shocked to see White House counselor Karen Hughes.
The midget’s identity was still hidden by his or her hood.
The lone average-size woman began rocking back and forth so passionately that the hood flew back completely from her face. It was Laurie Dhue, her lips glistening more than ever, her eyes widening. She was panting heavily by now, between high-pitched wails.
Then something strange happened. Scott slowly entered the circle, drawn there it seemed by his co-ritualists’ calls. As the others began growing louder and closing in on him, Scott began removing his robe. He pulled it over his head. Laurie was screaming like a banshee now as Scott threw the robe aside. It was almost as if Laurie was an audience member at some satanic Chippendales show.
I had barely a second to imagine another facile pop-culture comparison, though, when I noticed what Scott had revealed.
A pantless Scott McClellan was wearing only the ceremonial Press Secretary’s vest. He began dancing, a man apparently possessed, as Laurie’s shrieks grew wilder. It was a strange agitated dance, as if he were checking himself for fleas. He scratched himself with his hands and his feet, then shook his butt in the direction of each of the others. It was really more of a wagging motion. (Scott’s right ass cheek, by the way, was tattooed with the letters “P.S.” My assumption was that the letters stood not for “Priore de Sion” but for “press secretary.”) Each of the others exaggeratedly sniffed in the direction of Scott’s butt.
Finally Scott lifted a drinking cup. It looked like a very wide-rimmed chalice, but one without a stem—really almost a bowl, a tartan bowl. It was Fala’s bowl! He grandly drank from it. When he was done he took a deep breath and howled.
Then Gephardt the Albino reached with his left arm underneath his right sleeve and from the upper arm removed a dog collar. It was Fala’s dog collar! He carefully attached it to Scott’s neck. Scott howled again, this time even more loudly.
At this point Laurie, worked up into her own ecstatic frenzy, let out a climactic yowl and collapsed onto the floor. The others began dancing around her.
I was terrified and yet I couldn’t contain myself. “The Grail!” I said, just loudly enough that the still-concealed midget looked up at me, then down at my hand—at the Pinocchio chew toy!
There was no time to think. Only time to run.
25
The Great Hallucinator?
I burst through the doors, never once looking back, and ran straight for the security gate. I must have looked dazed because the guard asked if everything was okay as I stumbled onto Pennsylvania Avenue. I couldn’t answer, I was in such a state of shock.
It was three-thirty in the morning and I’d just witnessed a terrifying scene. Worse yet, I’d been seen with the Fala chew toy. I needed to talk to somebody, anybody.
I ran down Pennsylvania Avenue, not knowing where I might end up. It was freezing cold and the street was empty, except of course for Condoleezza Rice, who was doing her midmorning sprints. She was so “in the zone,” she didn’t notice me.
I ended up at Candy’s apartment building in the Adams Morgan neighborhood and pressed down on the buzzer. There was no response.
“Candy, where are you?”
I kept pressing until she finally buzzed me into the lobby. I ran up six flights, pushing past a meth dealer and two prostitutes, until I came to her apartment. I rapped loudly on the door. Barely awake, she opened it a crack, only as far as the chain would let it. She was dressed in a purple robe, her hair piled messily on top (a look Candy herself called “sex hair”). Even at this hour she stood in her trademark three-quarter-turned position.
“Candy, something terrible is happening.” I was breathless. “I’ve got to talk to you.”
Candy looked skeptical. “It’s not a good time, kiddo.”
“Look, Candy,” I said. “I know that Pasquale is in there with you, but I need you right now.”
“Pasquale? I think you mean Alonzo.”
“Whatever, Candy. I’m in crisis. Please.”
Candy wouldn’t look me in the eye. “Listen, Mo, things have been getting a little too weird with you. First the pussy talk with President Fox. Then the all-fours routine with the First Lady.”
“Caaaan-dy,” beckoned a Latin voice from inside.
“Bring it down a notch, hot stuff,” shouted back Candy. Then she looked at me again. “Sorry, Mo. I just can’t do this anymore.”
It hurt her to do it but she closed the door on me. The last thing I heard was Candy yelling back to Alonzo: “Looks like Carnivale’s getting started early this year!”
There wasn’t time to mourn the loss of my friendship with Candy. I tore down the steps, nearly trampling an old Guatemalan woman selling carnations, and started running as fast as I could along the Potomac River toward the Maryland suburbs. It was 4 A.M. now. The only sound I could hear was Condoleezza Rice swimming laps across the Potomac.
I wasn’t in great shape so I didn’t make it to Wolf’s house in Bethesda until daybreak at 6 A.M. I kicked off my shoes and started clanging his chimes frantically.
Mihoko the ancient serving girl opened the door. I pushed past her and ran out back.
I stopped dead in my tracks. “Oh my God, Wolf!” I felt like I’d been cheated on. There in his backyard Wolf was teaching kendo, the art of Japanese fencing, to Anderson Cooper.
Wolf turned to me. He wasn’t smiling.
“Wolf, I need to talk to you,” I said.
Wolf put do
wn his wooden sword, or bokken, then turned to Anderson to ask for a moment. “Chotto Matte Kudasai.”
“Hai,” Anderson assented with a quick bow.
Wolf walked over to me, looking grim. “What’s up, Mo-san?” he asked curtly.
“Wolf, I’m in trouble. Big trouble. There’s a group of people at the White House. They might try to hurt Barney. And now they might try to hurt me. I need you now more than ever.”
“I’m sorry, Mo-san, but you are not welcome here.”
“Why?”
“Your recent behavior has dishonored both yourself and your sensei. Our very own CNN poll shows that 91 percent of the American people believe you are a danger to Barney. The margin of error is only 3 percent.”
“I’m a danger?! Oh, Wolf, what happened to us?” I looked over at Anderson, who was studiously practicing his lunges. “He’s even wearing my dogi,” I added wistfully, using the Japanese word for “uniform.”
“Mihoko will see you out,” Wolf said stonily.
I started to walk out when Wolf’s Akita puppy gamboled out from the house.
“Ki O Tsukete, Aaron!” (“Be careful, Aaron!”), yelled Wolf, scared that I might harm the little dog. Wolf scooped the puppy up in his arms as Anderson leaped between us, twirling his sword in my face.
“It’s not a baton,” I hissed before turning and marching out.
As I walked out through the front door, Mihoko let go one parting shot—“Don’t let door hit in ass on way out!”—before slamming it shut.
Rejected by two of the people I thought I could rely on, I had one last place to go. I ran back downtown to visit with the man I looked up to more than any other.
Abraham Lincoln. Daniel Chester French gave me an icon to which I could pray without any compunction. No one could ever call him a false idol.
I got there at 7 A.M. Condi had just finished rappelling off the Washington Monument and was doing her cool-down javelin throws. She jogged off, probably to begin her rounds on the Sunday news shows.