A vet visit leaves Pocket still pissy and Foley Monster pissed

The Foley Monster is outraged! She is flummoxed! She is appalled!

On Monday Pocket and I went to the vets for our yearly check up. We had decided, as a family, that the main health care issue we would discuss is Pocket’s persistent peeing. That was it! Sure, we’d get poked, prodded, maybe even jabbed, you have to expect these things, but then we’d move on to the problem pisser.

I went first. I weigh a magnificent 7.25 pounds. I’m a round, mean, fighting machine. The dogtor came in, read that I was nine years of age, and complimented me on how young I looked and how spry I acted. Well, I work out, I spend about an hour under the blanket putting my whiskers on. I mean all this doesn’t just happen!

Then he began to touch and prod. He was kind of ticklish. I put up with it. I can be a glutton for attention. Everything was just perfect; swab of the ears, beautiful; one little shot in the butt, not too bad.

Mommy was at the head of the table, closely supervising, making sure I wasn’t mistreated. Daddy was sitting in a chair holding Pocket with his arms extended towards me. Pocket was craning her neck, looking, sniffing, very curious about what procedure I was enduring.

Then Daddy talked. I specifically remember him being told not to talk. No one needed him to talk. Why Mommy taught him how to talk escapes me. He said: “she has some tartar build up on her teeth.” Oh I turned and gave him a look. Talk about my ta-ta’s will he? The Dogtor then opened my mouth, stuck his entire bulbous head inside, and told him he was right. I did have tartar.

“Let me get my gruesome instrument of extreme pain and torture,” the dogtor said. He got this sharp thingy, and then everyone, even Pocket, jumped on me, and Dr. Horrible again inserted his bulbous head into my mouth and began to scrape my ta-ta’s. You have no idea pain until you’ve had your ta-ta’s scraped while being held down by two men, two women, and a Yorkie.

Finally the torture stopped (but will my dignity ever return?) and I was handed to Daddy Judas while the dogtor took Pocket.

Normally I would spend the next day and a half in a snit but I had been waiting for this for weeks. The dogtor began to poke and prod Pocket. She got three jabs, and even the spray in the nose (and did not sneeze, very impressive but don’t tell her I said so.) Then came the moment I had been waiting for.

Mommy told the Dogtor about Pocket's persistent peeing problem. What would he suggest? A surgery? Pills that need to be forced down her throat? He asked questions. Does she pee in bed? No. In her crate? No. In a chair sitting with you? No. He then came to his conclusion:

"I think she's an excitable pee-er. She's just being herself."

Excuse me? You think she's just being herself? Oh that's unique. Yes. And when Tiger Woods slams his car full of Swedish models into a Mariachi Band I suppose that's just Tiger being Tiger. An excited pee-er. And I'm a frustrated masturbater but when I hump a stuffed animal nobody says it's just Foley being Foley.

Then they start to talk about litter box training her. Yes. That ought to class up the joint. A box of piss in the living room. Then we can just put the toilet between the recliners and bodily function our way completely through American Idol.

I was starting to get my mojo back as we were leaving the examining room, they were talking about my fluffy tail and my wonderfully curly tongue when the dogtor said he had one suggestion. Thank God. The man of science would now make sense. Pills? Spanking? A mean spirited trainer with a British accent?

"Foley is in excellent health," he said. Yes I am, more treats for me! "She is very strong!" That's right, time to reward me with a trained sister? "Why don't you make an appointment, bring her in, we'll give her a light anesthesia and do a teeth cleaning and possible extraction."

Say what?

A teeth cleaning? We came here to fix a problem pisser and now I'm getting knocked out to get my teeth brushed? How the hell did that happen?

Sometime in the summer I'm going to have to go to the dogtor for a day to get my teeth cleaned and you know why? Because, when people come over, and see the box of piss, and the pee stains on the rug, their attention will be diverted by my long, curly tongue, my wonderful tail, and my shiny white teeth.

So it's come to this. Nine years of living an exemplary life and I'm nothing but a beard for an immature pup with a house wetting issues.

Please, years, and years, and even more years from now, when I'm at the bridge, remember me as I was before I became nothing more than a diversion to cover for bad house training.

Monster out.

Trying to teach Pocket the treat game

I’ve been reading Pocket’s blog postings lately, and frankly, I’m concerned. Mommy always makes our vet appointments at the same time. If Pocket’s has one pending……oh crap. I hope it’s the female dogtor. I am much more accepting of women groping me then men. If it’s that old guy with the cold hands I am going to be one uncooperative bitch (@AKC registered). And he better not think of even sniffing my anal glands. Sicko!

