Cricket’s Last Word: A First Dog Speaks from Beyond the Gravel Pit
Kristi Noem’s Dog Tells Her Side
Northern Plains News graphic.
Editor’s Note: A Dog, A Governor, and a Ghostwriter in Heaven
What follows is a first-person essay penned in the imagined voice of Cricket, a German Wirehaired Pointer once owned—and ultimately killed—by South Dakota Governor Kristi Noem. Based on verified facts, direct quotes from Noem’s own memoir, and public reporting, the piece uses satire, emotional truth, and literary voice to explore the deeper implications of Noem’s now-infamous anecdote.
This is part personal essay, part speculative eulogy, and part political commentary—told through the only character in the story who never had a chance to speak for herself.
Is it journalism? Is it fiction? I’ll let the readers decide. But I believe stories like Cricket’s deserve more than a paragraph and a shrug.
“My Name Was Cricket”
By Cricket (as told to the Heavenly Kennel Club Press)1
I wasn’t just a dog. I was a pointer—German Wirehaired, to be exact.
Bred for bird hunts, high prey drive, smart, stubborn, and a little wild-eyed. You don’t name a dog Cricket if you want subtlety.
My life was short. Fourteen months on Earth, and most of that under the command of a woman running her ranch like a campaign—tight, image-obsessed, no room for chaos. She was my master: Kristi Noem.
She says I ruined a pheasant hunt. I say I was born to chase birds. She said I was aggressive. I say I wasn’t even two—barely out of puppyhood. She says I tried to bite her. I say I was scared, shocked—literally. She tried to train me with pain, and when it didn’t work, she ended me in a gravel pit.
Up here in doggie heaven, there are no gravel pits. Just wide-open fields, full of birds we never catch, and no shock collars. The old dogs say that if your owner kills you before your second birthday, you get automatic entrance.
I’m not bitter. I’m reflective.
Kristi didn’t hate me. She feared what I represented—disorder, failure, vulnerability. I was her political origin story, the cautionary tale she’d later use to prove she was tough enough for national office. She called me “less than worthless.” But the truth is, I was just the wrong dog for the wrong person at the wrong time.
And then came Hazel.
Ah, Hazel. A Vizsla. All elegance and instinct, like a campaign ad in fur. She sat politely. She pointed cleanly. She even had her own Instagram account. Kristi adored her. They were a matched set—sleek, controlled, branded. Hazel was the First Dog. I was the deleted chapter.
But even Hazel didn’t get out clean. One day, Kristi posted that Hazel had died in an “accident.” No details. No gravel pit this time—just silence. Maybe she learned a lesson. Or maybe the cameras were rolling. Up here, Hazel runs next to me now. We talk, sometimes. Not about the end, but about the leash we never saw—the one that made our lives into metaphors.
Kristi always said she loved animals. Maybe she did. But she loved what they symbolized more. Loyalty. Discipline. Control. Every pet becomes a prop in a larger political play. Me, the messy one—her Act I tragedy. Hazel, the perfect one—Act II redemption. And what comes next?
I don’t blame Kristi, not entirely. She grew up tough. Rural. Death was part of life on the prairie. Animals didn’t live forever. You worked the land, you did what had to be done. But when you run for President, they don’t just see your values—they see your victims.
She called what she did to me “difficult, messy, and ugly.” That’s fair. But don’t dress it up as leadership. Don’t call it strength to kill what you couldn’t understand.
I hope there’s a dog out there right now, full of mischief and joy and chaos, who won’t be shot for being herself. I hope Kristi learns that love doesn’t always heel on command. And I hope the voters—two-legged and four—see the difference between necessary and convenient.
Until then, I run with Hazel. We’re free here. No collars, no commands, no politics.
Just dogs.
--30--
Actually, by dog lover Todd Epp, Northern Plains News.