ISSA, WHOSE NAME translates from the Latin as “her little ladyship,” was a small white dog, widely believed to be a Maltese, immortalized in descriptive verse by the Roman poet Martial. In his poem, Martial makes light fun of the bond between Issa and her master, a well-known Roman figure named Publius, who hasn’t been conclusively identified by historians but is generally thought to be the Roman governor Publius of Malta (who, since he lived in Malta, may well have owned a Maltese).
“Publius’ darling puppy,” writes Martial, is a “modest and chaste little lap dog, more coaxing than any maid.” She’s discreet and genteel, “purer than a Dove’s kiss,” thoroughly fastidious, and perfectly toilet trained: “When overcome by nature’s longing, never by one drop does she betray the coverlet.” To her master, she’s worth “all the costly pearls of India.” He’s even had her portrait painted, Martial informs us, so “death should not rob him of her altogether.”
Classical scholars have mixed opinions about this epigrammatic poem. Some consider it to be a fond tribute to Publius and Issa; others see it as mocking and cruel. Either way, Martial’s allusions suggest the Roman’s affection for his cosseted chum was common knowledge at the time. Adding to the incongruity, the Maltese, with its silky white fur and fastidious temperament, was known in classical times as the Roman ladies’ dog and seen, like most lapdogs, as a useless luxury, often a symbol of women themselves, with their misplaced values and susceptibility to the vagaries of fashion. Dogs like Chihuahuas, Yorkies, and shih tzus have always been regarded as typical women’s pets, as opposed to “men’s dogs” like the macho Doberman, butch Rottweiler, and virile mastiff. The Maltese is “admirable, beautiful,” writes Ouida in “Dogs and Their Affections,” “and his aristocratic appearance, his little face which has a look of Gainsborough’s and Reynolds’s children, his white silken coat, and his descent from the darlings of Versailles and Whitehall, all make him an ideal dog for women.”
If the Maltese is feminine and the bulldog male, the French bulldog is a confusing combination. At a solid thirty-two pounds, Grisby is a muscular minion, both lapdog and chaperone. An article in the New York Times style section from 2005 describes the breed as “gay vague” (as opposed to the Boston terrier, which signifies “straight,” and the Jack Russell, which is apparently out-and-out “gay”). Greenwich Village, where I first noticed them, has a high population of French bulldogs, and it’s true that, as small apartment dogs that are also solid and butch, they have a particular appeal to gay men. If they were “gay vague” in 2005, moreover, a brief trawl online suggests that in the last nine years, they’ve swung further to the far end of the spectrum: commenters on various dog-themed discussion boards refer to French bulldogs as “übergay,” “a gay stereotype,” “a gay guy’s doggie,” and “the gayest dog ever.”
Would we vote for a president who owned a French bulldog? While it’s certainly unusual for a leader to be known for his devotion to a lapdog, owning a pooch can make even the most intimidating public official seem more human, as public relations advisers are well aware. It’s apparently still the case that a president’s popularity increases whenever he’s photographed with his dog—as long as he’s not picking it up by the ears, the way Lyndon Johnson notoriously hoisted his unfortunate beagle. For this reason, the First Dog has always been as much a fixture of the White House as the First Lady. In his 1952 “Checkers speech,” Nixon, then a candidate for vice president, won the public’s confidence by admitting he’d broken the rules and accepted one single personal gift from a political donor: an American cocker spaniel named Checkers. “I just want to say this, right now, that regardless of what they say about it, we are going to keep it,” he asserted, swaying public opinion determinedly in his favor.
The Checkers speech was, predictably, compared to the “Fala speech,” a public address made by Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1944. President Roosevelt was running for his fourth term when rumors surfaced that he’d accidentally left behind his Scottish terrier, Fala, when visiting the Aleutian Islands—and had sent back a navy destroyer to pick him up, at the taxpayers’ expense. Roosevelt made fun of these rumors in a speech that allegedly helped secure his reelection. “You can criticize me, my wife, and my family, but you can’t criticize my little dog,” complained the president. “He’s Scotch, and all these allegations about spending all this money have just made his little soul furious.”
There’s something about people’s relationships with their dogs that seems essentially honest, which is why it always boosts our confidence to see the president interacting with his pooch. On one level, of course, such appearances are simply excellent photo ops; on another level, however, the president’s relationship with his canine pal seems much more personal than, say, his relationship with his wife or children. The First Lady, like her husband, is a public figure, part of the trappings of office; the president’s offspring, too, are encouraged to show their support before the cameras. Motiveless alliances are unknown in politics. Only the president’s dog exhibits authentic and unaffected allegiance; only his dog doesn’t know he’s the president.
It’s widely believed there’s a clear link between cruelty to animals and violence toward human beings. This would suggest those who express affection for animals are peaceful people, which isn’t always the case (look at Hitler and his dog Blondi). Still, when it comes to political leaders, dogs provide a fascinating axis between public and private lives, and there’s something both reassuring and slightly perverse about pictures of Fidel Castro, Leon Trotsky, and Henry Kissinger petting their dogs. Most of the time, these are large, robust beasts, of the kind that make a striking picture romping on the lawns of mansions and palaces. Owing to his small stature, George W. Bush’s Scottish terrier Barney drew unmerited contempt. When Bush introduced Barney to Vladimir Putin, the Russian president “kind of dissed him,” according to Bush. Later, when Bush met Putin’s black Labrador Koni, Putin made sure the US president noted that Koni was “bigger, stronger, tougher, and faster than Barney.” One wonders what Putin would have made of Issa.
