Belligerent doves have started to call Tony Blair George Bush's "Poodle."
When Anya came to live with us she was no taller than a blade of grass. I think she's grown, but I can't tell since she's pretty much marked our lawn to death.
She was beyond cute. My knees buckled from her vanilla almond scented tongue. One year later my knees still buckle but only because a rare and potent strain of gingivitis gives her breath the kick of a Panamanian garbage strike. It's gotten so rancid that when other dogs greet her they have absolutely no idea which end to sniff.
Anya's smile eventually took on the autumnal hue of an Encino sunset. The vet suggested brushing her teeth after each meal. Right. I did squirt her with my water pick once, but only to see if I could stifle that incessant three octave Minnie Ripperton yap of hers. I also like to mark.
Anya yaps well into the night. Cheryl, our vegan neighbor, drowns it all out by lighting scented candles directly underneath her bedroom smoke detector. We like Cheryl.
Others are not so understanding. Christopher, a carnivore, warned that if Anya weren't silenced he'd force feed her sirloin cubes marinated in Sars. I promised to get a bark collar and hinted Anya was more partial to goose liver.
I tried to convince the rest of the neighborhood that while Anya may be extremely annoying, she makes a terrific burglar alarm.
Then late one night an unshaven shirtless man with a cigarette dangling from his lips pounded on my door. He stumbled to Cheryl's door, back to ours, and then over to Christopher's. My wife dialed the police, I made sure all our windows were locked and searched for that semi automatic baseball bat I keep tucked away in the laundry room.
In all the excitement, I almost failed to notice that Anya was finally quiet. She cowered in the corner near our dryer shivering. She was petrified. Not even a drop.
The cops came and arrested the guy but not before Christopher took two large bites out of his left man-breast.
And Anya? Well she's turned out to be one hell of a guard dog. Now whenever she stops barking we all know it's time to call 911.
Those sniping doves can call Tony Blair America's poodle all they want. But they couldn't be more wrong. Tony's pure Irish Wolf Hound. When the loose knit coalition wanders too far off the reservation, Tony's right there to herd them all back in.
I'm absolutely certain of that. Unless there are stains on the Oval Office carpet nobody's told me about.
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Stuttering never kept David Feldman from directing movies. A congenital lack of talent did.
