Column: Bo Obama and the void that dogs leave behind

Bo Obama had a wonderful life. Over the weekend, many of us mourned his death from cancer at the age of 12.

We met Bo when he was only 6 months old. Perhaps seeing him grow up in the White House alongside two little girls is what created a bond that lasted years after the family moved away. Then again, it’s probably because he was so darn cute.

We fell in love with Bo’s jovial attitude and frisky demeanor, an indication that he couldn’t care less about White House protocol. Former first lady Michelle Obama tweeted that he had a way of “sauntering into their offices like he owned the place, a ball clamped firmly in his teeth.”

Bo was determined to be his own guy, regardless of whether his owner was the president or a novice like me. That’s what drew us to him, and it is what made him so endearing.

As a canine member of America’s first family, Bo was as close as a dog could get to royalty in this country. He was right up there with Queen Elizabeth’s very first corgi, Susan, and the last one from Susan’s lineage, Willow, who died in 2018. The queen’s large entourage of corgis remains her constant companions.

But here’s the thing about dogs. None of that matters to them. All they want to do is snuggle up next to you at night and be the first thing you see when you awaken in the morning.

Dogs don’t care whether they live in the White House or in a tent under Michigan Avenue. They just want to be with their human, no matter where that happens to be.

Bo’s death struck me harder than I anticipated, likely because it brought back fond memories of my bichon frise, Chatham, who died of cancer in 2005.

Most of us go to great lengths to give our dogs a good life. I am in awe of my co-worker who is raising two blind dogs who are so loved that they probably think being unable to see the world is normal, perhaps even a privilege.

We do everything possible to make our pets comfortable. And in return, they give us so much adoration that we sometimes wonder if we deserve it. I don’t doubt for a moment that Chatham loved his life with me as much as Bo loved his with the Obamas.

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Chatham never got to ride on Air Force One, but he enjoyed sticking his head out the window of my car and feeling the wind blowing through his hair. He never appeared at a news conference with dozens of cameras flashing in his face. But a photographer once got him to pose for a glamour shot with his paw resting on a log.

He never had the chance to meet Pope Francis, but he treated everyone he encountered as if they were special. He didn’t have a South Lawn to pounce around on, but he enjoyed rolling in the grass in my tiny backyard. He found great joy in digging his way under the fence and exploring the neighborhood while I frantically searched for him.

On Twitter, President Barack Obama summarized Bo’s tenure as the “commander-in-leash” this way: “He tolerated all the fuss that came with being in the White House, had a big bark but no bite, loved to jump in the pool in the summer, was unflappable with children, lived for scraps around the dinner table and had great hair.”

Hair is the one physical trait that Chatham had in common with the larger Portuguese water dog, Bo. Chatham’s fluffy white bouffant was as impressive as Bo’s beautiful black and white coat — and likely as difficult to manage.

One of my best memories of Chatham is the time he strolled downstairs during a party dripping with kung pao chicken that he had knocked down from the kitchen counter. It took several baths to get rid of the smell.

Both their names have meaning too. Michelle Obama’s father’s nickname was Diddley, after Bo Diddley. Chatham is the neighborhood I lived in when I adopted him.

Bo was a gift to the Obamas from Sen. Edward Kennedy. The president and first lady had promised Sasha and Malia that they could have a dog at the end of the long and gruesome presidential campaign in 2008.

I decided to get Chatham to entice my 6-year-old niece from Georgia to spend the summer with me in Chicago. The 4-month-old was playing with a group of other puppies when I entered the room. I was unsure of myself as a potential canine parent, but he ran right up to me as if to say, “I’m the one you want.”

Chatham became ill the night before I was to leave for a three-day trip for work. I left him with his longtime veterinarian and when I returned, she told me that he wasn’t going to make it. Somehow, he managed to muster enough energy to jump into my arms.

The vet said Chatham had willed himself to stay alive until I returned. That’s what I needed to hear before allowing her to euthanize him. After 12 years together, I believe he waited to die in my lap.

His framed photograph sits on my dresser alongside other loved ones who have died. His collar and tags still hang on my bedroom doorknob. And his plastered paw print is next to my bed.

The Obamas have a second dog, Sunny. But she will never fill the void left by Bo. Dogs who were always by our side live in our hearts forever.

dglanton@chicagotribune.com

Twitter @dahleeng