Monday, August 31, 2009

My meeting with the Governor does not go exactly as planned

Well, friends, today did not go as well as I had hoped. I had a 10:00 meeting with Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick. There is a debate going on as to whether the law should be changed to allow the Governor to either appoint a temporary, or permanent, replacement for Senator Kennedy’s seat, or whether there should be a special election. I favor a special election because I think my combination of level headed thinking and overpowering cuteness will carry the ticket. But, to be safe, I had scheduled a meeting with him so he would at least consider appointing me.

I do not believe that Governor Patrick will turn this into the circus that Governor Rod Blagojevich did. Governor Patrick is black and the only African-American who could pull off Blagojevich’s hairstyle was James Brown.



But, while I may be just shy of two, I am wise, and know the Governor will expect something for the appointment, which is why I am fully prepared to hump his wrist.
Last night Foley stayed up late giving me humping lessons: “Too much thrust, not enough wiggling, shake your money maker like you mean it,” that sort of thing. So that I could have someone to practice on we mixed in Ambien with Daddy’s lemonade and by 7:30 he was a compliant as Lindsay Lohan at a Redrock Music Festival. Foley spent a lot of time teaching me on our insensate Daddy except when she was barking at the TV screen over the stupid deal Jeff made on Big Brother. (Foley loves some Big Brother.)

I got to Beacon Hill an hour early for my 10:00 meeting. There were many sharply dressed men smelling like too much body wash and mouuse, with very shiny shoes that I so wanted to sniff and lick but Foley counseled me to, until the moment I got the appointment, be more man than dog, so I fought the urge.

The only non human I saw who concerned me was a fluffy white cat named Snowball sitting by the air conditioner who told me that she came from an affluent family in Arlington who lived in a house that sat on ten acres and expected to be named Senator if the Governor decided to go with a non human. I was immediately frightened knowing if the Governor had one weakness it was a white feline with a big back yard.

I was now very nervous, and the Governor had been generous in putting out several Dr. Peppers and I began to drink them one after another and you know what that leads to. I couldn’t leave because I didn’t want to miss my appointment. Plus I was loving the Dr, Peppers, so I kept drinking them. Then I was called into the Governor’s Office.
Oh the Dr. Pepper had backed up and each step I had to fully concentrate on not soiling his blue rug. He motioned for me to jump up on a chair and when I did my tummy swayed like a soda fountain on a Bering Sea crab ship. He asked me what I had to offer as Senator but all I was thinking was “Don’t pee, don’t pee, don’t pee, don’t pee.”

“Don’t pee!” I said,

“Don’t p?” The Governor asked. “Don’t p? Oh, I get it, don’t p, it’s slang for don’t play. I like that, it’s hip, it’s urban. Support Pocket: She don’t p. I think that could be a slogan we could work with. Certainly would make me look like my own man. Pocket don’t p! I like it.”

Every time he said pee I thought I would burst. I just wanted to get out of the room and find a nice couch I could pee behind. The Governor extended his hand and told me he thought I could do a lot for Massachusetts.

Then I humped him. I was so backed up the pee was blocking my ears. I couldn’t hear him. I just saw the arm and reacted.

I humped once, twice, three times.

And then I peed on his arm.

And he looked like this.


I apologized. A lot. But I don’t think it did any good. As he was showing me out he told me that he was probably just going to name a Kennedy anyway.

I was sad as I climbed down the marble stairs but when I got to the bottom I had a new idea. If he wanted a Kennedy he could have a Kennedy.

So introducing Pocket Kennedy.


The Kennedy’s have had the people of Massachusetts in their pockets for years, it’s about time a Pocket had a Kennedy.

I live near Cape Cod, I drink too much, I’ve never done an honest days work, now I hump everything I see. I am a Kennedy.

Pocket Kennedy.

For Massachusetts Senate.

Pass it on.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Pocket announces that she is a candidate for US Senate

I have come here today, to announce that I am officially a candidate for the seat of United States Senator from the Commonwealth Of Massachusetts.

Some of you may feel that too little time has passed since our beloved Senator Kennedy’s death to announce my candidacy, I would say to them to remember, I am a dog and for every one day you age, I age seven, so to me, the Senator has been dead weeks.

Others say to me “Pocket: Why set your sights so high? Why not run for the House of Representative first?” The answer is simple. I am not housebroken.

As was done almost 50 years ago it is time to pass the torch to a new generation, a generation born in this century, this decade, the past couple of years actually, and a new species, because let’s face it, dogs could not possibly do a worse job than humans.

I vow on this day that the only tail I will chase in Washington is my own, when Senators go out for the night for a little tail it will be to meet with me, that the days of one butt sniffs the other politics are over.

I am ready to take a position on the most important issues of the day. I say neither Rowe nor Wade but paddle. I am for Universal Health Care because Mommy’s granddaughters tell me when they go to the Doctor’s they get a lollipop and I am for free lollipops for everyone. Also I am supporting free veterinary care for all because dammit we deserve it.

Jon must immediately return to Kate. You have a litter with a bitch, and the bitch’s Mommy doesn’t sell the litter, the stud doesn’t get to wander off. And stop wearing those stupid shirts. When they get blocked out I think I’m having a stroke.

Also, it will now be law that all female dogs are referred to as “lollipops,” while that other word is reserved for mean women who don’t treat pups properly.

Cesar Milan will be deported back to Mexico: All that “humans being pack leaders”
nonsense needs to cease and desist. Chief Glynn Johnson will become pooper-scooper to the entire Los Angeles area cleaning up after every dog. Michael Vick can do the same in Philadelphia. We will pass legislation to appoint someone to go to Tennessee and explain to Billy Ray Cyrus that having his daughter working a stripper pole on television is neither entertaining nor good parenting, and for heaven sakes enough with the hair cut and soul patch. We need to get Michael Jackson buried or hand him off to science.

And free Auntie Bev!

I have listened to my constituents and there will be free ice cream for all dogs with a $10.00 fill up. Veterinarians will be required to measure a dog’s temperature by placing a device under their leg pit. The doctor shouldn’t be determining my body temperature the same way Dick Cheney instructed agents to determine if there was a bomb on a passenger at LAX. Fireworks will be forever banned.

I know that there is a long road ahead of us. Many of you, initially, will not take my candidacy seriously. It would be a great leap of faith for you to support my candidacy. But what is a dog but loyal, compassionate, your best friend? And is that not what we need in Washington?

There will be no sexual scandals during my term, unless you consider a candidate licking herself a scandal. I will walk across the aisle to work on getting legislation passed, but if my colleagues do not work together then I will follow in the steps of the great Daniel Webster and leave a steaming load of Vick in their desk.

Do not dismiss me lightly. I may be small, but I am mighty. I may not be house-trained, but I am love-trained. Join me and we will bring some old fashion dog sense. If you support me please go to my blog page and list yourself as a follower.

Yes we can. Change is coming. It’s my diaper. I spent so much time working on this I think I peed.

So change is definitely coming.

Thank you.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Tuesdays with Bev

Daddy is always late coming home on Tuesdays. We don’t like when he’s late. Pocket sits on the couch, looking out the window, waiting. I sleep on Mommy’s lap, but I sleep tensely.

But we’re not angry, because Tuesday is the afternoon that Daddy spends with his Auntie Bev, and if it wasn’t for Auntie Bev none of us would exist.

You see Mommy, believe it or not, had one rule when she married Daddy. OK, two rules, one is she wouldn’t do that, and two was no dogs.

That’s right my Mommy was an anti-dogtite. Daddy knew if the puppy window ever opened he would have to jump through it quickly. And it did open, out of nowhere, one day at the mall.

The seeds had been planted years before Mommy and Daddy were even married when this little Shih Tzu jumped out of a car near where Mommy was living, ran into the woods, and ended up in her driveway, jumping in her lap as soon as she opened her car door. Mommy called Daddy and they went to the police station and the animal control officer with a description of the pup but a couple of days passed and there was no word. Meanwhile the little baby had nestled right into her heart, which broke into two pieces when the baby’s owner called, one side for the joy she saw when the family found their Precious, and the other side for seeing it disappear from her life forever.

