My name is Pocket Dog. I make my living on the mean, filthy streets of our Elderly modular home park. Everybody here knows me as a dog who can get things done. I ask them not to question my means, my methods. I'm old school, a pack of butts strapped to one leg, a Roscoe on the other, a denim diaper all I need to cover my butt. I work alone except for my office girl Foley. She's an old lollipop but she's quick on her paws and knows when to keep her tongue in her mouth. Dames like her are hard to find in this biz. She's good on one of those fancy new typewriter things, me? got no use for them gadgets. Carry all my knowledge under my fedora.
The other night Foley put on a pot of Joe and went back to working that fancy typewriter when she stumbled across a case for Pocket Dog Dog Detective. Two of our friends Kolchak and Felix were again given a tip of the hat for their skills at spinning a tale. To accept the kudos they had to write about unknown secrets, something that always peeks the curiosity of Pocket Dog Dog Detective. One of these unknown secrets was their Mom, a dame named Jodi Chick, or a chick named Jodi Dame, (got to stop chewing my pencils down to nubs) was once an actress and a singer. I told Foley to ask the Dame her real name. But the chick balked like a chicken on her last egg. She said we would never be able to find the name she used when she was a working girl. Well no one throws down the gauntlet of a challenge at the paws of Pocket Dog Dog Detective without me nosing it under something where I will forget where it was and will be forced to use some of my simollions to hire a dick to track it down.
I reached out to my friends Koli and Felix asking them to spill the beans on their Mom's identity. But they won't open their clams for nothing but their Mommy's yummy treats. I told them that trying to keep a secret from Pocket Dog Dog Detective was like trying to sneak a doughnut by Daddy at breakfast time, sooner or later, you're going to end up with the hole.
I went back to my office stumped like a tree attacked by an obsessive compulsive rabid beaver. Foley came in, freshly groomed, smelling like the valley in the early morning after you spent the night staking out a nut hoarding squirrel. She reminded me we lived in a village of old timers who have nothing better to do then stare at the boob tube all hours and do something called crochet. I had her look up that Humanbook site, the best thing to happen to a dog detective since kibble flavored smokes. She printed me up a picture of the Chick in question and I hit the hard streets of prune town looking for some answers.
I scratched at the door, and when Mr or Mrs John Q Grandma shuffled to the door I gave them the same spiel. I was looking for a child actress. My Mommy had to have her left toe nail replaced and she was a donor. It was a hard story but in these parts you can't show up at folks' door with nothing but muffins and a smile, you got to bring out the hard times stick whittled from a 1,000 broken dreams.
Some of these old timers have been sucking oxygen so long they wouldn't recognize a photo of their own kin. Others refused to answer the door living in fear of what goes on the in hard streets at the end of the perfectly manicured lawn. Others opened the door, barely let me get a word out, and then ran out the back screaming "talking dog!" But one lady looked at the photo, and handed back to me quickly, saying she didn't know nothing. Barely looking at a photo and saying you don't know nothing is a sure sign of someone with something to hide. And I don't mean the burned pie behind the toaster oven either. I scratched on her door hard and she came back.
I told her you could never be too careful walking the hard streets here. You're walking down to get the mail and the next thing you know your in the back of a van with a bunch of Mexicans headed west to pick fruit. It never hurts to have a little Yorkie watching your back.
The old dame considered this then came back and stuck a post it note to my tail. I chased that damn thing for 20 minutes before I finally barked to my short legged assistant for help. I told her I had a tail on a good lead and needed her help tracking it down. When Foley arrived I asked her to get the note, and, for being so prompt I told her she could take a whiff of my butt if she so choose, but she's a high class dame and passed on the rosy experience.
Foley got the note and pawed it to me. Curse the damn thing it was in that foolish fancy typewriter scrawl that Pocket Dog Dog Detective can't 'cipher worth a dusty raw hide bone. But Foley said she just needed to paw it into the fancy typewrite and we would have our answer.
I followed behind her because she's the kind of lollipop where the view is best from behind. She then entered the code into the computer and the video came on the screen. And I had solved the case of a chick named Jodi.
