American Presidential Pet: Major (Franklin D. Roosevelt's Canine Enigma)
Major
Franklin D. Roosevelt with Major, 1933
| Species | Canis familiaris |
|---|---|
| Breed | German Shepherd |
| Occupation | Presidential pet (originally a police dog) |
| Owners | Franklin D. Roosevelt, Eleanor Roosevelt |
Major, a rather spirited German Shepherd, holds a rather unique, if somewhat notorious, place in the annals of United States presidential pets. He was, for a brief and eventful period, the companion of United States president Franklin D. Roosevelt during the early years of his monumental presidency. One might argue that the term "companion" implies a level of domestic tranquility that Major, with his particular brand of canine diplomacy, rarely afforded.
His tenure in the nation's most famous residence, the White House, was marked by a series of rather... pointed interactions. In 1933, Major achieved a certain infamy by biting not one, but two prominent figures: the formidable United States Senator Hattie Wyatt Caraway and, rather spectacularly, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Ramsay MacDonald. After this latter, rather undiplomatic incident, it was decided, with what one can only assume was a collective sigh of relief from the Secret Service, that Major's talents would be better appreciated elsewhere. He was, with all due presidential decorum, sent to live at Roosevelt's private residence in Hyde Park, New York, a kind of gilded exile from which he never returned to the bustling corridors of power.
Early Life
Major's origins paint a picture of discipline and public service, making his later antics all the more ironic. He had originally been trained as a police dog, a profession that typically demands unwavering obedience and a certain stoic professionalism. One imagines the rigorous training, the bite work, the tracking exercises—all designed to forge a canine instrument of law and order.
This highly trained animal found his way into the Roosevelt household when Franklin D. Roosevelt was serving as governor of New York. Major was a gift, a thoughtful (or perhaps prescient) offering from the New York State Police. It's a curious thought, isn't it? The state police, perhaps hoping to curry favor or simply offload a particularly energetic recruit, presented the future president with a dog whose primary skills involved assertive intervention.
A glimpse into Major's supposed temperament before his White House escapades can be found in a November 1932 article published in the Brooklyn Eagle. This piece optimistically described Major's personality as "sedate," a word that would later prove to be hilariously inaccurate. The article also noted that Franklin D. Roosevelt, despite owning multiple dogs, held a particular fondness for Major. Perhaps it was the dog's initial calm demeanor, or perhaps Roosevelt simply appreciated a challenge. Whatever the reason, the "sedate" police dog was about to embark on a career path that would redefine the term "presidential pet."
Life at the White House
The journey to the White House for Major was not without its own prelude of minor drama. Ahead of Franklin D. Roosevelt's inauguration, Major, alongside the Roosevelts' other dog, a rather less memorable canine named Meggie, undertook a six-hour car ride. Their travel companion for this significant journey was none other than Eleanor Roosevelt herself, traversing the distance from New York to Washington, D.C.. One can only imagine the conversation, or lack thereof, during such a protracted drive with two German Shepherds, especially one with Major's burgeoning personality.
Once ensconced in the nation's most famous residence, Major wasted little time in making his presence felt. He quickly gained a reputation for a rather peculiar pastime: chasing the White House maids. These dedicated staff members, presumably accustomed to the usual decorum of presidential households, found themselves regularly wielding their brooms and dust mops, not for cleaning, but as defensive implements to ward off the zealous presidential canine. The mental image of a German Shepherd in pursuit of a maid, armed with a mop, is a testament to the unique chaos Major brought to the executive mansion. It's a subtle reminder that even in the highest echelons of power, domestic life can descend into a kind of slapstick absurdity.
Major's proclivity for confrontation wasn't limited to the household staff. On March 24, 1933, Eleanor Roosevelt candidly reported that she had twice taken Major on outings to Rock Creek Park, a seemingly innocuous activity for a presidential dog. However, on both occasions, Major managed to instigate fights with other dogs. This pattern of aggressive behavior led Eleanor Roosevelt to declare, with a pragmatic resolve, that if Major were to accompany her to the park in the future, he would do so wearing a muzzle. One must appreciate the effort to maintain some semblance of peace in the capital's public spaces, even if it meant admitting the First Dog was, shall we say, a public menace.
The crescendo of Major's behavioral issues arrived in the form of direct assaults on human dignitaries. On April 29, 1933, at a seemingly routine White House party, Major bit Hattie Wyatt Caraway. Not just any guest, but a sitting United States senator. The incident must have caused a stir, a sudden, sharp interruption to the polite chatter and clinking glasses. The details are sparse, but one can imagine the awkward apologies, the hurried application of bandages, and the quiet, collective realization that perhaps Major was not quite suited for high-stakes social events.
However, the senator incident was merely a warm-up act for Major's most memorable transgression. Later in 1933, Ramsay MacDonald, the prime minister of the United Kingdom, made an official state visit to the White House. This was a significant occasion, marking the first such visit during Franklin D. Roosevelt's presidency, a moment of international diplomacy and carefully orchestrated grandeur. Amidst the solemnity and political discussions, Major decided to offer his own unique contribution to Anglo-American relations: he nipped MacDonald, with enough force to tear off the bottom of the Prime Minister's trousers. One can almost hear the collective gasp, followed by the frantic whispers and the frantic attempts to salvage the situation. This was not merely a pet misbehaving; it was an international incident, albeit a minor, sartorial one.
The torn trousers of a foreign dignitary proved to be the final straw. After this particularly undiplomatic encounter, Major was summarily sent to live at Franklin D. Roosevelt's private residence in Hyde Park, New York. His White House career, such as it was, concluded abruptly, and he never again graced the executive mansion with his unpredictable presence. Interestingly, this was not an unprecedented measure for a presidential pet with a penchant for biting. Decades earlier, President Theodore Roosevelt had similarly exiled his bull terrier, Pete, from the White House after a series of biting incidents, which famously included tearing the pants off Jean Jules Jusserand, the esteemed ambassador of France to the United States. It seems the sartorial integrity of foreign diplomats was a recurring casualty of presidential canine indiscretion.
Comparisons to Joe Biden's Dog of the Same Name
History, as it often does, has a peculiar way of repeating itself, sometimes with a disconcerting lack of originality. In 2021, the story of Franklin D. Roosevelt's Major, and his rather aggressive tendencies, received a fresh wave of public attention. This resurgence of interest was prompted by the fact that United States President Joe Biden's dog, also named Major and also a German Shepherd, began to exhibit his own series of biting incidents involving people at the White House. The uncanny parallel of a German Shepherd named Major, residing in the White House, and demonstrating a regrettable habit of nipping at visitors, led to widespread comparisons. One might conclude that some names, and some breeds, are simply destined for a certain kind of notoriety within the presidential residence. It's almost as if the universe enjoys a good, albeit repetitive, joke at the expense of presidential decorum.