It must have been with that little Precious in mind when, one day, she looked in a puppy store window, saw a little baby like the one who had nestled in her lap and said that she wouldn’t mind a puffy little dog like that.

Daddy knew this was it. He had one chance. Auntie Bev. She owned a puffy little dog named Tillie and my Daddy thought if Tillie and Mommy could bond then maybe he could convince her to get a dog.

They stopped at my Auntie Bev’s and Uncle Bob’s house, and, unfortunately found that Tillie had recently gone to the Bridge. But Auntie Bev, who Mom respected very much, told her how wonderful Tillie was and how much she meant to them and she slowly kept working on Mommy until she gave in and agreed to think about getting a puppy,

Less than 24 hours later Daddy had Mommy at a house in Dartmouth where little puppy Blake went running over to her and jumped in her arms and Mommy hasn’t been dogless for a day since.

Auntie Bev and Uncle Bob were the first family members to meet Blake and they were the first family members to meet me. I met their daughter Jan and their grandson Michael Robert that day too and they all fell in love with me because I was two pounds of irresistible.

I spent lots of time there and both Uncle Bob and Auntie Bev, who thought they were too old for their own dog, enjoyed our visits, stroking us, playing with us, and they were just about two of my favorite people. A few years ago Uncle Bob got very sick and had to go to the bridge leaving poor Auntie Bev alone.

It was during that time that Daddy began to go over there on trash day, to take out the trash, and to sit and listen and learn about life.

She would tell him stories of harder times, growing up in a real Depression, with her grandfather’s sea chest, filled with worthless stock certificates, anchoring their poverty. She had calming, wisdom-scented conversations with our Mommy when she was diagnosed with cancer, anchoring her anxieties. And Auntie and Daddy would sit, in the late Tuesday afternoon sunshine, and release the pent up frustration, either deserved or not, that their various family members had inflicted on them. It was the best therapy for them both, familiar, comfortable as old shoes, as warm as a blanket near a fire.

She was a small woman to start, all Gays are small, and arthritis began robbing her of her freedoms young. She had both knees replaced, and a hip, and a broken shoulder that never properly healed. She walked with the aid of at least one cane, hunched over, slowly inching her way forward. With her myriad of physical problems she and Uncle Bob had agreed that she would be the first to go, but when death picked it’s own order, and the couple who had been married for more than 50 years were delivered the crushing news, Aunt Bev reminded Uncle Bob of his promise to let her pass into the night first. Uncle Bob contemplated this promise and his limited mortality for several seconds then surmised: “Bev, did you ever consider they just don’t want you?”

Aunt Bev’s family took her car away after Uncle Bob’s death. This made her angry because she was sure she could drive, as were we, but it was the stopping and turning that gave us pause. She still tried to exert as much independence as possible. One Tuesday Daddy could not find her anywhere and was ready to scour the neighborhood when she appeared from behind the shed, cane in one hand, bag of acorns in another. She would also venture down the cramped, adventurous cellar stairs, wedged in an entryway after the builder realized he hadn’t provided basement access and shoved them in, thin steps six inches high (it was built shortly after World War II when the country was much more forgiving) where Aunt Bev, against everyone’s wishes, would venture down to do her laundry, then make her ascent, one step at a time, tottering on each steep, but perhaps with Uncle Bob’s invisible hand still guiding her, making it to the top step and latching the door behind her, a chore she saved for Tuesdays, knowing if Uncle Bob’s hand was elsewhere and she went backwards down the steps Daddy would know what to do. Her faith in him was strong, more so than ours, as we don’t trust him to properly distribute our mail.

On Saturday morning Uncle Bob’s eternal hand was not there to catch her as she had a stroke in her bathroom. Daddy’s Daddy found her slumped against the bathroom door, and called 911. They took her to the hospital where they made their diagnosis and it became clear to all, but her, that she could no longer live independently.

Daddy visited her on Tuesday. She seemed impossibly small in the hospital bed, as if her lost independence had given her an aura that still lay on the bathroom floor like discarded nightwear. The always fraying string that anchored her to our world had become dangerously thin, but Daddy sat enraptured in her story about the gun fight in her hospital room the night before; the woman in the next bed who sat up in the window all night with her gun pointed, ready; the nurses who covered Aunt Bev with sheets so she would not be caught in the cross fire; the black cowboy named Bill who swore to protect her (and when a male nurse, bald and black, came in to check on her, then left, Aunt Bev leaned forward and whispered “that’s Bill.” Growing up in the industrial Northeast Daddy was sure “Bill” had been called worse than “Cowboy.”) Daddy then gave her a kiss and left, as he did every Tuesday, but this time there was no trash or recycling, just a lonely wait for an elevator as a nervous couple skittered back and forth wrestling with the same decisions that faced Auntie Bev’s immediate family.

If life is nasty, brutish, and short then the end is an NBA game where the final minutes stretch out forever with hard fouls, missed free throws, and unnecessary time outs. Prayers will be said, deals brokered, imaginary death panels consulted, but no one can stop Auntie Bev’s, or anyone else’s, inevitable end. Daddy would love one more Tuesday sitting with her in her living room as the sun sets discussing the unimportant issues of the day. But the sun is setting, time is growing short, and her chair, which sits next to the chair Uncle Bob vacated two years previous, sits vacant, as does the couch where Daddy sat, as the lonesome trash days begin to build up.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Naming Daddy

I was reading my Daddy’s boyhood dog Barney’s diary last night looking for more wit and wisdom when I found an interesting conversation he had with my Daddy when he was a boy.

My Daddy never played sports. That uncoordinated bugaboo got him. But when he was a boy he liked to grab his glove and throw the ball against the pitch back set up under the maple trees.

One day he was doing this and a storm came up. He ran into the cellar. He liked it there when it rained because he looked like a Major Leaguer peering out of the dugout. It had been a hot day, and Barney had taken refuge in the cellar, but he smelled his friend on the steps, stood, stretched, and walked over to him.

He sat down next to Daddy who stroked his heavy black fur. Because Barney was an outside dog and didn’t cotton to baths Daddy ended up with a thin film of black on his hand. Barney wasn’t like dogs today. He roamed the neighborhood and ruled it from one end to the other.

My Daddy’s Auntie lived up the street from him and across the street lived mean Mr. Medas and mean Mr Medas owned a mean dog. One day Barney walked up the street to my Auntie’s to say hey, and then crossed the street, stuck his big black bear head in Mr Medas’ garage and saw a large bag of Gravy Train in the corner. Well Barney stood on his back legs, bit the top of the bag, and tipped it. He then began to drag the bag down the street. A little ways past the garage a small hole opened in the bag. Daddy was in his yard looking up the street, and saw Barney dragging something. He waited at the end of the driveway. Barney walked to him, put the bag at his feet, and said “See, I don’t need you for food,” and right behind Barney was mean Mr. Medas following the trail of food that Barney had left from the ripped bag.

Barney was blessed with several lives, and this one he shook off with a look of disdain and a quiet “next time lock up your food” mumble. On this rainy day Barney was not whittling away one of his many lives and was more interested in the beginning of Daddy’s.

“Your name is Teddy isn’t it?” Barney asked.

“Well Barn, it’s Ted, but Mom calls me Teddy,” Daddy said.

“But when I walked to your school,” it was less than a quarter mile from Daddy’s house, “and sat outside the door I heard them call you Edgar.”

Daddy looked out at the rain. “Well that’s my real name,” he said in a dejected voice.

“Why would these slope nosed losers name their son Edgar?” Barney asked.

“Well,” Daddy said throwing the ball in his glove. “My grandfather’s name is Edgar, and Daddy’s name is Edgar, so I am Edgar as well.”

“You poor bastard,” Barney said and licked Daddy’s hand. “Why would someone named Edgar name their son Edgar?”

“Well my Dad’s Dad, he was named Edgar so I imagined his Dad did it just out of revenge.”

“And what about yours?” Barney asked.

Daddy took a big sigh. “Well, before I was born, when Mom was pregnant with me, Mom and Dad didn’t talk very much. So along came the day that I was to be born and they got in the car together and drove to the hospital. Still not speaking. They loaded Mom on to the gurney while her husband began watching the television in the waiting room and, as she got to the doors to go into the operating room she looked up at my Dad and says ‘what do you want to call it?’

