"I am not fit for this office and never should have been here.” Warren G. Harding
October 1, 2014
By: Linda Case Gibbons
In an uncertain world, didn’t you always believe that if there was one thing you could count on, it was the Secret Service?
Those craggy-faced veterans -- men like Clint Eastwood -- running at a half jog protectively beside the presidential limousine, scoping the faces in the crowd.
Like Clint Eastwood. Ready to take a bullet.
But now…
When security was breached by an intruder at the White House, we weren’t told the truth. We weren’t told anything about the intruder scaling-the-fence-and-into-the-East-Room part of it until much later. It was a cover-up. Again.
When the smoke cleared, the director of the Secret Service did resign and the true details did come out, but it was way after it happened, after deliberately wrong information had been issued.
Wrong information. Again. Shades of Benghazi. Shades of Susan Rice.
So why were we kept in the dark?
It’s the same ol’, same ‘ol. The same inefficient, inexcusable behavior we’ve come to know so well these past six years, bad behavior made worse by A cover up.
But this time the cover up involved that citadel of citadels, the Secret Service.
So I thought, "This won’t do at all. Isn’t there someone who could clear up this confusion? I wonder…
"Would it be…No, it wouldn’t be the folks at the Secret Service…Well, then…No, it wouldn’t be anyone connected to the White House.”
But then it struck me! "Aha!” I said. "How about someone who was there, someone ‘ruff’ and tough? Someone with paws on the ground?
There was one guy whom we could count on to tell us the truth, the Secret Service’s Agent Guard Dog! The one they wouldn’t let off leash, the doggie who wasn’t allowed to have a chance to chase the bad guy, to take a bite out of crime!
So I tracked him down. Actually his sniffer found me before I found him. That is part of his job, after all. Even though I couldn’t convince him to disclose his name, he did concede to remove his Secret-Service-issued sunglasses.
It was pretty early when we met up, so he was still eating his breakfast. I joined him with my coffee and an egg sandwich. With cheese. And bacon.
"Dog Whistle Politics,” he woofed, around a mouthful. "That’s what it is. Say one thing, mean another. It means you’re basically lying, you know. I don’t like the ‘Dog’ part.
"And as a dog who is proud of my country, I don’t like wagging tails out of school, you know, but I was personally insulted.” He swallowed. "Put me in a real bad light.”
How’s that, I asked.
"We’re soldiers,” he said and lapped up some water to wash down his kibble. "Malinois Belgian Shepherds. That’s us.
"With the work we do, do you honestly think I’d bite one of the good guys? But that’s what they said. It wasn’t true, of course.” He swallowed hard. "And it was disrespectful.”
I don’t know for sure, but I think I saw tears in his eyes.
"We’re trained to serve and protect. It’s in our genes, you know.”
I did know. I’d read up on the breed. They were great service dogs, narcotics, search and rescue, police work, the whole magillah, but on a personal note, I thought this Malinois really said "you know” too much.
"The story they put out there…Said they didn’t let me off leash, you know, because they couldn’t trust what I’d do,” he said, disgust clear in his voice.
"Look at me. I'm 28 inches long, They don't take you if you're bigger. It's not allowed. I don’t weigh more than 66 pounds. It's not allowed! It’s in the rule book,” he said, and flexed a well-toned leg. "Any handler could pick me up if he wanted to.” He shook his head.
"I’m trained! Protect. Attack when necessary. But bite just for the heck of it?”
I knew he was trained. I’d done the research: twenty weeks before he started his job and eight hours a week of retraining for the rest of his professional life.
"It wasn’t me that let this guy scale the fence, run past a guard house, across the lawn and through the front door, past a Secret Service agent!
"Not that I’m trying to throw anybody under the bus. Shift blame. Anyone who’d do that, well, that’s not nice, you know.
"But even I knew there was big trouble. And then they say I couldn’t be trusted to do my job! It hurts,” he thumped his chest, "right here. It hurts.”
He got that thousand mile stare, then said, "I guess it’s the new rules, you know, the ones the president made for soldiers, you know, Rules of Engagement.
"But those rules just make soldiers hesitate. People get hurt that way. Don’t shoot, don’t hurt anyone, make sure the enemy is armed before you make a move.
"Tough rules. I guess that’s what they did with me. Held back. But I don’t understand,” he shook his big German Shepherd-like head. "That’s no way to fight.
Those are rules for the playground, not combat.”
He had finished his breakfast and was eyeing mine, so I broke off a part of my sandwich. He took it.
"Did you hear they turned off the alarm? And that the front door was unlocked? I say the best rule is to lock the door. Just like the borders. Lock ‘em down. Then you got no problems!
"Yup. Should have locked that door.”
"And gender. They put that in the report, that the intruder got past the female agent! Said she was female, as if that meant something! And from this White House! Come on.”
I looked surprised at his depth of knowledge.
"I read my briefings every day,” he nodded. "Have to.”
He rolled over onto his side and continued, the sun glinting off his glossy caramel and black coat.
"So back to the female thing. I like movies, you know. My handler and I watch ‘em together. All us Secret Service dogs live with our handlers, which makes whatever they said about me doubly stupid. We’re family. We don’t disappoint each other. It’s called loyalty.”
The movie, I prompted.
"Yeah, so, like I was saying, I like ‘In the Line of Fire.’ Saw it five times. Remember Rene Russo in that? Secret Service agent. Never have to apologize for her. She was no chopped liver, you know.”
He stared at me hard, so I handed over the rest of my sandwich. He took it.
"Yeah,” he said, smacking his lips, "I like chopped liver.” He chewed. "And chicken. I like chicken.
"Anyhow, all’s I’m saying is we Secret Service dogs aren’t chopped liver either. Remember Osama bin Laden? Pal of mine with the U.S. Navy SEALs named Cairo was in that operation.”
He chewed. "And I like TV, too. Ever watch ‘Person of Interest’? My buddy Bear is in that. A Malinois. Protects his person. Good show. And a lot of our breed are used by Israel Defense Forces.”
He licked his paws, grooming himself very nicely, I thought. He looked like he was getting ready for a well-deserved nap, so I stood and shook his paw. It had been a great interview.
"The way I look at it,” he said, "if you’re in the habit of leaving the barn door open, waiting to do something until it’s too late, then try to catch up, you’re going to continue to have problems like these, always mopping up. You know?”
I did know. I’d seen it for six years.
Hold the line, America.