Snowball is out there, somewhere. Melting.
On the darkly steamed and swirling streets of the Old Orleans, he’s out there and whining, searching for a new master and a bite to eat. It’s not easy being a dog in a wet city. At least at the Superdome, Snowball had a chance because he was able to get handouts. Out on the street, there’s not much left save the thousands of bloated, poisoned bodies floating to Lake Pontchartrain.
But wait — smart money says that Snowball doesn’t get to the Lake with paws up because Laura Bush will save him. At least it seems like this is a perfect challenge for the First Lady. With the courage and grace we’ve come to expect from LB and the 700 Club Dancers, I can see her leading the charge to find the dog and unite the family – a little boy, his dog and their dreams of a sweet Cajun life together. On the next day, the AP will run a photo with Laura, the Boy and Snowball sitting in the Rose Garden, and every major news outlet will put the story on the loop. It will run until we all walk away from our boxes with the faint notion that things ended up okay down there, just as George said it would. We will think of Laura’s carefully caring coif, the joy of the dog and the boy (though the boy is covered in bacon grease for the photo shoot, just to be sure), and we’ll be glad we live in the kind of America that cares about whether a little boy gets his dog back.
For all the disenfranchised children who watched their pets, parents and siblings die while waiting for George’s Army to show, we have but one thing to say: next time, be a little more photo opp friendly, and get yourself a dog named Curtains.