“Now my Dad had always been an ornery sort, and he can’t give a straight answer. He could have said Timmy, or Dave, or Kenny, or even Barney would have been acceptable, but instead he said ‘Anything but Edgar’ which would have been OK, if, just as my Father was saying ‘anything but’ the gurney hadn’t crashed into the door, drowning out these two words, and leaving the only thing Mom could hear being Edgar.”

My Daddy took a sip of water he had in a green bottle and looked out at the pouring rain. “So Mom gives birth to me, and they ask her what to name her son, and she tells the nurses that, while she hates the name, it would make the baby’s father very happy if the baby was named Edgar.

“Meanwhile in the baby waiting room my father was anxiously waiting to meet his son Stevie or Joey. The nurse led him down to the room where my Mother was holding me and my Father’s heart filled with all the love heaven would allow and he asked his son’s name.

“And when he heard it, all that love that had filled his heart, was squeezed out like a mean clown crushing a child’s happy birthday balloon, and in that moment, I heard, for the first of many times, the sound of my parents fighting, and my little feet and little arms began moving in a running motion, and one of the nurses squealed in delight at my cute activity, which my parents were oblivious to as they called each other friggen idiots and simultaneously caused five women to undilate three inches, and for a thirty mile radius, I was the only boy or girl to have February the 13th as a birthday.’

Barney rested a paw on Daddy’s leg and gave his arm a lick. This was truly a sad story, told with no embellishments, because frankly, there was little need for any, of a boy who would grow up to be a slow-witted middle-aged man. “Must have been rough in school,” Barney said.

“Well,” Daddy said. “I walked to school with Mom on the first day of first grade and all the way I said please don’t tell them to call me Edgar, please don’t tell them to call me Edgar. She takes me to class. The teacher asks my name. She says Edgar. I vomited. That was my first day of school.”

Daddy looked outside at the rain. “Then in second or third grade I had had enough. I said I did not want to be called Edgar again. I wanted the name of a famous athlete. From that day forward I wanted to be called OJ. OJ Gay. Thankfully that didn’t stick.”

Barney looked up with his deep brown eyes. “Yeah I didn’t want to bring that up. The Gay thing. That was kind of a tough one.”

“You know, I got to sixth grade, and it was a new school,” Daddy said. “And my mother wasn’t going to be taking me to school so I could tell them whatever name I wanted. The teacher asked my name and I said Ted and then she asked my last name and I said Gay and everyone started laughing. Seems like over the summer all the homosexuals decided they would rather be known as Gay. Now I don’t have anything against homosexuals, but if they were going to hijack my name, they should have at least sent me a postcard warning me.”

The rain had stopped. Daddy sat with Barney awhile longer, then gave him a pat on the head and ran outside to throw against his pitch back again. Barney watched him. Edgar. Edgar Gay actually. Edgar Gay III to get quite specific. Edgar Amos Gay III to go to an area even Barney didn’t want to explore.

Barney realized what carrying that name meant. It meant he wouldn't be picked first in sports, wouldn’t be a ladies’ man, and only trust a few people not to make a cruel or biting remark during a casual conversation about something he had no control over.

Barney turned and walked back down the stairs knowing this about his Daddy: No matter where he went or what he did, his true best friends would always be the furry four legged kind, and that would make a few selected dogs very happy.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Mommy Stole My Facebook Accout

I start my morning like most Americans. I take my human out for his morning walk, hoping to squeeze in a pee and possibly a Vick (that’s my new word for it, thanks to the wit and wisdom of my good friends Reba and Dodger) then go inside, have a bowl of water, some morning kibble and turkey, and check my e-mails.

I saw a message from one of my human Facebook friends, and I clicked it, and was stunned by what I saw. My Mommy, my most trusted human, had stolen my Facebook page.

I looked over at Daddy, sitting in his recliner, with Pocket sitting on his shoulder licking his mouth, while he tried to program the DVR. I asked him why my Facebook account was changed. “Ask Mommy,” he said. That was his answer for everything. I don’t even know why I asked. (Yes I do. Spite. When you interrupt Daddy programming the DVR he has to start again.)

Then I went upstairs to the bathroom where my Mom was taking her shower and waited outside. When the water stopped I began scratching on the door. “What do you want?” she asked.

“I have a bone to pick with you!” I said.

“Just leave it downstairs and I’ll pull your tail hair out of your dental bone when I’m done.”

I growled softly, went downstairs, and jumped on the couch where I had the laptop running. I waited as patiently as six pounds of fur can wait.

“What are you doing Foles?” she asked when she came downstairs.

“Oh nothing, just was going to spend a pleasant morning on my Facebook page. But what did I find? My page is suddenly your page.”

Mommy smiled that smile that she smiles when she is going to say something I am going to find disagreeable. She sat down on the couch next to me. Very presumptuous. Sitting on my couch. Using my computer. Someone was being a bad girl.

“Most of the Mommies on Facebook use their own pictures so we can get to know eachother better,” she said stroking my head. “But I put up lots of pictures of you and Pocket and everyone made me promise I will still run your blogs.”

“Oh I see, so I’ll do all the work and you receive all the glory is that it?”

“Of course not,” she said petting my head. “I do your typing, and I do some editing, so in a way we both write, and I think this is something we could do together.”

“Well I certainly wasn’t consulted!” I said as Mommy moved down to just above my chest where I love to be scratched. “I just feel that it is the least you can do to let someone know…..oh….oh yeah right there……oh yeah….that’s the spot….oh god that’s good stuff……oh baby you give some good scratch…..mmmmmmm.”

She continued to scratch me for almost five minutes as all my nasty thoughts floated away and the next thing I knew I was on my back with my legs spread getting my belly rubbed. I swear my Mommy’s middle and forefingers are more reliable then Ruffies. She stood up, straightened her clothing and went to make breakfast.

I lay on the couch, basking in my post scratch glow, when Pocket jumped up next to me. “Hey some lady stole our Facebook page!” she said.

Egads! That wanton woman had put my bad thoughts in a box and tried to float it away. But thanks to Pocket I had my big box of wronged back. “That lady is our Mommy!” I said jumping off the couch.

“That lady’s last name is Gay,” Pocket said. “Oh Lord, I’m Pocket Gay. I’m so getting wedgied in gym.”

I marched into the dining room where Mommy was eating breakfast. I put my feet on her legs to get her attention. “What is it Baby-Baby?” she asked.

“We need to talk about Facebook!” I barked.

“Hold on I can’t hear you let me pick you up,” she said. I was put on her lap and began to air my grievances. “Excuse me honey would you like some bacon? It’s Applewood.”

I knew this was a trick. Give the dog bacon and shut it up. Well not this time lady. Just because it smells so good, and is so crispy, and I can even taste it.

“Yes, yes, gimmie bacon, gimmie bacon, gimmie bacon!” I said.

I happily gobbled down the bacon as Mommy picked up the dishes and put them in the dishwasher then went upstairs to do her hair. Pocket twice approached me and I snapped at her thinking she had set her sights on my bacon. When I was done and licking the fur that held the bacon she came back. “I thought you were going to talk to Mommy about Facebook,” he said.

“Facebook!” I said. This woman had more tricks then the Hilton Sisters. I composed myself. “Pocket, go upstairs and confront Mommy about the Facebook page.”

“But I don’t really care,” Pocket said.

“Pocket, buddy, please, just go upstairs and tell Mommy to put the Facebook page back in our name or you’ll run away.”

“Oh I wouldn’t run away Foley!”

I bit my lip. “You don’t have to run away Pocket, just the thought of losing you will scare her,” I barked.

“Really? She loves me that much.”

“Yes,” I lied. “Just go.”

I stood at the bottom of the stairs and I head Mommy talking to her in her sweet voice and a few seconds later Pocket came back down the stairs wagging her stubby little tail.

“You’re right she would be very said if I ran away!” Pocket said.

“What about Facebook?” I asked.

“What’s Facebook?”

Grrrrrrrrr. I promised the President that I would be good but he had never met my little sister.

