Let Me Tell You about Jasper . . . Read online

  And to think I almost didn’t even know how to share him with anyone.

  Dog Owners “Get” Each Other

  DOG OWNERS HAVE A LOT IN COMMON. They’re silly about their dogs—and their dogs let them be silly, which is part of the joy.

  Peter and I are our goofiest when we’re with or talking about Jasper. We make silly voices and we sing to him all the time.

  A staple song is one we brought from England and used to sing to Henry. It’s the signal that we’re about to head out for a walk:

  Do you want to go to the park? Woof woof.

  Do you want to run, jump, and bark? Woof woof.

  Do you want to go; do you want to go… (pause for effect)

  Do you want to go to the park? Woof woof!

  As a puppy, Jasper loved to be carried and he would rest his head on Peter’s shoulder. I wish I could still carry him like this today!

  Henry would bark once for please if we sang that. Jasper just goes to the door and waits to get his “necklace” on (also known as a collar).

  We’ve even made up lyrics to some of the classics—such as “Take it Easy” by The Eagles… with a twist:

  Well, you’ve been… running ’round the park

  Tryin’ to loosen your bark

  You’ve got squirrels and pigeons on your mind…

  ***

  Some you want to race and

  Some you want to chase,

  But they all get up a tree in time.

  ***

  Jasper Baby… Jasper Baby…

  Don’t let the sound of your own bark make you crazy…

  ***

  You can run and you can play

  You can sit, lie down, and stay,

  Or just sleep on the couch all day

  Jasper Baby

  ***

  You love to take a nap

  With your head on someone’s lap

  It’s the place you love to be

  ***

  Squeezin’ up so close

  With your cold, wet nose

  I love to have you cuddle me…

  Jasper Baby… Jasper Baby…

  I gotta know that your sweet love is gonna save me.

  It goes on and on… and once you sing that song, it could be in your head forever. Consider that fair warning. I tried to sing it on The Five for my “One More Thing” but I choked and collapsed in laughter. Only Jasper thinks I have a good voice.

  Jasper in Central Park looking for fish.

  Who Needs Twitter? I Did, Apparently.

  When I first left the White House in 2009, I didn’t have a Twitter account. I didn’t even want one. I couldn’t imagine that it was something that would help me in my work.

  But a young staff member of mine convinced me it would be good for business. I said okay, you can set it up, but don’t expect me to tweet nonsense.

  “How about I teach you how to post pictures of your dog?” she asked.

  That got my attention. (This girl will go far.)

  “Show me,” I said.

  After that, I was hooked. I had a lot of fun taking pictures and coming up with clever captions. I started getting more followers and friends and making connections with people who might have been on the other side of the political spectrum from me—but who cared? We loved our dogs. We bonded over them.

  Jasper was a somewhat famous puppy before he even came to live with us. I built up the anticipation with tweets about his progress and how Peter and I were buying all the gear you need to help a puppy grow into an adult dog.

  Jasper made his debut on The Five as a sleepy puppy at just two months old, and a star was born. I brought him on set and when we were back from commercial break, I showed him off for the camera. He looked right into the lens with his deep blue eyes (a Vizsla is born with blue eyes that eventually turn amber). He snuggled into me. Hearts melted.

  Jasper has tons of personality and is as photogenic as any dog I’ve known. On Jasper’s birthdays, my producer lets him come on the show and he sits on a chair, for the most part, wearing a bow tie collar, and you would think he knows exactly what he’s doing when he looks into the teleprompter. He’s certainly better behaved than Gutfeld.

  Baby Jasper with his baby blue eyes. And his elephant. I always wonder what dogs are thinking…

  During the first year of Jasper’s life, I started noticing a change in my interaction with people. I’d come to Fox News after serving in the White House for President George W. Bush, and many people knew me as the first Republican woman to serve as the White House press secretary. If I was recognized, folks would ask me to give my regards to President and Mrs. Bush (and those few that wanted me to send a different message got “the look”).

  Then in 2012, it changed to questions like “How’s Jasper?” on the street or “Did you bring Jasper?” from TSA agents. Even in New York City, it went from “Hey, lady, get out of the way!” to “Hey, lady, nice dog. Now get out of the way!”

  My most prized possession: President Bush’s portrait of Jasper as a puppy. It’s the one item that is to be saved in case of an emergency.

  CREDIT: BARRY MORGENSTEIN

  At speeches, the first question I got was usually about Jasper, and I started to realize that it was my pet that was helping me connect with people in ways that weren’t partisan or political.

  And I really liked it; a welcome change from talking about politics all the time. Jasper was a professional icebreaker. And he has saved me from hours of small talk about the weather… or politics!

  On social media, I’d get messages encouraging me to keep posting pictures of Jasper, even though sometimes my colleagues teased me about my obsession. (You should hear about their obsessions. For instance… er, never mind.)

  After he was nicknamed America’s Dog on Red Eye, some fans would thank me for being willing to share him with them, especially if they couldn’t have a dog of their own. They’d tell me they looked forward to Jasper’s morning posts and shared the experience with their kids or grandchildren.

