All the president’s pets

Originally published at: All the president's pets | Boing Boing

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Wait, what?

I mean, I know someone who ate a raccoon once, but it was because he mistook it for a squirrel at the top of a tree and his family had a strict “you shoot it, you eat it” policy.

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To be fair, tRump had/has a few human pets, of the sycophant TGOP/Qanon type, most often photographed kissing his hiney.

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Do I really want to know how Washington’s dog acquired the name “Sweetlips”?

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Raccoons, opossums, gophers, squirrels, marmots and all other manner of small game used to be really popular in the 1800s. They also saw a resurgence as food during the great depression.

Imagine catching possums while the orchard down the street destroys the whole year’s crop of apples because they can’t sell the apples at the price they want.

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People dish on Trump because he didn’t have a pet. Not true, he had a pet weasel.

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That’s his second pet weasel. The first one, long deceased, now rests in a position of honor atop Trump’s head.

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My favorite White House pet is one of Grant’s horses, named Jeff Davis. While the story of the horse’s acquisition doesn’t say it’s named after the confederate president, in my head that is just some high-grade presidential shade.

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I imagine a conversation between Grant and a journalist going something like this.

“Mr President, is your horse named after Jefferson Davis?”

“Only the rear end, son; only the rear end.”

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Weasels, and so many birds. Jailbirds, that is.

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All pardoned, alas.

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Wow, so lifelike, with real anal pus smell and everything.

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You’ll be surprised to learn that’s supposed to be his front end.

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Possums have such short lives and seem so barely capable of surviving even in their range I’m surprised they didn’t go extinct.

I mean, my dog and I encountered one playing possum and neither of us did anything even though either of us could have picked it up and taken it home for an old timey stew.

I promise this is worth a click if your reaction to the thought of people eating raccoon on purpose, as a feast, is incredulity.

It helps that they have a couple dozen babies at a time.

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Here’s more on Rebecca the Racoon.

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The complex sociology of raccoons falling out of favor as a food source is all very interesting, but I think I can sum it up in a single word: hands.

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