Mommy then called to me that if I wanted to talk to her I better get up there. I ran up the stairs. She was sitting just a step above where the warm sun was shining. I was directly in the sunlight as I began to make my case.

“Pocket and I have a following on the internet, on TB, on our blog, and Facebook. Oh I say this sun is deliciously warm. Anyway, to change it without our consent well it’s going to confuse…..oh it’s warming up my fur, and it’s making me sleepy. Well, anyway. You must immediately change, (yawn), go back (big yawn and a stretch on the floor), you must book face change Mommy sleepy night night.”

Four hours later Pocket woke me. I yawned and looked around. Mommy had gone out. I had to admit. I might think I run the house, but Mommy certainly knows my weak points: a good scratch, bacon, and sunlight.

When she came home Mommy surprised me with my own Twitter account. Now you can read my every thought at: http://twitter.com/FoleyMons. I am upset about the Facebook account, but I can tweet away night and day. And God knows what I’ll say.

Oh my God I rhymed. I think I’m going to be great at this.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Who wants to be Foley's Daddy

Daddy, the less intelligent of the two slope noses that I live with, got a call from someone called a PA yesterday after he had something called an MRI. Do you find it as annoying as I do that so many humans speak in initials?

Well there was good news and bad news. The good news is that he does not have a torn ligament. “Nice,” I thought when he said it. “I haven’t had a good walk in two months while girlie man here is limping around with a splinter in his leg.”

Then he said that the MRI had shown he has a fractured leg. Well. That’s a shame.

Daddy doesn’t know what they are going to do, immobilize him (how do you immobilize someone who only moves to eat and pee?), put him in a cast, or operate on him. If they operate he may not be recovered until February. That’s when I realized what I needed: A new Daddy.

So I am putting out an open casting call for a new Daddy for Pocket and me. You will get a nice bed to sleep in, very good meals (Mommy is a great cook), and the forever friendship of two wonderful Yorkies (OK, one wonderful Yorkie and Pissy.)

So you don’t waste your time coming for an audition when you have no shot of getting the gig let me give you the characteristics we are looking for:

You need to have the ability to walk: Sorry, Daddy, but this is where you really fell down on the job. If you have trouble remembering this qualification then memorize this handy couplet: Foley doesn’t require a lot of walking / Just slightly more than Steven Hawking. Ten to fifteen minutes a day is fine. Just understand that interjected into this walking will be long spells of standing while Pocket and I sniff every square inch of ground we cross so this fifteen minute walk could take an hour and a half. So walking, and more importantly standing, is required. And please, no Segway scooters, I would rather be outside with a one legged Daddy then a two-legged geek.

You need to differentiate between green balls and be ready to throw one at all times: Pocket has two green balls. One she chases. One she ignores. You need to, with little notice, tell which ball is the ball that she chases, and throw it, and then retrieve it from wherever she dropped it, and throw it again, for hours if necessary. You need to be able to find the ball when Pocket drops it and noses it behind or under furniture. To give you a hint Pocket will run headfirst into several objects in the general vicinity of the ball’s location. This is where Daddy’s cane comes in handy. He used it several times to scoop the balls out of tight spots. Also you can’t be all prissy about getting your hand covered with dog goop. Pocket leaves lots of goop on her ball after she’s been playing with it.

You are going to be required to take a lot of s**t: And dispose of it. We live at a condo complex so whenever we double you have to pick it up and either bring it to the dumpster or to the toilet with the not always reliable flush. Now I don’t like the dumpster so when you go near it expect me to be pulling you to get away from the big, loud, smelly thing with the giant mouth. And don’t forget after you’ve done a pick up and put it in your pocket (because you’re holding two leashes), you don’t want to be like Daddy and be at work, someone asks you for a tissue, and you pull out one filled with double. When you throw it away you have to tell the inquisitive people that it was just some s**t you found.

You need to brush your teeth a lot and taste good: Whenever Daddy brushes his teeth Pocket and I wait for him. When he sits down we are both in his mouth fighting for a good lick spot. Second mouthed toothpaste tastes great. First mouthed, we don’t like as much. Once we’ve removed all the toothpaste I insist on either being scratched just above my chest or to lick your hand until every bit of salt is off. Pocket will also want you to play tug of war so you better have both hands free. Plus in bed we both will lick your mouth, and then I will lick your hands, arm, face, while Pocket will insist on playing tug of war. Oh, plus I’ll jump on your wrist and hump it like a puppy who just discovered his rocket. Trust me, you become my replacement Daddy you’ll get more action in the sack than a Kardasian.

So this is what we are looking for: A middle aged man, good looking for Mommy, good salary, who can walk but is patient so we can stop and smell the flowers; who can tell the difference between a dog’s green balls; doesn’t mind a pocket full of Pocket s**t; and doesn’t mind getting his toothpaste licked out of his mouth, leaving both hands free for licking and tug of war, and doesn’t mind an occasional wrist hump.

If you think you have what it takes then go to Gillette Stadium on Sunday at noon time where we will be holding auditions. The judges will be me, Pocket, and Posh Spice because we just couldn’t afford Paula. Hope to see you there.

Follow us on twitter at http://twitter.com/FoleyMons

Friday, August 14, 2009

Pocket's not a bad dog? Is she?

I went to the groomers on Saturday. I had so much fun there. We played avoid the clippers, splash the bath, wiggle under the dryer. I love the groomers. But I love it more when I hear my Mommy and Daddy come in. I couldn’t wait until the pretty lady got the cage door open. I leapt out into her arms and began to do the push off so I could get to Mommy. The pretty girl had me in one arm and the docile Foley in the other and when she got to my Mommy she handed me over and said: “This ones so bad.”

So bad? Who? Me?

I’m not bad? Am I?

I’m not saying I’m perfect. No pup is. But bad? I know I bark a lot when Mommy or Daddy gets me out of the crate when they get home. They do all the things the people trainers say. They don’t act excited, they don’t even really talk to me. But all the way down stairs, while I am getting leashed up, going out the door, and even peeing, I’m barking my little head off. But that’s not bad. Is it?

And I totally validated the Iranian election too early. I had never counted an election before. I did a few provinces, thought I saw a trend, threw out the rest of the ballots and called it a day. My fault. Totally. But does that make me bad?

I don’t do real good with commands either. I don’t “shush” real good or pay attention to “quiet” or even the harder edged “shut up!” not when I’m chasing my green ball or imagining that I see something outside. There is one command that does quiet me. It usually comes from Daddy. It’s one word. It’s short. It’s easy to remember. It’s f**k. Now that gets my attention. I wish that was my name. It sounds like what Batman would call his dog. “Come here F**k the Joker has poisoned the water supply.” But making my Daddy call me that doesn’t make me bad does it? He doesn’t just say it to me. He yells it at the TV a lot especially when those Red Stocking are playing. Sometimes I get jealous because F**k is my word.

I probably mishandled the entire Universal Health Care thing. I think I wrote it well but didn’t present it properly. I mis-read the public mood, admittedly. But that doesn’t make me a bad dog.

The peeing and pooping? I know that’s a problem. The other day my Mommy let me out of my crate and Daddy said “just let her run down stairs to me.” Mommy knew it was a bad idea but she let me anyway and I left a trail of pee all the way down the stairs. (At least I could find my way back.) We all decided that, of course, this was not my fault but Daddy’s. But that doesn’t make him a bad Daddy, or me a bad dog.

My plan for Government-established central banks that artificially lowered interest rates by increasing the supply of money (and thus the funds banks have available to lend) through the banking system was a mistake. This was supposed to stimulate the economy. What it did was mislead investors into embarking on an investment boom that the artificially low rates seemed to validate but that in fact could not be sustained under existing economic conditions. Investments that would have correctly been assessed as unprofitable were falsely appraised as profitable, and over time the result was the squandering of countless resources in lines of investment that should never have been begun. My fault, true, but it doesn’t make me bad.

My problems outside are annoying, but not bad. The zig-zagging; the sudden stops and starts; the prolonged sniffing; the barking at anything that moves causing the rest of the neighborhood dogs to bark; the waiting to pee until I’m on a neighbor’s walkway; the holding my poo until I get back inside the house; the running up to my human neighbors and then turning tail and running when they go to pet me; my ongoing fued with the sinister Chihuaha: I don’t think any of these are the definition of bad.

