(This feature first appeared in the Fall 1998 issue of the Bastard Quarterly.)

To start the ball rolling, I am no doggone Bastard. I am an adopted dog, yes, but I was and still am legitimate, I have papers to prove it.

My father, a white standard poodle champion, and my mother, a champion bitch, were from the same show dog kennel in New Jersey. They were so busy being groomed for show biz, they didn't have time for us pups. And since they had never heard of family preservation, they let me and my brothers and sisters get adopted by different families when we were only three months old. Talk about closed adoption -- I haven’t seen hide nor hair of my mother, father or siblings since.

Still I have my birth certificate. I know my aristocratic roots. My birth father was Champion Go Ahead Make My Day. My grandfather was Champion Perpetual Risque. My great grandfather was Champion Perpetual Motion. (I think I take after him.) My mother, Brandy Wine Fudge (yum) has a pedigree that goes back to the House of Dior.

I, myself, was named Basket by my adoptive mother after the white standard poodle of Gertrude Stein. You know -- "A dog is a dog is a dog." And though I am not a Bastard, a Bastard, a Bastard, I like the Bastard Nation, even if it is populated by humans. Not that there is anything wrong with that. Some of my best friends arc adopted humans.

I feel a sense of kinship with the Bastards because they too have a sharp nose for injustice and can smell when something is rotten in their state. They're not afraid to bark for what they believe in. To dig out their civil rights. They do not have a muzzle on their souls.

The purpose of my article here - it has taken me a while to get to the point because I am not a pointer -- is to announce my call for a Million Dog March. Adopted dogs all over the country are invited to take part. Dogs of every color, size and shape are welcome. Dogs with or without good breeding.

Our mission is very much like the Bastards -- only instead of being for open records, we are for open dog runs and open dog pounds. Our battle cry is "Don't fence us in! Give us equal space!"

We also want to abolish the leash law. Dogs should be free! And abolish the death penalty. Yes, we have dogs on death row: the most notorious was Butch, the pit bull who was the hero of a book of the same name by animal rights author Vicki Hearne. To those who would imprison dogs, we say: Only a dog without rights bites!

We will also be marching to protest the ban on dogs in apartment buildings, restaurants, and movie theaters. We believe that dogs should be allowed to live with their best friend. They should not be denied the pleasure of dining out together. And they should be able to go to films that have famous movie stars like Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, and Wishbone.

I can see our Million Dog March down the streets of Washington, the capital of the most powerful nation in the world. On that mother of all days, we will be empowered. Great Danes will march side by side with Chihuahuas, Irish Wolfhounds with Old English Sheepdogs, Chinese Shar-Peis with Tibetan Terriers, Pit Bulls with Pugs, Boxers with Bassetts, and so on.

At the head of this grand procession, I will be marching with that illustrious First Dog, Buddy Clinton, who has a few bones of his own to chew. Police dogs will be on duty to keep away dog catchers. St. Bernards will carry scotch and water for the thirsty. Siberian Huskies will pul1sleds for the aged. Border Collies will round up any strays. Blood Hounds will sniff out lost puppies. And retrievers will retrieve our droppings.

That evening, Buddy Clinton has invited us to a feast in the White House. It'll be just like in the days of President Andrew Jackson, when he celebrated his inauguration by throwing a huge spread of beer and cheese for the public. It was a brawl. Buddy wil1 ask President Clinton to join us in our celebration. But remember: No petting. No snoozing on Lincoln's bed. And no chasing Socks.

Look for my next communiqué as to the date of this great occasion, which will surely go down in history as Doggate. They say every dog has his day - and this one is ours. Until then, be dogged. And remember our other battle cry: Keep digging! Keep Barking!

Sir Basket has long been an admirer of Bastards, after sniffing out Damsel Plum on the Internet. He is an aspiring writer, like his adopted mom, Betty Jean Lifton, and is now writing a sequel to her book "Journey of the Adopted Self: A Quest For Wholeness." His will be titled "Journey of the Adopted Dog: A Quest for Holes." He is also his mom's co-therapist in her adoption counseling practice in New York City. He has been known to add a few barks for her many phone clients, which they find curative. But perhaps Basket’s main claim to fame is as Guardian Dog of the Ghost Kingdom, a realm as attractive to adoptees as the Bastard Nation, and just as mysterious. For his fine work in this role, he has been knighted, and now answers to Sir or Lord Basket.

(This feature first appeared in the Fall 1998 issue of the Bastard Quarterly.)

Copyright 1998 Betty Jean Lifton
All Rights Reserved