  When on a whim I made a calendar of Jasper pictures and printed copies for my co-hosts for Christmas presents, I was surprised how many people sent messages asking for one. I’d just done it on a bit of a lark—but the love for Jasper had really turned into something.

  Jasper and I posed for the cover of Life and Dog magazine in 2014. I love this photo because it looks like I think that he and I are married!

  What Kind of Dog Is Jasper? A Hungarian Vizsla

  UP UNTIL THE LAST SEVERAL YEARS, VIZSLAS WERE NOT WELL KNOWN IN THE UNITED STATES. I used to be asked, “What kind of dog is that?” but now, with more awareness of the breed, I’m often asked, “Is that a Vizsla?” It is!

  Vizslas are sporting dogs. They are sleek, muscular, and have only one coat of fur, which is silky to the touch. Their eyes are blue as puppies but blend in with their coat as they reach adulthood, and they have a liver-colored nose.

  Vizslas are very loyal and were bred to stay close to their owners. They do not like to be left by themselves or to sleep alone. “If you own a Vizsla, it lives on top of your head,” they say in Hungary. Don’t we know it. Jasper rarely lets us out of his sight (so there’s very little privacy in our house, if you know what I mean), and whenever I sit, he’s there in an instant, right next to or on top of me.

  The Vizsla is a Hungarian dog with a long history, going all the way back to the Magyar tribes that came across Asia in the tenth century. It’s reported that the breed dwindled in size during wars in the region. At one point in the late nineteenth century, only about a dozen Vizslas were alive in Hungary. Thankfully, enough dogs were saved and the Vizsla was rehabilitated by some determined breeders.

  Over the years, local nobility controlled the breed and rarely let a Vizsla leave Hungary, even though other Europeans very much wanted to import the dogs. In fact, it wasn’t until the Russian invasion of Hungary that the Hungarians started to send Vizslas to other countries, with the hope of preserving the breed. Since th
e dogs were tied to the aristocracy, they worried about their survival.

  Soon after World War II, Vizslas started coming to the United States. Interest in the breed grew, and just seventy years later, one special Vizsla was nicknamed America’s Dog!

  A fan of The Five told me her grandchildren call Vizslas “Jasper dogs,” and Jasper and Henry even get mentions on the Wikipedia page about the breed. I love all dogs, but I’m glad I’ve had the chance to get to know the Vizsla.

  It’s too bad: they always seem to get robbed of first prize at the dog shows. But no matter—they’re number one in my book.

  Are You Jasper’s Mom?

  I knew that Jasper had really become more popular than me when in the fall of 2015, a jogger in Central Park stopped us and said, “That’s a beautiful dog,” and we thanked him. Recognizing my voice, he said, “Wait—is that the Jasper?”

  I said yes, and he asked if he could get a picture. Peter took the man’s phone and I moved to get in the picture when I realized that he didn’t want me in it. He just wanted a photo with Jasper. (I wasn’t offended! Although I hope that photo isn’t up on some strange website hosted overseas.)

  Yet it was at a holiday party thrown by Megyn Kelly for her show’s staff and contributors that I fully realized that I was no longer recognized as a presidential press secretary; I was now known first and foremost as Jasper’s mom.

  Megyn had created a trivia game and she divided the room in two. She read aloud questions about her production team and her regular guests. The prize? Cash! And bragging rights.

  I had fun listening from the back, shouting a few answers. And then I was really touched by this one:

  “Before there was Jasper, there was…”

  My throat caught. I thought that no one would know the answer.

  But Vincenza Carovillano, a makeup artist and a friend for years, did.

  “HENRY!” she yelled.

  She was right.

  Before there was Jasper, there was Henry.

  Henry Vizsla

  I met my husband on an airplane in August 1997. We were assigned seats next to each other and were the last two to board a flight I almost missed and that he nearly didn’t take.

  Peter was forty-three, a successful British businessman, twice divorced, and the father of two grown children. I was twenty-five—just getting my career underway as a press secretary on Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C.—and going through what I call a quarter-life crisis, a period of anxiety and confusion that most young women have after college (ladies—the crisis ends, believe me).

  While I was open to meeting someone, I was fairly career focused, and Peter thought he would never marry again. Besides, we lived on different continents. Neither of us planned on falling in love on that flight from Denver to Chicago, but that’s what happened. I call it “love at first flight.”

  Our romance was quick and intense. We were lovesick. For ten days after we met, I couldn’t eat or sleep or concentrate at work. I couldn’t even read the novels I checked out from the Library of Congress.

  Peter had fallen hard for yours truly, and was waiting for me to respond to an e-mail he’d sent, but his office’s new server had kicked it back without him knowing. Over a week later, he was on vacation when he found out about the server. Worried, he drove out of his way and miles longer than he intended that day just to resend the e-mail to me. He had a feeling I was going to get over him before he even had a chance to woo me.

  Peter was right. Back in D.C., I was worried that my love connection on that plane was just a fantasy. After not hearing from him for nearly two weeks, I decided that I had to push him completely out of my mind. It was a hot August day and I went down to the courtyard in the Rayburn House Office Building and sat outside and read The Agony and the Ecstasy by Irving Stone (the title was appropriate for my mood).

