THE NEWS WAS SIMPLY A-PAW-LING.
Socks, the “First Cat” in the Clinton White House, would not be joining his family after their move to New York state. The tale spun for the gullible was that the former president–who seemingly moved at the highest levels of international diplomacy with some success during his two terms–was unable to negotiate a lasting peace between the First Feline and Buddy, a young and loutish Labrador D-O-G.
We were told not to worry. Socks would not be homeless. His story would have a happy ending: Socks would reside with Betty Currie, a Clinton secretary and apparently kind woman who was portrayed as a Socks fan. There was even a rumor of possible joint custody in which Socks would shuttle between the Currie and Clinton residences. As such, he would be a cat with litter boxes in two states. Or perhaps the Currie plan would be just a temporary arrangement, until Sen. Hillary settles into her D.C. digs.
However, to those of us who are proudly ailurophilic, a great injustice had been done to one of our own. How could such a decision have been made? What were his crimes? There were no rumors of shredded damask drapes in the Blue Room. No carcasses from field or sky had been dropped at the feet of visiting dignitaries. The furniture in Lincoln’s bedroom by all accounts had been left, uh, “unmarked.”
Here was a cat who was cultured. He was, in fact, adopted from Chelsea’s piano teacher in Little Rock, Ark., and as such was well-versed in “Moonlight” Sonata and other gems of junior high school piano pedagogy.
As a tuxedo cat, he was always dressed for the occasion–from disarmingly informal photo ops on the South Lawn to state dinners–in his white gloves, spats and bib. We knew that he knew to begin a meal with the tiniest fork placed farthest from the plate. In matters of protocol, it was a given that as a cat Socks would refrain from seeking out the very personal odors of visitors to the Oval Office.
He was drool-free.
One could not say the same for Buddy-boy.
Perhaps the former president will live to regret his decision; he was tripped up Friday by Buddy during a game of fetch and took a tumble.
However, hindsight as they say, is 20/20, and now that I look back, the writing was on the wall.
We never saw Socks walking among the fallen leaves on a beautiful autumn day with the president and his advisers at Camp David. He never shared a lap of Bill or Hillary at a White House recital. His airline-approved carrier was never photographed tucked under a seat on Air Force One. Most tellingly, he was never tossed a Macanudo cigar with which to toy. It’s clear Socks was used for the class he exuded when needed but was sent a-packing with changing fortunes.
Maybe this is Buddy’s reward for being practically the only one during Monicagate to provide the embattled chief executive with unconditional love.
But that’s how it is for those who live their lives in the fishbowl of politics. The day of reckoning comes for all–humans, and apparently, felines–when addresses and lifestyles and titles and friends change.
Socks, however, may have the last laugh yet. I have that, yes, sneaking suspicion that no matter what happens, he’ll land on his feet.
