On October 15, 1984 at 6:44 a.m. a pure blood Golden Retriever made his way onto the 3,000-square foot front lawn of the White House. He'd wandered away from nearby Pershing Park where he was playing fetch with his owner. White House Secret service agents and security officials on the compound chased the dog all over the lawn for a good twenty minutes. The dog playfully dodged and weaved its way through the black suits and utility belts, tongue flopping all over the place, tail wagging.
TV crews started rolling as people gathered to watch these highly trained and athletic men try to catch the dog. He continued to dodge through the suits, setting off alarms all over the front property. After many furious failed attempts to capture him, one distraught agent pulled out his issue weapon and put a bullet into the brain of the dog.
Bam!
Through some odd chance of luck or fate, or coincidence, the owner's name was Jonathan. The dog's name was Fitzy (short for Fitzgerald). The agent's name was Kennedy.
I was born that day - of all days. I discovered the newspaper clipping in the Vancouver public library archive one day trying to find my birth announcement in a paper, procrastinating as usual. The story hit me like a brick in the face. The funny thing is I've never told anyone about the strangely curious happenings of October 15th, 1984. I've never mentioned it to my parents, never brought it up as something to diversify myself from the masses or as a way to get laid.
For some reason it feels better to keep it to myself. It's my little story which put things into perspective.
The one thing I can't figure out is am I the dog, the owner or the agent?
TV crews started rolling as people gathered to watch these highly trained and athletic men try to catch the dog. He continued to dodge through the suits, setting off alarms all over the front property. After many furious failed attempts to capture him, one distraught agent pulled out his issue weapon and put a bullet into the brain of the dog.
Bam!
Through some odd chance of luck or fate, or coincidence, the owner's name was Jonathan. The dog's name was Fitzy (short for Fitzgerald). The agent's name was Kennedy.
I was born that day - of all days. I discovered the newspaper clipping in the Vancouver public library archive one day trying to find my birth announcement in a paper, procrastinating as usual. The story hit me like a brick in the face. The funny thing is I've never told anyone about the strangely curious happenings of October 15th, 1984. I've never mentioned it to my parents, never brought it up as something to diversify myself from the masses or as a way to get laid.
For some reason it feels better to keep it to myself. It's my little story which put things into perspective.
The one thing I can't figure out is am I the dog, the owner or the agent?
friskey:
The dog must have had a bomb! Or else why else would he be shot? 
meshell:
Were you born in 1984? ahhh procrastination at the vancouver public library... that was me yesterday before I decided to NOT write the papers I need to hand in on monday. o well. that is weird though...