Rufus '08

Last week I wrote about how Rufus, the Jowers basset hound, made friends and influenced people at the beach where our family vacationed, at the ice cream store where the family van broke down and at the tire-and-battery store where we Jowers humans and Rufus had to camp out until church let out in South Carolina. That’s because the law in South Carolina says people aren’t allowed to install any alternators or batteries until the dang preachers stop talking.

Maybe it’s just me, but I think it would be better to have a law that said preachers have to be still and hush up until people get their work done and their vehicles fixed.

But I digress....The good news is, the whole mess gave me an epiphany. While I was trapped in the Tires Plus store, I had nothing to do except watch the waiting-room TV, which was locked in on election coverage, Clinton vs. Obama vs. McCain. I sat there mesmerized as Hillary Clinton, a multimillionaire senator who came as close to winning the presidency as the Titans came to winning a Super Bowl, went on about how women just can’t get a break in this country. I watched Barack Obama promise to get busy on “healing this planet,” and I wondered, “Which switch do you throw to do that?” When the cameras turned to John McCain, I’m ashamed to say that I dozed off.

No offense to McCain and McCain supporters, but watching McCain give a speech is a lot like watching Mr. Rogers on Quaaludes. And by that I mean Mr. Rogers would be on Quaaludes, not me.

Now, back to my epiphany. My fellow Americans, I’m here to tell you that Rufus Jowers is our best choice for president. Rufus could—and would—bring us together. I know, I know: Richard Nixon said he’d bring us together, but instead he got his sorry ass kicked out of the White House. Rufus would be an enormous improvement over Nixon, and all the presidents since Nixon. Well, with the possible exception of Reagan, who called the air traffic controllers’ bluff, got the Berlin Wall smashed and bankrupted the old Soviet Union.

Everybody loves Rufus—every skittish little kid and curmudgeonly senior citizen who meets him on the sidewalk, every unattended freshly whipped child wandering through a Wal-Mart parking lot, and even smug Greenies, who know at a glance that Rufus is much more valuable to the planet than any man-eating polar bear. Gun-toting survivalist types love Rufus too, because they know that he could get lucky and catch a rabbit for dinner.

Best of all, unlike the unfortunate situation with the Kennedys, nobody would want to hurt Rufus.My own unscientific polling shows that Rufus has very few negatives. As with McCain, though, there is an age issue. If we figure Rufus’ age in human years, he’s about the same age as McCain.

But Rufus is better-looking. That means he could win the presidency the same way Kennedy beat Nixon—just look better than the other guy.There are two unseemly things about Rufus: He drools buckets, and he’ll eat a cat turd if he gets hold of one. But for all we know, Obama and McCain do the same thing.

Oh, and there’s this: Rufus’ full name is Ruthless Rufus. Surely, that will bother some people, especially the hard-core peaceniks. But to be fair, if Obama can have the middle name Hussein and McCain can have Sidney, you have to cut Rufus some slack. The dog didn’t name himself.I know most of you have already made up your minds about who you’ll vote for in November.

But you owe it to yourselves to learn more about Rufus before you go to the voting booth. For instance, on Fridays, wife Brenda brings home a load of Chinese food and a handful of fortune cookies for Rufus. Rufus eats the fortune cookies, and pushes the fortunes along the floor to Brenda. Brenda reads the fortunes, and Rufus nods his head when he hears something that he wants voters to know about him.

Here’s a sampling:You have a natural grace and great consideration for others.Good things are being said about you. You have a friendly heart and are well admired. It is not in your character to give up. You love peace.

What more could you ask of the next president? Rufus has no skeletons in his closet, because he ate those bones a long time ago. He’s neutered, so we don’t have to worry about him calling a news conference and saying that he “never had sex with that bitch Daisy.”I want to encourage you faithful readers to write in “Ruthless Rufus Jowers” when you go to the polls in November.

Take my word for it: He’s the best dog for the job.One last thing: I’ll try to talk Rufus out of selecting me as his vice president. But given his high intelligence and stubborn nature, he might just insist on me taking the job. If I must, I guess I’ll move myself and the Jowers women into the Naval Observatory, where I’ll have my very own giant telescope, just like I always wanted.