In a much anticipated interview, The Gabbler sits down to speak with Maximillian Romney, granddog of famed Romney family dog, Seamus.
Q: Thanks so much for agreeing to meet with us, Mr. Romney. I know that you’ve avoided all interviews up until this point. I suppose my first question is: what made you come forward?
A: You know, I’m really excited to be here – and please, call me Max, I really don’t identify myself with the Romney name. Do you by chance have a cat? I’m trying really hard to focus, but I just smell something very interesting – oh, over there, that’s it. That’s where it’s coming from. Hmm. Did you cook chicken for dinner last night?
Q: A few nights ago, yes. Why don’t you come back over to the chair—
A: With gravy? (Inhales deeply, then begins to lick the floor.) I love gravy. Did you use bacon? Say what you will about humans, but any species that invents bacon can’t be all bad. And some butter? Next time, thicken the gravy up with a little flour. This tastes a bit thin.
Q: I don’t understand – I mean, I just mopped the floors.
A: Oh, you’d be surprised by what you Two Legs miss.
Q: Two Legs?
A: You’ve only got two of ‘em. I should think it’s pretty self-explanatory.
Q: Right. Well. Let’s try to bring things back here a bit. What made you come forward, Max?
A: To put it simply, you’re the first person to invite me. It’s painfully ironic, really. The story is everywhere. Ms. Collins of The New York Times has referred to my grandfather close to 40 times by now. Maybe more—I haven’t gotten a chance to read Saturday’s column. A Google search of “Seamus Romney” generates millions of hits alone. Dozens of pro-Seamus websites –DogsAgainstRomney.com, Seamus2012.com—are popping up faster than I can swallow a Milk Bone, but they all share one thing in common: no one bothers to get to the source. I mean, I know that journalism is going down the tubes these days, but how could no one ask even one dog? I’ll tell you why: because the dog is just a pawn in your latest Two Legged Game of Thrones – which, by the way, is a great show. When does the new season start again? Are you sure you don’t have a cat?
Q: You really are high-energy, Max.
A: Well, if you ask me—and I know you didn’t, but I’m going to say it anyway, this obesity crisis that has Mrs. Obama up in arms—who really shouldn’t worry, because she already has great arms—but this weight problem that you Two Leggys have really comes down to your relationship with your bodies. Dogs, as you know, love exercise. There is nothing quite like the wind howling in your ears, letting your tongue hang slack, and feeling the power of your muscles propel you forward. At that moment, at least, you are in full control of your mind and body. You are your own destiny. And frankly, I think many humans have lost that kinesthetic mind-body connection. Could you do me a favor? Could you just help me with a little scratch on my lower belly, there?
Q: Absolutely.
A: Left, down about an inch … Ahh. Good stuff.
Q: Max, I’m going to get right to the point here. Do you know what happened that fateful day in 1983?
A: Of course not. I was nothing but an unfertilized egg in my then-two-year-old mother’s uterus. I’ve heard stories, nothing more.
Q: What have you heard?
A: That Grandpa was a good dog. A happy dog. Very lively and sociable. But underneath an extrovert, however, almost always lies a deeply unfulfilled individual.
Q: Are you saying Seamus was unhappy? Could that be attributed to his home life with the Romneys?
A: Grandpa wouldn’t speak about it. Never directly. Back then, things were different for us dogs. If you were mishandled, you didn’t know it, because not only was it the norm, but you didn’t air your owners’ dirty laundry. You didn’t shit in the street. You know what I’m sayin’?
Q: I do.
A: Anyway, yes. The incident on the car was traumatic. And embarrassing. Gramps was a typical Irish Set: quick with a joke, good with the bitches, loved to drink a little too much. So of a course losing control of his bowels isn’t something he’s going to want to talk about.
Q: Wait. Are you saying that Seamus was an alcoholic?
A: Now you’re just stereotyping. I meant water. It’s important to stay hydrated, but my grandfather, he went through over a gallon of water a day. Pissed like a racehorse.
Q: Are you an Irish Setter as well, Max?
A: I’m half. My mother was German. Shepard family. That’s what I’m named for: The king of the Germans.