You know how, when Pocket is sleeping on Mommy’s lap, I like to stealthily approach her and attack her with six pounds of ferociousness? Well, get this. Friday night I was walking across Mommy’s afghan to get to her lap while she sat in the cozy recliner when something tragic happened. My piggy toe got caught in the afghan. I looked at Mommy with my most helpless expression when wham! Pocket jumped on the recliner, lips back, teeth bared, snarling like a heffalump, and scared the preciousness out of me. Daddy grabbed her, put her on the floor, and held her down with one hand, while Mommy and he worked on freeing the toe. Once it was free I looked down on my sister, pushing back my teeth and snarling at her, but deep down, I was proud of her, another lesson learned by little Pocket at the foot of the Foley Monster. That someday, when I’m old and lame, she’ll probably kill me, tinges my pride slightly. But still, this old Yorkie is proud.

But she has never learned to properly play the treat game. It is quite simple. When you get your treat you don’t gobble it down as she does (so unprofessional), you let it sit, and wait, as slowly your slow learning sister creeps towards you with treat theft foremost in her mind.

There are three ways to play this game:

(1) The in between the paws: This is the game I usually play now, keeping the treat in between my paws while Pocket slowly tries to figure a way to snatch it from me. She starts with her head between her paws, doing an imitation of my treat. Then she slowly wiggles forward. Then, she pounces, trying to snatch it. I reach down, and lift it in my mouth, and, as she retreats, I spit if back out. Pocket begins to circle, waiting until she thinks she’s out of my peripheral vision and she makes her move again. I put it back in my mouth and she is left whining. Sometimes I drop it again for another round, and sometimes I eat it because it’s soggy and I’m tired.

(2) The ignore: This is where Mommy holds out the treat for me and I act like it is the most-vile thing I have ever seen. I even turn from it slightly. Then, when Pocket makes her move, I dart over, take it in my mouth, then spit it out and start over again. When I was young, this was my entire repertoire. But age has cost me my lightning fast reflexes. I still get by with expert positioning, guile, and timing. But Pocket beats me to the treat more times then I care to admit, and truthfully, I want the treat.

(3) The sit in: Or, more appropriately, the sit on. Basically I sit on the frackin’ thing. Pocket goes nuts running around trying to find it. Sure it gets warm, and sometimes, by the time I’m done, there’s some hair on it, but it’s my warmth, and my hair, so what do I care? There isn’t much sport in it, but there is humor. Pocket is sniffing all around my ribs, it tickles, I giggle, she whines and pouts, what’s not to like about it? Danm my sporting sensibility, if it wasn’t for that, this is what I would do all day.

I know many of you will be anxious to see if we can find a Dogtor to fix Pocket’s persistent leak. We’ll be back tomorrow or Wednesday with the answer.

Same Monster Time

Same Monster Channel.

Pup of the week: January 10, 2010 Ladybug

If you thought the debates over health care reform and airline security were tense, you should have been a fly on the wall at the Tanner Brigade home office as we discussed this week's pup of the week candidates.

We had two very clear candidates. One was the subject of a blog so perfectly written, so moving, that we retold it to every dog lover we knew and they were moved to tears.

The other is one of our favorite dogs of all time. She has bravely fought through a number of obstacles, including vomiting, lethargy, a restricted diet, and a terrible toilet in a humid camper.

We agreed that the first pup's story was as moving as any we have heard in more than a year of puppy networking. Their parents generosity, their disregard of their own needs, and their purity of heart deserved recognition.

But we had just made this pup's brother Pup of the Week a few weeks earlier. We have so many deserving dogs here that we would like to see them all honored.

Then Pocket, who had been studying the blog posts, said that several had a remarkable idea, awarding their Mom the Mom of the week award.

I, Foley, stood up and announced that this idea was ridiculous. Mom of the week. What is next, kitty of the, squirrel of the week? My comments were meant with silence. I reconsidered then announced that we should award a Mom of the week award. All the paws in the room clapped at my brilliance while Pocket sat back growling quietly to herself.

So, for this week, we announce our first ever Mom of the week: She is Apollo's, Ace's, Shakira's, Schultz's, Victory's and the two chi's Mom, who, when she learned that Apollo, in need of a pancreas transplant, would be getting it from a young Huskie in a kill shelter, sacrificed a few extra months with her beloved Apollo, to save the Huskie, who she named Freedom.

