“Vogue wrote a lengthy puff piece about Walz’s dog, Scout, who serves as the ‘First Dog' of Minnesota.” — Fox News
Scout Walz, it should go without saying, does not eat chocolate.
We’re at the St. Paul Dairy Queen on a bright, clear day in August. Scout, in his trademark charcoal collar, has ordered (off-menu) a vanilla pup cup. The barely-pubescent server has brought him chocolate. Scout flashes that famous grin—his mouth crowded with mischief—pauses for dramatic effect, and gently says that he’s so sorry, but actually he ordered vanilla. He doesn’t mention that the teen basically handed him a cup of cyanide.
“Believe it or not, that’s not the first time that’s happened,” Scout says to me conspiratorially. “Maybe they’re Trump supporters.”
A few minutes later, he happily laps up his vanilla treat and I chip away at a cookie dough Blizzard as we lounge on the grass a safe distance from a plastic bag shaking in the breeze that Scout finds threatening.
Though he’s on the wrong side of six, you’d never guess it except for a few white speckles around his muzzle. Scout is as energetic, spry, and sly as ever—the Paul Rudd of lab mixes. What’s his secret?
“I sleep sixteen hours a day,” he deadpans.
As he polishes off his ice cream and then eats the cup itself, I ask him how it feels to be having a moment at this stage of his career. Scout sighs, hesitates, smiles.
“Look, every dog wants to be recognized for doing good, challenging work—for being a good boy. But I was found in a cardboard box on the side of the highway. I know all of this could disappear like that.” He tries to snap his fingers, but he doesn’t have any, so he just sort of jerks his paw in the air, creating no sound. Does he wish he’d broken through sooner?
“Not at all,” he says, releasing a long whisper of a fart. “The work I was doing early in my career—scratching up the couch, wolfing down a pot roast—it was all pretty derivative. I was happy for those opportunities, but I was basically copying dogs whose performances I admired, like Pete Roosevelt.
“Plus, I was so young and hopped up on peanut butter, if I’d attained this level of fame then, I’d have been humping everything in sight and inhaling God-knows-what off the street. I don’t know if I would have survived.” (For what it’s worth, St. Paul’s Most Eligible Canine Bachelor is now neutered.)
Of his more recent projects, which is his favorite? Scout thoughtfully licks his crotch.
“What I’m most proud of is my nonprofit, Scout’s Honor, which matches rescue dogs with wounded veterans. But if we’re talking creatively, I’d say eating Tim’s glasses. It was absurd and a little dangerous, which is my sweet spot as an artist. But there was intention behind it, too, a clear message—I share your vision. I love that juxtaposition of smart and stupid.”
Speaking of vision, an eager beagle, tail and tongue-wagging, spots Scout from the sidewalk and beelines for him. He gushes over Scout’s lickography, says he loves what he’s doing for shelter dog representation. The beagle, whose name is Archie, asks for an autograph; Scout obliges by peeing on a stick.
“Nice kid,” Scout says, as the beagle waddles back to his person with the stick in his teeth.
I ask if he feels more pressure to behave because of interactions like that. After all, he could follow on the heels of Major Biden’s checkered White House tenure.
“Major wasn’t put in a position to succeed. He and I are on a group bark with Sunny Obama and Mayor Max III, and when he’s not being shocked or pronged or screamed at by guys with guns, Major is a total mensch. He’s nothing like what you read in the tabloids.”
Scout sniffs out a dead squirrel in the dirt a few feet away, walks over, rolls around in it for ten minutes, trots back to me, and picks up his train of thought.
“To answer your question, I try not to think about other people’s expectations, other than Tim and Gwen and Hope and Gus…”
He trails off, looking choked up, and I wonder if he’s going to cry. But then he rips another fart, one with a lot more bass. “I’m not supposed to eat dairy,” he explains, “or paper cups. Hopefully my vet doesn’t read Vogue.”
Our time is drawing to a close—Scout has to jet to Malibu to chase tennis balls with Chris Hemsworth. Before he goes, I have to ask: Is he ready to be First Dog not just of Minnesota, but of the entire country?
“Are you kidding? There are over a hundred and thirty rooms in the White House. Five full-time chefs. A swimming pool. Foreign dignitaries visiting all the time.” He’s literally drooling now. “I’ve never had a canvas that big or an audience that captive.”
Scout flashes that famous grin again. “Let’s just say my best work is ahead of me.”