The morning it all started, Kate was up before me and the bed was covered in dog hair.

I put on my slippers and walked to the den, where I found my wife on the davenport, looking worried. “Honey, did Roscoe get in the house last night?” I asked.

“Shhh,” she hushed, and motioned toward the television.

An anchorwoman was speaking gravely. “For those just joining us, late breaking news: President Graham was found dead in his Treaty Room about an hour ago. At this moment the cause of death is uncertain, but we’ve heard early reports of some kind of wild animal attack in the White House. Investigators are currently looking into security camera footage and a trail of muddy paw prints at the scene. We’re joined by senior political reporter Jack Regent, live in Washington…”

“This is absurd. Why haven’t I heard anything yet?” I shouted.

“They just found him, Louis. Maybe you should call in.”

“I’m the Vice President, for God’s sake! Shouldn’t I be the first to know? Shouldn’t I? Whatever happened to protocol?”