I have a dog only a newspaper columnist would adopt. She’s got issues, which include a pathological hatred for postal carriers and a paranoid reaction to other dogs, especially friendly ones.

It’s always the same embarassing routine—she barks like an out-of-control nut, strains at the leash and does a twirl routine common to German Shepherds, one of many breeds of large dog which I suspect are part of her colorful ancestoral past.

But she loves children. And to my amazement, I think she’s partial to politicians.

For example, on one recent walk into Bronxville we ran into Westchester County District Attorney Janet Difiore. Amy (my dog) wagged her tail and slobbered her approval. Same with Yonkers Councilman John Murtagh.
It’s always a minor adventure with this dog.

This morning, we hit the trifecta. Just as we walked out the door in Yonkers, a mail truck pulled up in front of the house. Amy went ballistic. She doesn’t even have to see the mailman. Just the truck sets her off. Actually, she doesn’t have to see the truck either. All she needs to do is HEAR IT. Amy seems to have an uncannty ability to distinguish the sound of the truck’s motor and gears from other vehicles.

To her a mail truck is as threatening as a Panzer tank.

It’s like she’s seen the movie, “Three Days of the Condor” and believes that all letter carriers must be homicidal maniacs with automatic weapons.
With all my strength, I pulled her back into the house. After her tantrum passed, she let out this tortured groan as if to say, “Don’t you realize, stupid, this guy wants to kill us all and YOU let him get away!”

Try to explain to a dog like this that the poor mailman is only bringing the latest Sports Illustrated and the Con Eidson bill. You can’t.

To calm her down, I rubbed her ears. Then we proceeded over the parkway bridge and into Bronxville where more unknown terrors lurk.

Amy and I agreed it was a beautiful day. We were quite happy as we walked along the lush, tree-lined banks of the Bronx River. I said something funny about some ducks, and Amy grinned that kind of anthropromorphic grin nature gave dogs so that cavemen would find them charming companions and invite them in for supper.

Suddenly, a large adolescent German Shepherd (a real German Shepherd) came bounding out of the brush and made a bee-line for Amy. It was on a leash, but it either got away from its owner, or its owner simply let it loose.
As expected, Amy saw red—and I thought, oh great, a dog fight is about to happen and I’ll probably get bitten trying to break it up.

I saw his owner, a thin woman in shorts and told her she had better call off her dog or else the fur would fly. Thankfully, the pup was just playing and he ran off.

Amy and I trudged on. I contemplated my dog’s many deficiencies. “Why are you so neurotic?” I asked. “Was I ever mean to you? No! And besides, you shed too much.”

We continued up the Palmer Road business district. Just as we passed the NLawrence Hospital emergency room entrance, a man called out from across the street. He had just left the cleaners and was carrying a suit in a plastic bag.

He shouted out, “Hey, is this how you write a story?”—or words to that effect. It was John Spencer, the former mayor of Yonkers and erstwhile Republican candidate for U.S. Senate, who took it on the chin against Hillary Clinton.

I shrugged and said, “Whaddya gonna do?”

Amy smiled and almost winked. I swear I could read her mind. She seemed to say, “I like that guy. If I wasn’t a dog, I’d have voted for him.”