The vice president, Washington

National Review, Jan 26, 1998

In 1998, I resolve: To spend more time with Tipper. (Especially in New Hampshire and Iowa.) To taper off the Macarena jokes. (Though they still crack me up.) To talk slower. (People have a hard time following me.) And finally, to raise $2,500,000.00 in party-building donations, and $1,500 per donor (the maximum individual contribution) for the Gore '00 Campaign. (I have to do it, Rusty. It's a rotten system, but, for now, it's the only system we've got.) Oh, also: I'm going to get a dog. Probably around Labor Day.

That last resolution, by the way, is actually Tipper's. I mean, Tipper's resolution for me, not Tipper's resolution for Tipper. She makes those, too, but I'm not allowed to see them.

She was thumbing through the Sunday paper last weekend when she announced it. "Al," she said, "it's time for a pet."

"You mean like Sid Blumenthal?" I asked.

Tipper's always thinking about politics and strategy, so she often talks in metaphor.

"No, Al," she said. "A dog. A faithful companion. An uncomplaining best friend who gives only unconditional love."

"You mean like Marty Peretz?" I asked. "Because if you do, I've got to tell you, Tipper, it sounds a lot closer to Sid."

She put down her paper. "Al," she said, "I mean an actual, literal dog. A four-legged furry creature with a big tongue and a wet nose and -- "

"You mean like Donna Sha -- "

"Al!" she shouted. "I mean a dog. Woof woof. Bow wow. Milk Bones. Alpo."

I thought for a minute. "Oh," I said. "Gotcha." She continued reading her paper. I kept on with my list of resolutions. I had just scratched out "use bald spot to engender sympathy from the press" when Tipper looked up from her paper. "Al?" she asked.

"What, Tip?"

"Don't you want to know why I think you should get a dog?"

She folded her paper in half and held it up for me to see. "This is why," she said, tapping a photograph of Bill cavorting around with his new puppy. His mouth was hanging open and his tongue was hanging out, and he looked really happy. The puppy was cute, too.

I shook my head. "Tipper," I said, "thanks for the advice, but I'm not sure I want to get a dog just because it'll make a good photo-op."

"Not a good photo-op, Al. A great photo-op."

"Okay, a great photo-op. Nevertheless, Tipper, I'm not getting a dog just for that. In the first place, I'm allergic."

"We'll put you on Hismanal."

"In the second place, they're messy. A dog would ruin this house."

"That's the Navy's problem," she said.

"And finally, I don't know how to housetrain a dog."

"Little Al will do it."

"No, Tipper," I said. I put my foot down, Rusty, and it felt great. I added a new resolution to my list: "Put foot down with Tipper more often."

"Fine. That's fine," she said, but I knew that she didn't think it was fine. She read her paper angrily, snapping the pages open and closed.

"Tipper," I said softly, "to be quite truthful, I think Bill's getting a dog is kind of crass. Everyone knows he's a cat guy. It's just another sign that he's checked out. He just wants to coast to the end of his term, looking presidential."

"Well, then," she snipped, "congratulations are in order. Because after six years in office, he finally does look presidential. It took a Labrador puppy to do it, but there you have it." She tossed the paper over to me.

"It's just beneath me, Tipper. It's shameless!" I said.

"Well, then by all means, Al, I wouldn't want you to do anything shameless, or beneath you. Why, that might upset you so much that you couldn't beg for money on the telephone or shake down Buddhist nuns."

"Low blow, Tip."

"Just look at the photo of him and that dog, Al."

I had to admit, Rusty, that he did look pretty presidential with that puppy. "Still," I told Tipper, "Bill's lost his direction, he's run out of gas. He's forgotten all about his progressive agenda."

She tapped the newspaper photograph again.

"Okay," I said, finally. "I'll get a dog." She smiled and leaned over her coffee cup and planted a big kiss on my lips. "But not anytime soon," I said. You can't just give in to everything, Rusty.

"Of course not, Al," Tipper said. "Let's wait until after Labor Day."

"Right," I said. You've got to be firm, Rusty, if you want to keep your resolutions.