So congratulations to Apollo's, Ace's, Shakira's, Schultz's, Victory's and the two chi's Mom who is our first Mom of the week. And to your Dad, well, you're pretty good too, but you can be damn sure we'll be doing a kitty of the week before we do a Daddy of the week.

Now, on to our Pup of the Week.

She has been suffering so much more in the past months. She has had to take more pills than the Hilton sisters and been on the diet of the Olson twins. She has been poked and prodded like a citizen of Yemen trying to get on a Southwest airlines flight. She has been so desperately hungry she mugged Hobo's Dad but didn't have the strength to finish him off. She has scared her Mom so much watching her sleep was scarier then Paranormal. And yet through it all she has kept us smiling.

This week we got some fantastic news as her Bile Acid Test came back negative and she has gained two pounds. She still has a lot tests ahead of her, but she is such a brave pup, that she'll handle it like a stroll in the park. With every bit of news, if good or bad, she always presents it with a wink and a smile, even while committing a mugging.

Someday we will all face the testings, the diets, the uncertain future, that this lovely pup is facing, and when it is my time, I hope I can face it with the bravery and the humor that she, and her Mom are facing it.

So for that reason, and so many others Ladybug is our Pup of the Week

Pocket's Housebreaking theme song: Born To Pee

I have firmly committed myself to being a housebroken puppy, even if I have to become a pill popper to accomplish the goal. (After all Mommy and Daddy both need a half dozen pills to make it to work in the morning. The American Dream now comes in an easily swallowed tablet.)

To help me obtain this goal I have written, and will so be recording, with the Tanner Brigade band, my new single: "Born To Pee."

I hope you enjoy my noble effort at self-motivation:

In the summer we pee it out on the grass of a fresh cut American lawn
In winter we pee through doggy doors of plastic in banks of frigid snow
Sprung from crates out on the wet grass
Shaggy coated, piss dispensing and steppin out over the property line
Baby house training rips the bones from your back
It's a pee stain, it leaves Mommy looked pained
I should of learned this when I was wee
Cause pups like us baby we were born to pee

Gracie let me in and teach me how to mend
I need to learn how to be housebroken
Just wrap your paw round my colorful depends
And help me to leave outside a chitin
Together we could fill a yard with crap
We'll pee till we drop, baby we'll never go back
Will you pee with me against a flat tire
'cause baby I'm just a scared and lonely rug wetter
But I gotta find out how it feels
I wanna pee outside I wanna know if potty training is real

Beyond the doggy park recently groomed Shih Tzus pee down the boulevard
The girls lick their hohos with rear leg lifts
And the spaded boys try to pretend they're hard
The Pet-Co sign blinks bold and stark
Puppies are snuggled under a blank in a tryst
I wanna be with you Gracie on the lawn tonight
in a never ending piss

The sidewalks jammed with strutting poodles on a late night power walk
Everybody's vicking on the road tonight and there's no place left to step
Together Gracie we'll relieve our full bladders
Then we'll run on the grass, leap and roll - Oh!
Someday girl I don't know when we're gonna get to that time
Where we really have to go and we'll piss in the sun
But til then pups like us Maggie we were born to pee

Pocket's persistant peeing problem, perfect pictures, & place

On Monday, January 11, I will be going to the vet for my regular check up and to discuss my persistent peeing problem. I must admit, the prospect of a pee pow wow has me perplexed. I am perturbed with the prospect of lying prostrate on a couch while some psychiatrist probes my pained psyche to pin down if my peeing is provoked by being weened from the teet too early, abandonment issues, submission issues, or, Rainbow Bridge help me, having been overly examined by a creepy elderly vet with cold hands while just a pup.

It has been suggested by many a wise pup that my persistent peeing problem can be puzzled out by a pill prescription. This could very well be true, but I, Pocket, would propel that pill from my mouth like a prop plane. If Papa prefers Pocket to take a persistent peeing problem solving pill he best peel some Prosciutto, perfectly place Prosciutto over pill, pop in Pocket's portal and purchase his paws over Pocket's pie-hole until the pellet has passed Pocket's perfect pharynx. Papa will postulate if pill popping worked by looking for less pees in Pocket's perfectly penciled paragraphs.

Barking of things that are perfectly penciled we all know that no one can match our Zoe Boe's Mom Connie when it comes to drawing, but in our extended family we may have found a dog sketcher to replace her when she finally decides to step away from the easel. On Christmas Granddaughter #1, Mackenzie Perkins, presented to Foley and I her interpretation of us done in paint.