My agreement with LT to steal your doggy pictures off our site and put them on his site to fool his advertisers into think there are more members then their actually are, was disgusting, immoral, unethical and probably illegal but not the actions of what someone would call a “bad dog.”

My insistence that my Tanner Brigade bandana is a chew toy, and how, when I’m wearing it, I roll on the ground until it is off then chew on the ends, or, when I am not wearing it, how I stand on my back legs, use my claws to open the bottom desk drawer, and pull out the bandana to chew on it is disrespectful and a blatant breaking of the rules, but not bad. Was it?

Although inventing the term “thread closed” and selling the license for it to LT, to stop any discussion he doesn’t like, that might have been bad.

Yeah definitely bad.

To the bone.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

The truth about Foley's tail feather

The President had been correct. Everyone soon forgot my confrontation with the cat burglar after our White House dinner. But there was one aspect of the story that refused to die.

Lou Dobbs continued to insist that I was not a real Yorkie and I could not produce any paper work to show I was.

His theory took on ever more credence when the following picture ran in the papers the day after my visit.



As you can see I have a tail. Because of this I am not considered and Yorkshire Terrier by the AKC and cannot get the papers to prove to Mr. Dobbs that I am, indeed, a Yorkie.

First of all, I am obviously a Yorkie. I have a Yorkie face, Yorkie ears, Yorkie body, Yorkie attitude and Yorkie intelligence. That my breeders did not choose to snip off a perfectly fine tail to meet some archaic standard by the masochists at the AKC should not stop me from taking my rightful spot in my breed.

Second of all, it is a shame that Yorkies are having their tail cropped and more Mommies and Daddies do not get to see the beauty of a Yorkie tail.

Now, please, feel free to check out my tail.




It rises up over me like a flower, blossoming over my back, with beautiful tan and black flowers falling on to my dark fur. When I am happy it swings back and forth. Mommy and Daddy call it my tail feather and encourage me to let them see me shake it.

Compare this to Pocket’s tail: Just a stub. I don’t mean to knock my friends who have a stub for a tail, if that is how your creator made you then it is beautiful. But when your tail has been circumcised for no other reason then what a bunch of men smoking pipes, wearing top hats, and taking a break between games of cribbage decided it’s not right.

When I wag my tail it creates a lovely breeze that cools me off and everyone around me. When Pocket wags her tail it looks like a baby boy has escaped from the couch his Mommy was changing him on and ran out the back door to let it his little man flap in the breeze.

Now it’s true, we could get papers for me. It isn’t like they have the doggy inspector come out and check to see if you are really are who your Mommy and Daddy claim you are. But I can’t be in a dog show (which is a good thing for other dogs because I would win every year) and if they won’t let me be in their show then they don’t want me to be part of their club.

So there.

If you know anyone who breeds Yorkies have them take a look at my tail feather before they decide to crop. If they don’t, neither Yorkie or owner, will know what they’re missing.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

My Dinner With Obama


I am a dog of many accomplishments. I defeated the Princess, helped found the Tanner Brigade, have a loyal following, and with these accomplishments has flourished a great amount of confidence. But when I learned I was to have dinner with the President all my well-earned confidence dwindled away.

I made an appointment with my groomer and got a very beautiful puppy cut. I had her put a white ribbon in my hair and had her clean and iron my Tanner Brigade neckerchief. I even had her squirt me with a scent so I would not offend.



They offered to fly Mommy and me down to Washington but neither one of us like that. We had Daddy stay home with Pocket, because, let’s face it, if Pocket went to the White House it wouldn’t be the White House anymore, it would be the yellow or brown house.

We left by car. Mommy did most of the driving. I did a little bit, like when we were on the Jersey Turnpike and I woke up, curled up in the front seat, and saw Mommy sleeping with her head against the driver’s side window, and her foot pressed firmly on the gas, and us headed for a refinery. I let out a yip, jumped on the steering wheel, straightened the car, and either my tail, or the little fear fart that popped out, awoke Mommy, and she slowed down.

We got to the White House and met the Secret Service men who brought us into the building. Mommy went with Mrs. President to see her new garden and play with the children. I was told I needed to meet with the President’s advisors on ribbons.

I was put in a very comfortable chair and a woman came in with a younger man and she looked at my ribbon.

“A white ribbon, I don’t think that is going to work at all,” she said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“White represents purity, it opens up the whole abstinence vs. education debate,” the younger man said. “We can’t have you sitting with the President making a statement about sex education.”

“Well I brought a pink one,” I said.

“Oh no,” the woman said. “Gays in the military, can’t have you protesting that.”

“Red?” I asked.

“Socialized medicine,” the younger man said. “Can’t be seen with the President protesting that.”

“Green?”

“Global warming.”

“Well I need to wear some kind of ribbon!” I said. The aides huddled and they agreed I could wear the white one I would just have to turn when the picture was taken.

I was then led outside to a table on the lawn and hopped up in a chair. A man with white hair and shiny white teeth came out.

“Hello there!” the shiny man said. “I’m Vice President Joe Biden!” He shook my paw. “Isn’t this great, beautiful weather here in DC? I used to ride the train every day from Delaware to the Capitol and look where it got me, Obama’s butt boy greeting a dog on the White House lawn. And it isn’t even my dog, that’s the wild part. I can’t even bring my dog here. But his dog goes on the lawn it’s up to old Joe to go clean it up. Anyway have I said too much? Sometimes I say too much. Lick me.”

I did not like this man at all. I turned and then I felt my stomach drop. It was Casper, with his tail and nose high, and I felt the need to nip him. To fight it off I jumped on Biden’s lap, licked his mouth, and gave him a little tooth. He seemed to like it a little too much.

Casper sat down and Joe Biden gave her the same speech. Then the waiter came out with a beer, a soda, some Nine Lives, and a plate of the wonderful frozen chicken recipe posted on the Tanner Brigade. It smelled so good. But I knew I had to wait for the President.

Then I heard the sound of bird wings gently flapping. I looked up and saw the President, in shirtsleeves, being carried by hundreds of doves, down to our table. He was put on the ground, kissed the head of the flock, whispered in her ear, and watched her lead the flock away.

He then turned to me, reached for my paw, and said he was President Obama. When I put my paw in his hand I felt all my problems melt away. I was floating on a lazy river with Tanner, Sophie and Teddy Bond blowing bubbles and singing a happy tune. I had never felt so happy or content in my life. Then he let go of my hand and I was back sitting on a hard chair with two middle-aged men and a cat.

He said hi to Casper who didn’t seem as impressed and sat down. “You know, when I began my campaign, I never imagined I would be sitting in the back yard of the White House trying to mediate a problem between a cat and dog.”

“Me either,” Vice-President Biden said. “When I began my campaign I figured I’d be holding White House dinners and old Barak over here would be begging for a five minute meeting in the men’s room, and I would say no. To be sitting here with President Obama, I did not see this coming. No way!”

“OK buddy,” the President said, tapping his hand, speaking in a pleasant voice, but giving him a stern look. He turned back to us. “One of my jobs as President is to help find common ground between those involved in disputes to show them that deep down, dog or cat, man or woman, black or white, we all have things we can agree on.”

“Even the Mexicans and Orientals!” the Vice President said.

“Thank you buddy,” the President said but gave him another stern look. “Now, let’s see what we can agree on. How about squirrels, boy I don’t like them.”

“Me either!” I said excited to find common ground. “I chase them whenever I see them.”

“I don’t pay much attention to them,” the cat said picking at her Nine Lives. “They do their thing, I do mine.”

“OK,” the President said. “How about rain? I hate when it rains!”

“Me too!” I said. “I hate getting wet when I pee.”

“I don’t mind,” the cat said licking his paws. “I pee in a box. When it rains I just sit in the window and watch.”

The President took a long drink to hide his annoyance. He put his glass down and pursed his lips. “You’re both from Massachusetts, you must hate those Yankees.”

“They make my Daddy very frustrated so I don’t like them,” I said.

“You have to respect their winning tradition, they are a great team,” Casper said.