Now you can see what Jodi Chick did before she became a Chick and a dog blogger and loving Mom. And remember no matter how hard the case you can count on Pocket Dog Private Dog.
Here she is: Let's Go to the Mall starring Jodi Chick
The other night Foley put on a pot of Joe and went back to working that fancy typewriter when she stumbled across a case for Pocket Dog Dog Detective. Two of our friends Kolchak and Felix were again given a tip of the hat for their skills at spinning a tale. To accept the kudos they had to write about unknown secrets, something that always peeks the curiosity of Pocket Dog Dog Detective. One of these unknown secrets was their Mom, a dame named Jodi Chick, or a chick named Jodi Dame, (got to stop chewing my pencils down to nubs) was once an actress and a singer. I told Foley to ask the Dame her real name. But the chick balked like a chicken on her last egg. She said we would never be able to find the name she used when she was a working girl. Well no one throws down the gauntlet of a challenge at the paws of Pocket Dog Dog Detective without me nosing it under something where I will forget where it was and will be forced to use some of my simollions to hire a dick to track it down.
I reached out to my friends Koli and Felix asking them to spill the beans on their Mom's identity. But they won't open their clams for nothing but their Mommy's yummy treats. I told them that trying to keep a secret from Pocket Dog Dog Detective was like trying to sneak a doughnut by Daddy at breakfast time, sooner or later, you're going to end up with the hole.
I went back to my office stumped like a tree attacked by an obsessive compulsive rabid beaver. Foley came in, freshly groomed, smelling like the valley in the early morning after you spent the night staking out a nut hoarding squirrel. She reminded me we lived in a village of old timers who have nothing better to do then stare at the boob tube all hours and do something called crochet. I had her look up that Humanbook site, the best thing to happen to a dog detective since kibble flavored smokes. She printed me up a picture of the Chick in question and I hit the hard streets of prune town looking for some answers.
I scratched at the door, and when Mr or Mrs John Q Grandma shuffled to the door I gave them the same spiel. I was looking for a child actress. My Mommy had to have her left toe nail replaced and she was a donor. It was a hard story but in these parts you can't show up at folks' door with nothing but muffins and a smile, you got to bring out the hard times stick whittled from a 1,000 broken dreams.
Some of these old timers have been sucking oxygen so long they wouldn't recognize a photo of their own kin. Others refused to answer the door living in fear of what goes on the in hard streets at the end of the perfectly manicured lawn. Others opened the door, barely let me get a word out, and then ran out the back screaming "talking dog!" But one lady looked at the photo, and handed back to me quickly, saying she didn't know nothing. Barely looking at a photo and saying you don't know nothing is a sure sign of someone with something to hide. And I don't mean the burned pie behind the toaster oven either. I scratched on her door hard and she came back.
I told her you could never be too careful walking the hard streets here. You're walking down to get the mail and the next thing you know your in the back of a van with a bunch of Mexicans headed west to pick fruit. It never hurts to have a little Yorkie watching your back.
The old dame considered this then came back and stuck a post it note to my tail. I chased that damn thing for 20 minutes before I finally barked to my short legged assistant for help. I told her I had a tail on a good lead and needed her help tracking it down. When Foley arrived I asked her to get the note, and, for being so prompt I told her she could take a whiff of my butt if she so choose, but she's a high class dame and passed on the rosy experience.
Foley got the note and pawed it to me. Curse the damn thing it was in that foolish fancy typewriter scrawl that Pocket Dog Dog Detective can't 'cipher worth a dusty raw hide bone. But Foley said she just needed to paw it into the fancy typewrite and we would have our answer.
I followed behind her because she's the kind of lollipop where the view is best from behind. She then entered the code into the computer and the video came on the screen. And I had solved the case of a chick named Jodi.
Now you can see what Jodi Chick did before she became a Chick and a dog blogger and loving Mom. And remember no matter how hard the case you can count on Pocket Dog Private Dog.
Here she is: Let's Go to the Mall starring Jodi Chick
Who knew?! Well I'm am glad you solved the mystery. What kind of poutin does she like?
ReplyDeleteAnother mystery solved.
ReplyDelete