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Journalism of Courage
In the furore over Bill Clinton’s troubles apropos an alleged affair with former White House intern Monica Lewinsky, the world media have overlooked another important development. Socks, the tomcat of the Clinton household, is under fire for seducing a young pussycat and — worse — for pressuring her to lie about it under oath.
Socks is no ordinary tomcat. As the White House mascot, he was twice elected president of the American Cats’ Union. He is whispered to be a flamboyant and virile animal despite advancing years. He is known to prowl around in the Washington DC area at night, wearing dark glasses and turning up at singles bars to play the saxophone. Nobody has commented on the quality of his musicianship, but that has hardly stopped Socks from parking pretty pussycats on his arm within minutes of stepping down from the mike.
Unlike other cats, Socks can speak English — albeit with a pronounced Arkansas accent. Knowing my familiarity with American accents, the world chief of the Society forPrevention of Cruelty to Animals assigned me last week to interview the key player in the imbroglio. Agitated cats all over the world had written in, asking for an independent investigation.
Socks was sitting in his Oval Basement office at the White House wearing his old campaign badge ("Sox for Sex") and rehearsing his State-of-the-Union speech. His aides were bustling about silently, in the best feline tradition. There were no females around — except for the First Lady cat who was prompting him the entire speech. The group broke for fish-n-chips and milk, while Socks and I settled on a corner couch.
"This better be snappy," Socks said. "As you can see, I’m up to here in work,"he added, pointing to his whiskers.
"Only a few minutes of your time, Mr President," I said. "The SPCA wants to clear the doubts raging in the minds of millions of cats."
"What doubts?" he asked, visibly irritated. "I’ve gone on the record on the all-cat news channel CatScan to say there was no improper sexual relationshipwith that young thing what’s-her-name. And because the truth must prevail, I never asked her to deny it or lie in any way. But why’re you smiling, you mean little punster?"
"That’s an admirable position to take," I said with my best poker face. "But the cat sounds very confused about what actually happened."
"Her real problem is that she lives in the Watergate building basement — a jinxed address as far as the White House is concerned," Socks said. "I wonder who did the background check before letting her in here."
"So you do admit to knowing her?" I posed.
"I can’t deny that, can I?" he shrugged. "There is TV footage of me hugging her on the White House lawns, and magazines have cover pictures of the two of us. She caught my eye because she’d hang around a lot in the White House corridors, and prance about in the lawns at the first opportunity. Occasionally, I’d invite her into my office and we’d play computer games with a mouse. Modems being so commonplace, we played and purred a lot at night onthe telephone as well," he confessed.
"But the average cat-in-the-alley wants to know if your games went beyond those catcalls," I said. "And there’s also the more serious question of obstructing justice. A damning testimony from what’s-her-name, and the cat will be out of the bag, and you can then forget about pussy-footing."
"My political enemies are behind this smear campaign," fumed Socks, his tail flaring up to a menacing size. "They expect me to quit, but I’ll fight tooth-and-claw with help from my mate and friends."
"One last question., Mr President," I said. "Do you see any parallels between your situation and that of your owner?"
"None really," Socks pondered. "Except that both of us have landed into trouble over a pussy."