  At 1 p.m., I closed the book and went upstairs, feeling free and refocused on my job. I booted up my computer and, you guessed it, there was Peter’s e-mail. It hadn’t been too late.

  The rest was quick history. From October to May, we wrote romantic letters—yes, real handwritten letters with stamps and everything. They go through this service called “the mail” and it’s the most amazing thing! And we spoke every day, too (the phone bills were high but Peter never complained or commented on the cost).

  Peter came to the United States nine times, and I went over to visit him twice, the second time to pick out a flat where we’d live (yes, I was already calling it a flat). I came back and got up the courage to resign from my Capitol Hill job and tell my parents I was moving to the UK. To my pleasant surprise, everyone was supportive (once they revived my father). I was energized and relaxed, confident and contented. This was love. This was being a grown-up.

  While he worked during the day, I read books and surfed the Internet. (I didn’t realize that at that time in England you paid by the minute for dial-up service. Peter gently asked me to be more conservative with my browsing.)

  I took to cooking vegetarian meals out of the Moosewood cookbook (because meat was expensive and I really didn’t know how to cook it), and I still have the chart Peter made for me for easy reference between Celsius and Fahrenheit when I needed to use the oven.

  I learned how to make Greek pilaf, polenta pizza pie, and black bean soup. To this day if you ask Peter what his favorite meal is that I make, he says quesadillas. Imagine! He’d never had one, so he thought I was the Julia Child of Mexican cheese sandwiches.

  On weekends, he took me to all the places I’d read about—Windermere in the Lake District, Durham Cathedral, Tintagel Castle where King Arthur is said to have met with the Knights of the Round Table, and the Roman city of Chester with its beautiful Tudor buildings. (I think he figured it was cheaper to take me with him than to leave me home with the expensive Internet service.) On occasion, I traveled with him to visit clients all over Europe, and it was on one of those trips that we found our next mutual love: the Vizsla.

  Both of us had been wanting a dog but were trying to keep an open mind on the breed. Peter was partial to a black lab and I was into Weimaraners (I love William Wegman’s photographs).

  On a visit to Switzerland, Peter had a meeting with a client named Heiner (German for Henry). He invited us to his chalet and said I could play with the dogs while they met. (I felt a little indignant—I mean, I used to advise members of Congress and now I was reduced to babysitting the dogs! However, the dogs were better listeners.)

  We pulled up and there were two russet hounds that had the shape of a pointer, like a red Weimaraner. One of Heiner’s dogs was seven years old, the other just a three-month-old pup.

  “What kind of dogs are these?” was our first question.

  “These are Hungarian Vizslas. To me, they are the best dogs in the world,” he said.

  I don’t remember much of the business meeting. I spent time playing with that puppy and kissing its head. Heiner told us all about the breed. We asked if he knew any breeders. He did; in fact, one of the breeders lived in Scotland and had a new litter (that is, the breeder’s dog had a new litter).

  We hadn’t even left Heiner’s driveway when Peter phoned the Scottish breeder, Helen MacCauley. She had one male pup left.

  “We’ll take him,” he said, cutting her off when she tried to explain the attributes of the puppies and how they’d make for excellent show dogs. The sire had won Best in Breed at Crufts the year before, and she thought we might want to show our dog.

  “We just plan to love him,” Peter said, giving me a thumbs-up and one of his biggest smiles. We were getting a puppy.

  Bringing Henry Home

  On a rainy Friday in July, Peter and I drove to Scotland on our way to pick up our new family member.

  We stayed overnight in a small village at a country bed-and-breakfast. It was about fifty degrees outside and felt colder in the house. The constant drizzle had drilled holes into my bones.

  The owner showed us around and noted the gas heater in the fire
place.

  “But you won’t be needing that!” she said. Utility bills in the United Kingdom are really high, so “put another sweater on” is the best way to stay warm and save some pennies.

  As soon as she left, I told Peter to crank it up. The Scots have no idea how acclimated they are to cold weather.

  The next morning, we headed to the Vizsla breeder’s home. I had butterflies.

  We’d already picked out a name—Henry—in memory of one of my favorite novels, The Autobiography of King Henry VIII by Margaret George, and the man that first introduced us to the Vizsla. It felt properly British and perfect.

  All the dogs were pledged to new owners, but we were the first to arrive, so we had our choice of four males. The MacCauleys led us to the kitchen and placed those four in a pen and we got in it. Two of them we eliminated right away—I don’t remember why, because they were all gorgeous. I was looking for a calm, sweet puppy. One was adorable and jumping up and down around Peter; the other sat by my feet and looked up with blue eyes. I had a gut instinct to choose the calm one, but we couldn’t decide.

  “Let’s have lunch and you can try again after that,” Helen said.

  We ate sandwiches and soup, my favorite English meal (seriously—I love it). When we went back into the kitchen, she presented the final two pups and we stood there—the same thing happened. The calm one came to me, sat at my feet, and looked up, never breaking eye contact. The rambunctious one went to Peter and tried to scramble up his leg.