My cat wants me to call him Bo

And it's my fault for leaving the news on too much. He's seen all the stories about the First Dog. The interviews. The walk on the White House lawn. The attention by the First Family, the press, the nation. Now his simple life seems unfulfilling, beneath him.

Fine.

So last night when he meowed for food, I told him to ask the White House staff to do it. When he tried to climb into bed with me, I told him to go sleep with Malia. Or Sasha.

I think he's starting to come down to reality now. He crawled into my lap this morning and responded, albeit reluctantly, to his own name.

There was a sad look in his eyes so I told him about Susan Boyle, the singer who rose to fame overnight. I explained that she could always sing, but the fact that the world didn't get to hear it on the big stage left her in obscurity. Maybe she's luckier for that, because the world often judges on appearance. No one expected much from her, except maybe a joke, a chance to laugh at what they thought was a middle age foolish dream.

He blinked at that. He could relate, not being a kitten anymore.

And then I told him that Bo would be up against the same kind of thing. Sure, now they think his barking is cute. But fame isn't necessarily easy, I told him. Bo had to go to training and has to behave to live in the White House. And there would be times he might miss a nap to do a press conference.

That did it. My cat snuggled up to me for the first time in days, grateful for his obscure existence.

By the way, he's cuter than Bo. Although Bo is very cute.

[image description: Bo, a black Portuguese water dog with white markings on his chest and legs, faces microphones at his first press conference on the White House lawn.]