i must tell you something

I am very interested in this New First Puppy I keep hearing about.

It’s true. I am. Votes schmotes. I need to hear more about the puppy.

Now I suppose you could say, “Oh, Tracey. You’re always ‘very interested’ in every puppy you see. It’s called covetousness.” Okay. Sure. Fine. Say that if you want. But this is different because this time, I am very very interested. See that? That’s two verys, with one italicized. If there’s another level of interested, I honestly do not know what it is. And, truly? That extra level of interest comes from nothing less than my deep-seated desire to help my fellow man.

See, I’ve been thinking certain things for a long time now. Like all day. Things like: You know, Trace. They would probably need a New First Puppy Wrangler in the White House, right? I mean, Obama and Flobama (uhm, I made that up just now — for First Lady Obama — isn’t it clever and such — also who cares) can’t personally wrangle the New First Puppy. Oh, no. They will be busy-busy changing things. And those little girls of theirs are quite cute, yes, but also clearly ignorant on how to wrangle a puppy based on the fact that I’ve never ever seen them with a puppy. Not once. Whereas puppy wrangling is knowledge I clearly possess in spades based on my experience of not having had a puppy in lo! these vast yawning years since I was eight years old.

Also, let’s not forget that I visited the White House, yes, I did, when I was 13 — you know, back in the days when you could tromp all over that place with impunity and peek into the medicine cabinets in the Millard Fillmore Bathroom and find, say, an old jar of Woodrow Wilson’s hemorrhoid cream and whatnot — so I pretty much know the presidential abode like the back of my dainty white hand. Which I imagine would be used for New First Puppy wrangling in less-than-dainty ways I’d rather not dwell on here.

On top of all this, not to get all dreary on you, but neighborhood mongrels murdered my guinea pigs Cinder and Snowball in cold blood when I was 6 and nothing gives a girl a deep abiding sense of the importance of proper puppy wrangling quite like the brutal murder of her pink-eyed rodent balls at the paws of wandering sociopathic mongrels. Plus, in the aftermath of the carnage, when a girl sees her fuming dad literally fling a canine suspect down the backyard stairs with one strong righteous arm, a girl is kind of inspired and thinks, “Perhaps I, too, can fling a HORRIBLE CONSCIENCE-LESS MUTT down the stairs someday, just like daddy.”

Sighhhh ….. maybe someday.

So Obama. I know you’re hiring. Just who do you want for your New First Puppy Wrangler? The choice is obvious. Blaring.

I mean, duh.

You heard me.

Duh.