D.C.'s First Dog

IN THE WAKE of President-elect Obama's calls for sacrifice and personal responsibility, I'm inspired to offer myself up to public service. For that reason, I hereby declare, openly and publicly and without a moment's hesitation, that I'm willing - no, determined - to serve as White House Puppy Adviser (WHPA).

I have a lifetime of experience on this front, and in the interest of transparency, allow me to catalog it for you.

First there was Rosie the Doberman, who by all accounts was a sweet dog, but she ate my pacifier and choked to death. Yes, Malia and Sasha are years past posing a binky threat, but don't these difficult times demand a First Dog who operates with more prudence?

Then there was the spanielesque Shaggy, who lived up to the snappy, growly stereotype of an American cocker spaniel (bit the mailman), and who, in a desperate act, my mother let loose in the nearby park, telling my two sisters and me he'd gone to live "in the country."

I'm not saying a similarly overwhelmed Michelle Obama would end up taking a Shaggylike pet for a "walk on the Mall," but why even risk it?

Storm was a German shepherd. A handsome animal, less prone to the hip dysplasia that plagues his breed, and quite loving toward the immediate family, but no further than that, as my cousin Marjorie (whose tear duct he ripped when she roughhoused with one of my sisters) will attest. What if, say, at a state dinner, President Obama were to hug a foreign dignitary?

As a young adult, I bought a Chesapeake Bay retriever. These are supersmart canines, which would dovetail nicely with the new brainy first couple - but Chessies live for two things, water and retrieving. As WHPA, I foresee unfortunate moments on the East Lawn during the annual Easter egg hunt.

Before the American Kennel Club, Spaniel Lovers of America, or other special-interest groups raise a hullabaloo about my characterizations of their favored breeds or question my ability to properly train or care for animals, let me just say that my vox is populi. I may not be Joe the Plumber, but I am Lise the Zeta, a hapless dog lover who can't manage the consistency and authority that training a dog demands.

There is no alpha in the house, unless you count my current dog, a completely spoiled, separation-anxiety-ridden pound hound beagle who answers to one word and one word only: "Chicken."

The president-elect and his wife certainly have the intellectual discipline and rigor to housebreak a dog, but they're going to be a little busy. Malia and Sasha are more in sync with the average dog owner like me: We want the play time, the cuddle time - and not so much time with the clicker.

IN MY FIRST act as WHPA, I will commit to countless hours of research with Malia and Sasha: poring over breed books from the library, visiting shelters and petting the dogs there.

We may not see eye-to-eye on all policy issues, so I'm prepared to undertake preconditionless summits to convince them that any dog carried in a purse just sends the wrong message to a world that is now ready and willing to listen.

In closing, as West Wing Tailwagger Counsel, I recognize that the fur-vs.-hair debate must be considered, but at the same time I want to advance the possibility that the only way to move toward a more perfect pet-owning union is to face the issue directly.

And thus, I respectfully submit the following as my nominee for First Dog:

A Labradoodle. *

Lise Funderburg is the author of "Pig Candy: Taking My Father South, Taking My Father Home." She blogs at www.lisefunderburg.com.