We found this letter stashed beside Scooter Thomas’s litterbox yesterday. The penmanship was rather crude and it was written in crayon. We are publishing it here in its original, unedited form.
Dear President-Elect Obama,
You have publicly stated that you and your lovely wife are rewarding your beautiful daughters with an abominable creature a puppy once you move into the White House. I am writing this letter in the hope you wise up reconsider selecting an animal of such an inferior species questionable pedigree. (I mean no ill will toward my basset hound friend, Winnie Sweeney. She is decidedly less inferior than all most canines.) Specifically I am writing to suggest that you drop this futile search for a not totally imbecilic worthy dog and choose a kick-ass truly superior specimen. I am thinking here of myself.
Let me tell you a little bit about me. I’m eighteen pounds but quite limber. I think of myself as an intellectual like you. While I won’t pretend we share the same political views (I voted for the vastly better candidate Mr. Bob Barr), I am an open-minded, occasionally progressive feline tolerant of people who are simply wrong a great many viewpoints. I like red wine and Prokofiev and naps and the Bravo channel.
You have stressed that the First Pet must be hypoallergenic given your daughter Malia’s allergies. I must confess that I may not be a prime candidate in this regard though your daughter is clearly a wuss. I landed with my current owners, neanderthals in taste and culture a good-natured but feckless couple, because my original owner had to take allergy shots just to coexist with me. Rest assured that I could stop shedding at a moment’s notice, however, if I freakin’ have to in a true spirit of bipartisanship. For the time being, I continue to shed prolifically only to embarrass my owners by sending them into public with heavily shedded-upon shirts and jackets. (They need to be taken down a notch or twelve two.)
Perhaps you are also concerned about my mammoth purported barfing spells. I cannot emphasize just how true false these are. You know how the braindead MSM chattering classes are once they wrap their bejeweled claws hands around a juicy morsel of gossip. You’re a Muslim! I’m a vomiting menace! How absurd.
You and I are both alike in this way, sir, in that we both smoke have suffered the slings and arrows of our rivals yet emerged unscathed, even stronger as a result. Of course, I would be happy to retch in the general direction of any media barnacles nettlesome journalists such as, say, David Gregory or Helen Thomas. Just say the word.
Finally, you signified your allegiance to a shelter animal because it would be “a mutt like me.” Sir, I am the muttiest cat to ever walk saunter the earth. My father was an alley cat Scandinavian and my mother loose Inuit. I am part rabid Cherokee and one-eighth Australian. You and I are going to take over the world truly global children. Polyglot blood courses through our veins. (FYI, I speak cat French, Spanish, German, pidgin Portugese, Japanese and Sanskrit.)
Please consider me in the coming days and weeks as you slack around until January transition into your new role and amass a bunch of wonkish dweebs “team of rivals” to complement your presidency. Also, I can give some nasty scratch marks fantastic economic advice and I used to be not-neutered a foreign policy scholar at the Cato Institute. So it’s like win-win!
Give Michelle a smooch squeeze hug for me.
P.S. I’m a great alarm clock. I am willing to sit on your head and purr like a bulldozer nudge you gently for that three a.m. phone call.