Scuttle is riveted by election night drama.

Scuttle was tumbling in the polls as Election Day approached.

Our 5-month-old Labrador/coonhound mix had been losing support among key demographics. His leave-no-pillow-un-mauled policy damaged his standing with females 29-49. And although he remains very popular with females 7-11 years old, grabbing food from their hands, eating their toys and chewing up their clothing are chipping away his lead.

Males 40-50? Don’t even ask. Other data is unavailable because he shredded it.

Scuttle’s platform leaves a lot to be desired. His trickle-down economics has stimulated only the paper towel and rug sectors. He’s flip-flopped repeatedly on the need for border fences, basically depending on whether the gate is open or closed. He favors water gun control, disregarding our constitutional right to soak him good when he gets out of line. He’s so green he eats grass.

Scuttle is a good boy only about 47 percent of the time, less when he thinks no one is watching. He’s dependent and entitled. I guess he thinks pig ears fall from the sky. He refuses to take responsibility for himself. Scuttle sees himself as a victim, whining in his kennel.

He’s taxing. And we’re spending. The debt ceiling has been raised more than once.

On the plus side, he is a recent puppy class graduate. He’s smart, charismatic and telegenic. He’s got that killer instinct. Give him a new toy and in 15 minutes he’ll rip it open and pull out its squeaky heart.

But a fancy certificate, bright eyes, a shiny coat and sharp teeth only go so far.

So on election night, I expected trouble. I was home, watching the returns roll in, laptop computer at the ready, ice cold can of what I like to call Twitter Juice nearby. I expected a tough night keeping up with developments and a [beeping] dog. I figured I’d type with one hand and brandish a water gun in the other.

But an odd thing happened. As I sat down, Scuttle jumped up beside me, plopped down, curled up and rested his head on my leg. He stayed that way throughout the evening. Good as gold.

While returns crawled, and then rushed in, while states were won and lost, while the Twitterverse exploded with cheers and jeers, while Karl Rove ranted and Obama backers raved, Scuttle dozed away. Calm and steady under pressure. What more do you want?

Needless to say, his standing among males 40-50 skyrocketed. Proving yet again that if you want a friend on election night, get a dog.