A well-dressed, twenty-something-year-old met me at the door of the White House and introduced himself as Webster, the Presidential House Manager. I scraped my hoofs on the welcome mat and followed Webster into a windowless office in the West Wing, where my interpreter was already seated. Webster perched on the edge of a desk and appeared eager to begin the interview.
“Tell me about any unusual occurrences prior to the break-in,” I began before becoming acutely aware of on itch on my backside.
Webster reached for his journal, and I looked for any object that could relieve my discomfort.
"Let's see," Webster said, flipping the pages. "Last Thursday, the Presidential dog broke away from the Presidential dog walker and was gone for nearly three hours."
The desk had a good, pointed edge. I perked my ears to show I was listening and moved to the corner opposite Webster.
He continued, “On Saturday, ten pounds of crab purchased for a luncheon the First Lady was hosting disappeared from the pantry.” As casually as I could, I edged my rear toward the desk.
Webster followed my movements with a bemused expression. “And the President came down with a head cold and had to miss Monday’s debate,” he concluded.
Slowly, I rubbed my backside against the pointy edge, “Ah, that’s what I needed,” I smiled at an astonished-looking Webster. “You’ve been most helpful to the case.”
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