Foley Raised A Cain

I have never sought the spotlight. I prefer to stay off stage and comment on the events of the day. But today I reluctantly found out that a long forgotten incident has caused me to become fodder for the American tabloid machine, even though I did nothing wrong.

The incident began, as so many do, innocently enough. I was a young dog. I had been working for months creating, and perfecting, squirrel jerky. I was selling it out of the sliding glass doors of our condo when a passing kitty told me there was going to be a National Restaurant Convention coming to the Boston area later that month. The kitty said I should go to it to peddle my jerky.

I saved my kibble and bought a bus ticket to the big city. I loaded the jerky into my fanny pack, boarded the bus, and headed off to make my fortune.

I set up my Squirrel Jerky booth. While some of the humans showed a slight interest none of them saw it being a big item on their menu, and they reminded me something I, in my young and inexperienced ways, had forgotten: Dogs don’t eat in restaurants.

I was taking my display down, ready to return to the small town life with my tail between my legs because I got Tabasco on it when I heard a deep voice say “Squirrel jerky, what a wonderful idea!”

I turned around and standing there was a big man, must of been about 210, black skin, mustache, glasses, thinning hair, pleasant smile, and he said he was interested in my jerky technique. I pulled out my samples and said I could show him but he said it would be better if we did it in his hotel room. I, being naive, agreed.

I went to the room at the appointed time and scratched the door. He let me inside. I could smell a mixture of Aqua Velva and Manischewitz on ice. I removed my fanny pack to display my wears on the floor but he said he had a bad back and he needed to see them closer. He helped my up on the bed. It was there that I lay my jerky.

As I was explaining the product he began to pat my head, which I did not mind, in fact I found it plesaent. As I continued he scratched under my chin, just above my breast bone, which is my sweet spot. He asked me if I liked it and I said I did. He then told me that he was over talking to one of his pizza buddies when across the room he saw the swish of my tail and had to get to know me better.

I tried to steer the conversation back to jerky. I began to explain how I made them from the finest squirrel by product when suddenly he lifted me, flipped my over, and began to give me an unwanted, and unauthorized, belly rub. I tried to get free but the big man kept me presed down on the bed. I finally was able to nip a finger and he cried out and grabbed his hand. I jumped down from the bed and began to nip at his heels. He tried to grab me but I darted back and forth barking until the hotel manager came to to tell him there were no dogs allowed in his room. When the door was open I dashed out, down the stairs, to the bus station, and on the bus home, ashamed that I had left evidence all over my bed.

I had chalked the incident up to a lesson learned and forgot about it until today when I got a call from the Huffington Post asking me if the incident was true. I did not know why it mattered, but I told them it was. Well it turns out I wasn’t the first lollipop who had her belly rubbed without permission by this man. In fact he had several accusations made against him. And he was running for President of the United States.

Now it seems that having an illegal Yorkie in his room has derailed his campaign and he is going to drop out of the race.

I am sorry this happened Mr. Cain. I did not mean to cause you any pain. Just wish you hadn’t made me run out in the rain.

Oh, and one other thing. Can I have my jerky back?