“That’s true,” the Vice-President said. “You know who I liked? Joe Pepitone. It was a fun name to say. Pepitone. Say it with me: Pepitone.” He saw the look the President was giving him and stopped.

“How about the vet? That thermometer in the bun hole. Wow. What’s up with that?” the President asked.

“Oh, and it’s cold, that’s real bad,” I said.

“I don’t really feel it,” the kitty said.

“I bet you don’t,” Biden said. “Your backside looks wider than the Lincoln Tunnel.”

Both Casper and Obama gave Biden a withering look. He looked down and drank his soda. The President leaned towards me. “Never mind getting Congress to agree on health care I can’t get a dog and cat from Massachusetts to agree on the Yankees,” he said.

“That’s right you can’t!” Biden said. “You’re totally ineffectual. A big zero on Pennsylvania Avenue. A non-entity!” he chuckled.

The President took a long pull of his drink. “Hey Joe, I think Bo took a poop on the South Lawn. Why don’t you take the pooper scooper and head on over there.”

The Vice-President scowled and began to rise when an aide came to the President and handed him a piece of paper. He held up a hand to stop him and read the note, folded it, whispered something to the aide and had him walk off. He took a long drink of his beer.
“It would seem, Casper,” he said looking at the cat, “that the people who own the home outside of which Foley stopped you don’t own a cat.”

He took a deep breath. “It seems, that if Foley had not done what she did, that this cat would have robbed them.”

“Oh my gosh, he’s a cat burglar!” I said.

The cat growled. “So you got me Obama. Good for you. But you can forget about holding me. There has never been a cage made that can hold me. I’ll be back on the street by dawn, sneaking in doggy doors, stealing jewelry, fighting for kitty rights, and going to town hall meetings about health care and yelling out untruths to scare the elderly.”

President Obama looked up at Mr. Biden and said “Before you pick up Bo’s poo do you mind throwing the kitty in the pool?” he asked.

“As you wish Mr. President,” he said then picked up Casper and carried him meowing and screaming towards the pool.

The President smiled at me. “I am sorry Foley I never should have doubted you or said you acted stupidly.”

“That’s all right Mr. President, I am just happy that my name will soon be cleared,” I said.

“Yes, about that Foley, there is one important rule in Washington, has been around since the man himself was President, and that is the President is never wrong. So, we’re just going to have to say we had a meeting of the minds and you two agreed to disagree.”

“Agree to disagree what does that mean?”

“It’s just something we say that the media accepts as being an explanation when really it means nothing at all. Anyway, don’t worry, something will happen soon and the country will forget about you.” His blackberry beeped and he looked at it. “Well here we go, Paula Abdul is leaving American Idol and Ryan O’Neil made a pass at his daughter at Farrah’s funeral, by morning no one will remember your name.”

I would have preferred everyone know the truth but as long as people weren’t saying bad things about me I was happy. Mrs. President came over with Mommy and Bo. The President asked me if I wanted to play with Bo and I said sure.

I jumped down as Mommy sat next to the President. They enjoyed a refreshing beverage as Bo and I ran along the beautiful lawn and smelled the wonderful flower. For the first time since I met that bad kitty I didn’t have a care in the world.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

In which Foley causes an international incident

It all began so innocently. Pocket and I were outside, walking around the grounds of our condo. She spied it first. The all white kitty, looking around like a sneaky cat, then beginning to slip into the doggy door. It was Pocket, really, the whole thing was her fault, she told me that kitty did not belong in that house.

Well I am the General, not just online, but in my community too, and I have a duty to protect my neighbors’ homes, so I ran up to the door, and asked that kitty what she was doing.

“What?” the kitty said. “This is my house! Why are you bothering me?”

“I have an obligation to the community to make sure no strange kitties slip into our doggy doors, if you could please just step out and let me see your tags,” I asked, very nicely.

“Why you hassling me? Is it because I’m a cat?” the kitty asked.

“No. Of course not. That’s outrageous,” I said. “Some of my best friends are cats. My fathers a cat.”

“No, you see a cat trying to get in a stuck doggy door in a predominantly dog neighborhood and you decide it must be a housebreak!” the angry kitty said.

The cat was getting me mad. I asked her again just to show me her tags because if I could confirm she lived there then I would be on my way.

She refused. So I nipped her.

Pocket and I returned home and I thought the issue was done.

The next morning I woke up, went on line, and on every site I visited there was a story about how Foley had violated Casper the cat’s civil rights but keeping her from entering her house.

“MONSTER DOG BARS KITTY’S ENTRY INTO OWN HOME” the headline in the Daily Doggy Space said.

“MASSACHUSETTS CAT NIPPED WHILE TRYING TO GO IN OWN HOUSE” the Tanner Brigade Chronicles posted.

“HOBO HUDSON’S WORK FORCE GOES ON STRIKE, BLAMES FOLEY MONSTER” the Tampa Bay Examiner says.

“HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED RETURNS (Foley still a bitch)” the Daily Prophet trumpeted.

This was terrible, my carefully crafted reputation had been ruined. I rushed downstairs to get Pocket and have her arrange a press conference when I found the crew from Good Morning America there, and Pocket on the couch, talking to Robin Roberts, and saying she knew that cat belonged in the house and I acted inappropriately. Wow, did she just throw me under the Extreme Makeover Home Edition bus!

I ran back upstairs. I wanted to jump on the couch and nip her, but that would only add to the controversy. I waited until the film crew left then went downstairs where Pocket was self-contentedly licking her feet.

“What were you giving an interview to Good Morning America for?” I barked.

“They made me!” Pocket said covering her ears with her paws so I wouldn’t nip.

“Had did they make you?”

“They promised me a guest spot on Desperate Housewives. I am going to be Bree’s dog.”

“Oh don’t be silly Pocket, you are not going to be Bree’s dog.”

“They said!”

“Oh like Bree is going to have a dog who poops and pees everywhere.”

Pocket’s head dropped down in despair. “And I was supposed to have brunch with Tony and Eva at the Russian Tea Room,” she said.

“Never mind that, we have to get out a statement, do a little damage control,” I said hopping next to her.

“I did that already, I dragged a newspaper over where I pooed.”

“No, Pocket, damage control for me!” I said. “I did nothing wrong last night.”

“I don’t know I just heard this interview with a Yorkie on the TV who said it was all your fault!”

“That was you!” I barked at her.

“Oh, right, I thought she looked familiar. Handsome dog.”

I looked her in the eyes. “Pocket, concentrate, we need to put out a statement clearing me of any wrong doing.” She nodded. “First of all I love cats.”

“But you hate cats!” Pocket said.

“Work with me Pocket!” I barked. She put her head down. “OK. I love cats. I was on the front lines of allowing cats on Doggyspace. I have never denied a request for friendship from cats on the Tanner Brigade. I got involved in this because I thought someone was doing something wrong. If the kitty had cooperated and shown me her tags I never would have nipped her.”

Pocket nodded and said she would post it online. When she hopped down I changed the channel, and saw Meredith Vieira speaking with a picture of me behind her and the text: “Is Foley Monster an anti-catmite?”

When my response appeared online I was happy to see so many of my friends respond in support of me. But then that darn cat, who apparently was named Casper, was back on the TV saying that I had animally profiled her. I couldn’t believe it. He had played the kit card!

The commentators debated whether I acted correctly in questioning whether Casper should be entering the doggy door, but they all seemed to agree that I shouldn’t have nipped him. What’s the use of getting into it with a kitty if you can’t nip them?

That night I couldn’t change the channel without seeing a picture of myself with humans questioning my integrity. Bill O’Reilly said the nastiest things about me. Larry King said he has preferred cats over dogs ever since Lee surrendered at Appomattox and Lou Dobbs questioned if I actually had AKC papers.

But the worst thing happened that night. We were all watching the President speak and at the end someone from Cat Fancy magazine asked him if he had heard about my incident with Casper.

“Yes, I did hear that Foley Monster tried to keep a kitty from entering his own home,” the President answered, “and while I don’t have all the facts, I can say that Foley Monster acted stupidly.”

“No he din’t!” I yelled.

“Yes he dit!” Pocket said.