Q: Did your owners name you that?
A: (Laughs.) None of us actually use the names you people give us. Sure, we’ll come to it, because it usually correlates directly with food and going outside, but our mothers name us, just as yours do. The day we are born. And that is our name. Our real name. That is what we hold onto when we are pulled from our families in the night and thrust towards strange Two Legs whose outstretched fingers wiggle like worms in perverted excitement.
Q: (Pauses for a moment.) Would you mind if I asked what your real — I mean, “owner-given” name is?
A: I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you. It’s worse than that poor child of the blonde actress there. All legs and no tits. What was it again, “Orange?”
Q: “Apple.” Wait, what about Seamus? Seamus is not his real name, then?
A: Of course not. But his real name was lost with his death. My grandmother didn’t even know it. Although, they did only meet once, after all.
Q: Love at first sight?
A: More like lust, I’d imagine. You can romanticize it all you want, but us dogs are pretty starved sexually. When we see an opportunity, we go for it. Chivalry is a bit beside the point, and to be frank — just prolongs the actual fucking. Dogs don’t get laid very often, you know. That’s why you see ‘em humping table legs and stuff. I mean, that is obviously not normal behavior. If you started randomly humping your chair during this interview, for instance, that’s cause for a little concern on my part. Right?
Q: Have you ever been in love, Max?
A: “Love is a luxury, she said.” You Two Legs. You chop off our balls and ask us about our love lives. Sadistic freaks. And I thought Fifty Shades of Gray was fucked up.
Q: I—I apologize. That wasn’t very tactful. I didn’t realize you were a fan of The Maine, either.
A: Hipsters may have an affinity for tight pants that I’ll never understand, but even I’ll admit they have decent taste in music. And it’s okay. I know you didn’t snip ‘em yourself or anything. I just have a lot of pent up aggression when it comes to genital mutilation. Unsurprisingly, I’d think. I tell you what? If you give me a good ten minute scratch under my neck here, I’ll let you ask me a few more questions. Fair?
Q: Fair. Okay, here goes: So, many journalists – Neil Swidey, Bill Wasik, etc. – have used the story of your grandfather as an example of what many are now referring to as Mitt Romney’s “emotion-free crisis management.” Would you agree with this sentiment? And do you think that possessing this trait makes someone a good leader?
A: May I speak candidly?
Q: Of course. Please do.
A: I think that using the term “emotion-free crisis management” is the euphemistic equivalent of spraying rose water onto the pile of shit I just left on your carpet.
Q: You just shat on my carpet?
A: I did, yes.
Q: But—why?
A: Because you humans don’t give a shit about anyone but yourselves. Any power-hungry bastard could make the same argument about wars, bombings, the destruction of our planet through selfish consumption, slavery, etc., etc. I get it: You’re in control, and you can implore your Machiavellian, your Darwinism, your Selfish Gene bullshit all you want. Whatever makes you sleep at night, right? Just do the rest of us a favor, okay? Call a spade a spade. A pile of shit is not “a coffee-colored mound that smells faintly of roses.” It’s a pile of shit. And strapping your dog to the roof of your car and only stopping to hose off his fear-induced bout of diaherra is definitely not “emotion-free crisis management.” It’s just fucking selfish and cruel. But you know what’s also selfish and cruel? Pretending that you actually care about an issue when all of your actions demonstrate otherwise. People will vote for Romney if they believe that his actions will benefit them. End of story. No one cares about dogs. If any of you actually did, you wouldn’t be separating us from our parents, holding us hostage in your homes, denying us our sexuality, feeding us the same tasteless crap day after day, and leaving us so lonely and starved for affection that we have no choice but to crawl into the laps of our own captors, Stockholm Syndrome style. Do you have any idea how degrading that is? No, you don’t. And you don’t care, either. Because we’re cute, and furry, and most of all, we can’t tell you what’s really on our minds.
Q: I still can’t believe you shat on my carpet.
A: I was illustrating my point.
Q: It was a very … vivid illustration.
A: What can I say? I couldn’t help myself. After all, I’m just a dog, right?
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