In the course of the past week, a lot of bandwidth has been expended over President Obama’s admission that, as a boy living in Indonesia, he ate dog meat. From what I’ve read, the reaction is not so much one of shock as it is derision – particularly since it was the White House (read: David Axelrod) that ridiculed Mitt Romney for once transporting the family dog – an Irish Setter named Seamus – in a crate strapped to the top of the station wagon during a long vacation trip.
Seriously. You can’t make this stuff up.
This needn’t be a bone of contention and those who make too much of either story are simply barking up the wrong tree, so to speak. Yes, it is true that Der Mittmeister confined Seamus to a crate strapped on top of the family car. However, it was a crate designed for just this purpose. It’s also true that the pooch pooped in his crate during the journey, necessitating a pit stop to hose off the vehicle. But dogs poop in their cages all the time – and for all we know, one of the kids might have sneaked the critter something he wasn’t supposed to have eaten that ultimately disagreed with his digestive system and gave him the trots. Trust me…if YOU ate one two many supersized burritos and then found yourself stuck overnight in an elevator, I can assure you that building maintenance would be hosing it out the following morning.
It is also true that The Bamster chowed down on Rover when he was a kid. But then, so did (and do) a lot of folks in that part of the world – particularly Korea, where dog is considered a delicacy. He claims that the meat is “tough,” but I suspect it just wasn’t cooked properly. Perhaps a low-heat, slow roast technique might do the trick. In the meantime, the White House staff might want to keep a sharp eye on Bo, the presidential pooch:
Ever notice that any kind of food or dish that, by our standards, comes from a questionable animal or a questionable part of an animal, is called a “delicacy?”
“Honey, I’m home! What’s for supper?”
“Sauteed colon of wildebeest stuffed with goat brains…it’s a delicacy in East Buttmunch.”
“Uh, yeah…but we don’t live in East Buttmunch. What do you say we just order a pizza?”
Thing is, pizza would probably become a delicacy if it were ever introduced in East Buttmunch, most likely because the East Buttmunchians are undoubtedly sick to death of eating sauteed wildebeest colons stuffed with goat brains, much as no self-respecting Norwegian can stand lutefisk – in spite of the fact that it’s supposed to be the national dish of Norway and, of course (say it together, people) a delicacy.
I can imagine the children sulking at the supper table as they stare at their plates, dreaming of pizza, while mother drones on and on, “You know, there are starving children in West Buttmunch who would be thankful for that plate of brain-stuffed wildebeest colon.”
At which point, after the wise-ass of the litter responds, “Then wrap it up and send it to the kids in West Buttmunch…we want pizza,” the beating promptly commences.
On the other hand, the fact that the president ate dog meat as a child does sort of preclude him from occupying the top of the moral high ground fire hydrant in this little tiff and I wouldn’t be surprised if the Romney people aren’t already gathering all manner of quips. I can think of one right off the top of my head:
Where do you keep your dog: in a crate or on the plate?
I yield the rest of my time to Benjamin Martin, the patriot gentleman from South Carolina who offers an American colonial perspective on the subject: