Still at his Chicago office, Obama and Michelle were considering a new line of candidates for First Dog.
"Oh, here we go, sweetheart. Home dog next. Let's see if he can fetch the paper."
Obama hurled the morning's newspaper midlawn. The dog seemed to study the newsprint for a few seconds.
"...FIRE ALL THOSE F-ING PEOPLE, GET 'EM THE F- OUT OF HERE AND GET US SOME EDITORIAL SUPPORT," the shocked Obamas heard from the distance.
"Michelle, I already told you we don't need a paper dog. We need a bone dog. Throw him that bone there," said Obama.
Michelle threw the bone with all her might. "Come on, boy! Good boy! Get that bone!"
Now the dog was really mad.
"I WANT TO MAKE SOME MONEY. A BONE CAN BE A F-ING VALUABLE THING, YOU JUST DON'T FETCH IT FOR NOTHING...I'VE GOT THIS THING AND IT'S F-ING GOLDEN, AND, RRR, RRR, I'M JUST NOT GIVING IT UP FOR F-ING NOTHING. I'M NOT GONNA DO IT. AND, I CAN ALWAYS USE IT..." their shocked ears heard now. The president-elect turned toward his wife.
"Who trained this dog?"
"That's not the question. I mean, we just heard a dog talking," said Michelle.
"Chicago dogs talk. I always knew that. Problem is what the mutt's saying and where he's gonna say it when he gets to Washington."
"What do we do now?" Michelle asked.
"Get 'im his damned seat at the United Nations," Obama said with a sigh. "He's the only one they'll listen to, anyway."