These days, First Dogs are given simple, democratic, and frankly unimaginative names (Buddy, Barney, Bo), often chosen by the president’s kids or by public poll. This was not always the case; former canine residents of the White House have possessed names that today’s public relations advisers would almost certainly consider out of bounds. George Washington had four black-and-tan coonhounds, named Drunkard, Taster, Tipler, and Tipsy; he also had American staghounds called Sweetlips and Scentwell. Calvin Coolidge had a terrier named Peter Pan. Theodore Roosevelt had a Manchester terrier called Blackjack. John Adams had a mixed-breed named Satan.
The best presidential dog’s name, in my opinion, is that given by James Garfield to his large black Newfoundland: Veto. Some said the dog was named in honor of President Rutherford B. Hayes, whom Garfield had helped to sustain a record number of vetoes (five bills in three months). Others saw the dog’s name as a warning from Garfield to the rambunctious Congress of 1881, letting the legislators know that he was under no obligation to sign all the bills they were trying to pass. While Garfield no doubt enjoyed plenty of jokes about exercising his Veto, the president’s assassination six months into his term meant he never got the chance to do so—at least not in the political sense.
A veto is the power to stop an action, which is something Grisby does all the time, though seldom without my consent. He prevents me from going away for long periods of time; he prevents me from taking spontaneous trips; he’s the reason I no longer attend out-of-town conferences. He serves as a buffer or barrier, preventing me from getting too close to other people, keeping the world at bay. As he’s always with me, anyone engaging with me also has to engage with him, at least on a superficial level—by asking his name, for example, and commenting (favorably, of course) on his appearance and behavior. My feelings for Grisby can sometimes get in the way of my feelings for other people in that, if a person interacts with me and ignores Grisby, I find it rude and off-putting. If I’m asked to leave him at home, I can’t help feeling hurt. I’ll often leave social functions early, using Grisby as an excuse (both when he’s with me and when he’s not). I realize some people probably find this behavior annoying, just as I find it irritating when anyone turns up with a young child in tow.
It also happens, on occasion, that Grisby becomes the target of hostility that, I can’t help feeling, is actually—perhaps unconsciously—meant for me. For a while, he became the focus of a minor controversy at work involving the presence of pets at departmental meetings. On such occasions, the presence of a lunch buffet means that, according to the college’s pet policy, the meeting is officially off-limits to dogs. Yet this rule was overlooked for many years; a colleague’s popular and well-behaved pet, Gelbert, was in regular attendance. But Grisby is no Gelbert, and for some reason he—or whatever he seems to represent—seems to rub certain people the wrong way. It didn’t help, I confess, that he once vomited spectacularly during a guest’s presentation of the new online software, but dogs get upset stomachs just like the rest of us, and it hardly seems fair to hold them accountable. However, when a colleague publically expressed her fear of Grisby—even confessing that she kept a knife in her purse in case she should ever need to defend herself—I couldn’t help wondering who (or what) was the real target of this irrational phobia. Surely it couldn’t possibly be the affectionate little creature sleeping sweetly under my chair.
It’s true that, when he was a puppy, Grisby, like all puppies, caused his share of trouble, but all damage was restricted to the home. The size of a small rabbit (not including his enormous ears, which he spent years growing into), he spent his first months of life destroying our possessions and ruining our rugs. Among the treasures he chewed to bits: a deck of rare tarot cards, my favorite pair of glasses, and a vintage volume of the Dos Passos U.S.A. trilogy, the thought of which still quickens David’s pulse even today. We couldn’t leave him alone until he was fully toilet trained, which took almost nine months. He could never manage a quick stroll around the block; he had to stop and investigate everything—every smell, every scrap of paper, every puddle, and every tree. To make matters worse, the ground floor of our building is used for wedding receptions on weekends, and I soon learned that a French bulldog puppy and a crowd of drunken, sentimental bridesmaids make a perfect storm. In the end I took to zipping him up inside my purse so I could sneak him out without his being spotted.
During her years spent as a radical politician, Colette Audry found her dog wasn’t welcome at socialist resistance meetings. Although her artist friends were dog-friendly, her intellectual friends either didn’t go in for dogs or, if they did, had “too great a human respect for the species to dream of bringing their own dog along.” Audry responded by exercising her veto, dropping out of radical politics altogether to spend more time with her dog. When I worked in California and wasn’t allowed to bring Grisby to work, I often felt like doing the same. Sometimes, after a particularly painful day, I’d stop at the beach on the way home, turn him loose, then stand back and watch him charge toward the ocean, causing mayhem on all sides. He’d knock over parasols, trample on sand castles, and kick dirt in people’s picnics. After stifling my misery all day at work, I always got a thrill watching my avatar wreak joyful destruction on humanity.
Yet if Grisby acts as a buffer, he also acts as a bridge, keeping me connected to the outside world. He gives me a reason to do things I’d have no interest in doing on my own: running in the park, Rollerblading around the tennis courts, swimming at the lake. Sometimes, in the days before Grisby, I wouldn’t leave the house for days on end—now I’m up early every day for his morning constitutional. He connects me with other people, serving as a talking point and an icebreaker. If he gives me the power of veto, he also forms plenty of democratic coalitions, and at the same time, paradoxically, treats me as though I rule the world. While it may very well be true that the president’s dog doesn’t know he’s the president, on another level, it’s a lie—every man’s a president to his dog.