That night when Daddy took us out to do our business there were a bunch of kitties standing outside my house yelling catcalls and holding signs that said “Down with Foley” and “Foley is a Monster!” I went back in the house and cuddled up with Mom.

I barely left her side that night. I felt terrible. I know I shouldn’t of nipped that kitty but geeze did I deserve all of this? I spent the whole night right next to my Mommy.

That morning, while we were still in bed, the phone rang. Daddy answered it and said it was for me.

He held up the phone for me. Who was it? The media? Another mean cat? Conan?

“Hello is this Foley Monster?” a man’s voice asked.

I said it was.

“This is President Obama and I would like you and Casper to come down to Washington for some kibble and bits? Are you up for it?”

Oh. Snap.

To be continued……

Monday, August 3, 2009

Running errands

Foley: Yesterday was set to be a normal Saturday, sleep and snuggle late, get my scratches from Daddy while he sits on the floor on the computer throwing the green ball for Pocket, and then going to my blanket to lie in the sun while Mommy and Daddy run errands.

Pocket: And I have to go in my crate because I have a “peeing” problems and a “chewing” problem and a “Foley tries to kill me when we’re left alone” problem. So uncool.

Foley: But then it came time to leave instead of scooting us upstairs there were leashes grabbed, and talk about us going on a road trip. Much excited barking ensued.

Pocket: I thought we were going out for road kill. My mouth watered with anticipation at the thought of crushed squirrel over tar, possum and gravel, and the always delicious skunk a’la’car. But alas, it was only a car ride.

Foley: Pocket and I both have important jobs before car rides. We need to run, wiggle and squirm as much as possible so it is impossible to get us leashed, and once we are leashed, as we’re being carried, to push with our powerful little paws so we almost fall, or dart and spin as we walk the short distance to the car.

Pocket: We are then placed in the car. Foley has her own car seat, not one for puppies, but for babies, that she sits on and looks out the window. She doesn’t like me sitting there and snaps at me when I try. But that’s OK. I prefer to run back and forth between windows seeing if there is something more interesting on the other side.

Foley: Pocket has no idea how to ride in a car. She puts her back legs on the seat, and her front legs on to two front seats, and rides like Max coming down Mount Crumpit to return all the toys to the people of Whoville and their lessen known, uppity neighbors, Whomville.

Pocket: We came to a red light and that meant it was time for a red light challenge. A red light challenge is where you bark at as many cars as you can before the light turns green. I was able to get 23. I think that’s a personal record.

Foley: The first place we stopped was Lowe’s.

Pocket: I thought it was where you buy kibble and treats and squeaky toys. I think every store is where you buy kibble and treats and squeaky toys. Who needs anything else?

Foley: Pocket’s idea of what Lowes sold was ridiculous. Obviously it’s where humans go to rent a midget.

Pocket: Mommy got out of the car and Daddy stayed in it. They never leave us in the car alone because they are afraid we will get so excited we will explode all over the car.


Foley: Pocket and I barked and barked when Mommy walked into the store, because, while we play with Daddy, and love Daddy, we don’t exactly trust Daddy. It was Daddy’s family who kept the pilgrims from landing on a long strip of Plymouth Beach and had them smash into a rock instead so there could be a big hole in the side of the ship and they couldn’t go back.

Pocket: It didn’t take Foley long to start her bitching and kvetching about being scratched. Daddy was reading a magazine and at first he tried to stretch way back to pleasure her but his arm hurt, and I kept landing on it as I jumped from side to side. Then he pushed the seat back, which was not much easier. Finally, like a seldom used utility in an old building’s hallway the light finally alit in Daddy’s head and he brought Foley into the front seat with him.

Foley: Which is where I wanted to be. Duh!

Pocket: Then Daddy began reading to us from something called Entertainment Weekly how cats are becoming the new stars of the internet. I knew what was coming and put one leg over my ears and another over my eyes.

Foley: Cats! Stars of the internet! Are you kidding me! Why? Because they can play the piano? Big deal! Billy Joel can play the piano! Oh, and one of them jumps in and out of a box? God are humans that starved for entertainment? I bust my butt writing blogs; Hobo Hudson runs a company; Tabaatha is a top model; we have dozens of dogs providing countless hours of entertainment, and some Entertainment Weekly magazine says the new internet phenomenon is cats! Outrageous!

Pocket: Thankfully, at that moment, Mommy came out. Whenever Foley sees Mommy she forgets everything she is complaining about and starts barking and dancing.


Foley: Daddy put me back in my car seat. Mommy got back in the car. She had bought paint and flowers. They must have been out of midgets.

Pocket: We were moving again! I was back in position standing on the beat seat, resting my paws on the front, and when I looked in the rear view mirror I looked just like Chewbacca at the helm of the Millenium Falcon. Then Daddy stopped short and I fell.

Foley: I pushed the bitch.

Pocket: Daddy reached down and put me back in the seat and Mommy yelled at me because she didn’t want to see me turn into a real pocket rocket and go flying into the dashboard.

Foley: Shortly after Pocket was placed back next to me we stopped again. Mommy took a piece of paper out of her purse and told Daddy to sign his “check.” He scribbled his name and then she got out of the car. Pocket and I barked for her to take us (because of that whole trust issue thing we have) but she didn’t. She did some magic in the glass booth and came back with a handful of money, and she didn’t give none of that money to Daddy.

Pocket: I am so happy I have the same parts as Mommy because it seems like when you have parts like Daddy you get the short end of the stick.

Foley: Believe me, she’s right, short end of the stick. Very short.

Pocket: Then it was a quick trip to Target. Mommy got out of the car again and I jumped into the front seat to go with her but Daddy placed his hand down on me so I couldn’t move.

Foley: Daddy showed he can learn. He picked me up and put me in his lap, and Pocket climbed next to me, and we watched Mommy go into Target.

Pocket: There were windows in front of us and behind us and on our sides and my head kept whipping around there was so much to see.

Foley: I don’t know what they sell in Target but after watching people come and go I think it’s mismatched clothes for overweight people.

Pocket: I jumped over to the passenger’s seat, and then decided to jump over that into the back seat.


Foley: I saw her, she hit the headrest and bounced right back in place on all fours. And then she did it again, and she slipped between the headrest and the top of the car as pretty as anything you ever did see.

Pocket: After that I got a little cocky and decided to jump behind the back seat on to the little ledge there. I did that too. And I had a great view. And then I realized. It was hot, hot, hot, hot back there and jumped back down on the seat and began licking my scorching pads.

Foley: Attention Target shoppers there is an adorable dog sitting in his Daddy’s lap in the handicapped spot outside the store. Someone must have made that announcement because people were flocking to the car like there was some sort of vision mud splattered on it’s side. I did my best, smiling and panting, but sometimes a girl gets tired, and the sun was shining strong in the window, so I just lay down in Daddy’s lap.

Pocket: I was still running back and forth for the people, but after awhile they all look alike to me, and the windows were shut so there wasn’t much to smell.

Foley: Finally Mommy came back and I went back to my seat and I let Pocket snuggle next to me. We fell asleep on the way home. No wonder Mommy are Daddy are so tired all the time. Running errands is hard.

Pocket: We stopped and I began running around the back seat excitedly wondering what strange new place we had arrived at.

Foley: We were home.

Pocket: That’s right. Smelled familiar.


Foley: Mommy took us out of the car and we both peed.

Pocket: Then I went in and peed again.

Foley: She did. I was there.

Pocket: Mommy got upset. You’d think she’d be used to it by now.

Foley: Go figure.

Pocket: Then we both climbed on Mommy’s lap and slept the rest of the day.


Foley: Shoppin’ ain’t easy.

Saturday, August 1, 2009

Foley and Pocket take a meeting with Chief Glynn Johnson

When Foley first learned that her legal services were required in Los Angeles, and who her client would be, she was tempted to decline. But, after consulting with her fellow members of the Tanner Brigade she decided to take the case.

She met Deputy Chief Glynn Johnson in the offices of his attorneys: Ripemoff and Screwem. Chief Johnson sat at the conference table alone. When he saw the two Yorkies enter, each wearing black-framed glasses and carrying a briefcase in their teeth he stood and backed against a wall.

“Relax Chief,” Foley said. “We aren’t here to do any harm, we have been asked by Ripemoff and Screwem to be co-counsel.”

“But you’re dogs!” he said.

“Can’t get anything past you,” Foley said. “When you have a rapist on trial, you have a female co-counsel sit at the table with him, if a white man is arrested for a hate crime against a black man, then you want a black man at the table with him. If you senselessly beat a helpless puppy you then you get a puppy to sit at the table with you.”

Chief Johnson shifted uncomfortably. “How do I know that you don’t have sympathy for the victim and won’t give me your best effort?”

“Chief Johnson, I am outraged. Never have I represented anyone who has questioned our integrity or professionalism,” Foley answered.

“Well one of you just unprofessionally took a piss under the table,” he said looking down at Pocket.

“Pocket, get up here,” Foley said. Pocket jumped up in the chair next to Foley. “How many times have I told you not to pee in front of the clients?”

“I’m sorry but I had to pee!” Pocket said.

“I stood outside the building for 15 minutes holding your leash in my mouth while you did nothing but sniff the flowers and as soon as we walk in the door, bam, you’re peeing.”

“That’s because they gave us a big welcoming bowl of water when we got here and as soon as I drink I have to pee,” Pocket said.

“You don’t drink all the water, you take a sip to be polite,” Foley said.

“I was thirsty from sniffing all those flowers.” Pocket said.

“Excuse me,” Chief Johnson interrupted, “but am I being charged for this?”

Both Yorkies turned and looked at Johnson and Foley began to growl, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards.

“Oh, you got Foley mad,” Pocket said as Foley continued to snarl and growl. “You’re going to have to scratch her, right where her breast bone starts, that’s the only way to get her calm.”

“I don’t know, I ain’t much one for scratching dogs,” Johnson said folding his arms.

Foley growled louder and gave out a tiny woof. “You better do it Mr. Johnson you wouldn’t like to see her angry,” Pocket said.

Foley jumped on the table, walked across, sat down in front of Johnson, reached forward with her left paw, and began brushing Johnson’s right hand. Johnson lifted his hand and reluctantly began to scratch Foley where her neck met her chest and she gave out a soft moan like a squirrel enjoying an Almond Joy.

“Now can we please move on to my defense?” Johnson said. Foley was too overcome with pleasure to be much help, as she rolled over on her back and exposed her belly, which Johnson began to stroke as if she was a rabid skunk, so it was up to Pocket to look over the paperwork from Ripemoff and Screwem that outlined his defense.

“Oh,” Pocket said, “I see you are going with the original OJ defense.”

“That’s right: The Bitch Had It Coming.” Johnson said.

With that Foley snapped out of her chest rubbing stupor and humphed, walked back to her chair, sat down, cleared her throat and told the Chief this was not a particularly good idea.

“What my esteemed colleague and I think is a better strategy is showing that Karley had pre-existing injuries, and what you did had no bearing on her unfortunate passing,” Foley said, as Pocket sat up straight and adjusted her Tanner Brigade bandana at hearing she had been called esteemed by Foley.

“Now, what we would like to prove that there could be no injuries delivered from man to dog, or vice-versa, that would be life threatning,” Foley said confidently.

‘Yes, that’s brilliant, I’ve been saying that,” Johnson answered enthusiastically. “So I was thinking you could bring in some dogs, and I could do what I did to Karley and then the dog could give me a lick, jump down, and everybody could see their OK, and, in fact, that they enjoyed it”

“Um,” Foley said thinking, “I don’t think so. What I was thinking is we could show how dogs can’t hurt you.”

“Well, what kind of dogs, you know, I don’t want to be rasslin’ with no pit bull.”

“Let me show you,” Foley said. She whispered to Pocket who jumped down and opened the doggy door. The Narzario Dogs walked in.

“What those little dogs?” the Chief asked laughing. He stood up and walked around the table facing them. “Bring them on,” he said.

“OK Chief,” Foley said, “but I got to warn you, they’re from Chicago.”

“Oh, I don’t think I need…..” the gang took off and jumped at her him teeth bared “oh Mama help me,” the Chief said.

Magoo hit him high while Mikey took his legs out knocking him to the ground. Bennie, Francis and Sophie then were on him, scratching him, ripping his clothes. Then Juno ran up to him, grabbed a hold of his nose, and bit it off.

The Chief was on the ground screaming holding his face. Foley thanked the Narzario Dogs as they ran out, bouncing the Chief’s nose between them.

“Now that didn’t hurt did it Chief?” Foley asked.

“What are you talking about? I have scratches all over my body and my nose is gone. Don’t you think it hurts?”

“Well, then that would go against our defense. You know, it was a pack of dogs, how about just one dog?” Foley asked.

“One dog,” he said sniveling, “yeah, I think I could handle one dog.”

Pocket nodded and lifted the dog and a German Shepard wiggled through. “This is Baron, also known as Bear,” Foley said. “Now get him.”

Bear jumped on Johnson, knocking him down, and then turned his attention to his leg, where he sunk his teeth in, pulled, and removed the leg, then turned and ran out the door.

“My leg, my leg, that dog stole my leg!” he cried.

“But does it hurt?” Foley asked.

“Of course it hurts that dog bit off my leg for no reason!”

“Oh he had just cause Chief,” Pocket said. “We have this picture of you peeing on his lawn.”

“I didn’t pee on no dog’s lawn!” Johnson said trying to sit up.

“We have this picture Mr. Johnson. This is Baron’s house. And isn’t this you peeing on it at 2:00 AM?”

The Chief had sat up and now he squinted at the picture. “That was his house? I didn’t know that was his house. I was walking by and just had to pee!”

“That’s what I say!” Pocket said.

“Now Chief, does your leg really hurt, from that little dog?”

He used a chair to steady himself. “Perhaps we need to get you some medical attention?” Foley asked.

“Yeah, I could really use a Doctor.”

“Well then you’re in luck because we have, from Roseburg Oregon, the prestigious medical practice of Dr. Shams, Dr. Karma, and the pack,” Foley said as the dogs rushed through the door at him.

“Oh God!” Chief Johnson yelled as he tried to move, but fell to the floor, and then the dogs were on him, sticking their claws in his ear, tearing tissue off his leg for examining, sticking their nose into his nose cavity to determine the damage, and pulling out a thermometer.

“Wait, wait, wait” the Chief yelled. “The thermometer doesn’t go in there, it doesn’t go in there.” Duke stuck it in there.

The Chief jumped up, tried to steady himself on one leg, stumbled, hit the window sill, and fell backwards out the window, as the dogs ran over to watch him fall. “I think he’s going to hit the awning!” Foley said. “Nope, missed it by that much.”

Johnson’s body landed on the pavement. It caused a hole to open and his body was consumed by the fiery bowels of hell.

Foley watched as the pavement closed not even leaving a crack. “Well that worked out just swell,” Foley said.

“Us puppiez knowz how to do juztize,” Shams said.

“That’s right Shams,” Foley said. “No lawyers, or continuances, just make him see how his actions caused others to suffer, then dump him out a window into an eternity of darkness and fire.”

“The Tanner Brigade has done it again!” Pocket said.

“And so have you Pocket!” Bear said pointing to another puddle under the table.

“Oh man Pocket,” Foley said. “You have to clean that up!”

“It wasn’t me!” Pocket said and she sat down so no one would smell her wet who-who.

She was saved by Juno who told them that the staff of Ripemoff and Screwem had returned from their lunch.

“Let’s go,” Foley said. She opened her briefcase with her mouth and pulled out several Tanner Brigade bandannas. The dogs put them on, and then jumped out the open window, and the bandannas acted as parachutes and they glided softly and safely to the ground.

“Wow, that was cool!” Magoo said.

Foley gathered the bandannas and the Brigade climbed on their Pocket Rockets and headed back to their Mommy’s lonely laps, flying right over the spot where Chief Johnson was consumed by hell’s fire.

This was written by request of Shams, Karma and the Pack. It was written in memory of Karley and our own sweet Sophie Bub. It was also written in the hopes that we could put a smile on Baron’s Mom’s face and Mollie’s Mom’s face, and ease their pain and worry for a moment or two.