At the tender age of nine I think she shows outstanding promise (Foley is also nine and she ain't painted nuthin'.) While Foley loves it, secretly, I love it more, because, if you study it closely, you will notice that I'M BIGGER. That's because I know I hold a special place in her heart, and each time I look at her picture I'm reminded of the special place she has in mine.

As I write about perfect things and perfect thoughts I am reminded of my perfect place. Some nights, as we all lie together on our soft bed, with Foley under the quilt at the end, a spot from which she can hop off and download herself for further mischief without waking anyone, Mommy and Daddy, who like to read at night, will have sleep's dark and slient gate call for them simultaneously. When that happens Mommy, who sleeps on the right will roll over towards the edge of the bed and Daddy will roll over toward her, and put his arm around her, and his head half on hers and half on the pillow.

And where am I? Snuggled right between them, up against Mommy's lower back, and Daddy's tummy, and it's so nice there, so warm, so gentle. I don't worry there, not about anything, because we are all together, safe in our shared body hear, breathing quietly together, where nothing can harm us. Eventually Daddy rolls over, and Foley comes wandering under the covers, but I'm still protected by the warmth of that little moment when it's just me, Mommy and Daddy cuddled up against the world.

Pokey Lunn>\: Pup of the week January 3, 2010

When I was just a puppy and came home with Mommy and Daddy for the first time I did not know what to expect. How would I be welcomed? Would I be chased out like an interloper or welcomed with open paws? I was put down on the floor, just slightly larger then a bug, and Daddy brought down a black and white Shih Tzu. Daddy placed her on the floor. Immediately her tail began to wag, her mouth opened in a wide smile, she walked over to me, and gave me a welcome home nuzzle and kiss.

I knew I was home. I resolved if they were ever to bring home a pup for me to meet I would greet them with the warmth and graciousness that Blake had greeted me. Each time a new dog was brought home, as my parents took me to greet them, Blake's hospitality was foremost in my mind, until I saw them, and thought "Hey, who the hell is playing with my toys?" and started barking. The intention was there, but the worst angels of my nature always took hold.

I know how difficult it was for Blake to greet me as an equal, and firmly support dogs who resist any interloper into the circle of love that is completed by their Mom and them. But I have an awe-filled respect for those dogs who welcome a pup, whose sole intention is to steal some of their beloved Mom's affection, as a best friend.

And no dog I know has done so like our Pup of the Week: Pokey Lunn.

For those of you who don't know, the Brigade has a new pack member, a beautiful boy who answers to Cooper Lunn. His Mom brought him home on New Year's Day, the best gotcha day of all. She was worried, of course, because Pokey owns so much of heart big heart, and Mom would never do anything to hurt him, that the Pokester wouldn't understand why there was an intruder on his couch and would welcome him with the distrust and trepidation, of, well, a Mini Monster.

But after a little sniff, a little nuzzle, the tail started wagging, the smile came out and Cooper Lunn's Gotcha Day was over. He was home.

So, for his graciousness, his hospitality, and his beautiful spirit (and wonderful Mom) Pokey Lunn is our Pup of the Week, and you're all invited to our place for next year's Cooper Lunn's Gotcha Day's Eve party. We'll wait until ten seconds before midnight, count down from ten, then watch his balls drop

A New Year for the Tanner Brigade

Hi, the Foley Monster here, wishing you all a happy and healthy New Year. We haven’t posted a blog in a week. We were on staycation. We had a great time. We played the slots at Mohegan Sun, had a dinner at a nice restaurant (but it was our second choice, the first had spiked milkshakes but it wasn’t open, we’re still wracked with disappointment), we celebrated my Mom’s birthday, we stayed up New Year’s Eve watching the annual exploiting of Dick Clark’s deteriorating health while drinking Foleytinis (Mix cocanut rum, peach schanppes, pineapple liquor, and orange juice and garnish with a jerky stick). On Friday Pocket and I chopped down the Christmas tree then hid under the bed when Mommy began yelling about it being artificial. (Mommy’s New Year Resolution was to be calm and assertive, oops.) Guess you’re not supposed to chop down an artificial tree. Who knew? Saturday we helped Daddy get rid of the snow with our massive pees.

Pocket made a resolution not to pee in the house anymore. She broke that shortly after we chopped down the Christmas tree. I had resolved not to attack Pocket anymore if she didn’t pee, but I am no longer held to the resolution. I have not attacked her yet. My main weapon is surprise, which is why I attack her in her sleep.

We finally figured out how to use one of Erin’s layouts on our homepage. We were so excited we accidentally downloaded ourselves to Hobo Hudson’s house, which normally is a good thing, but my forgetting to file paperwork in time may have cost him a few thousand kibbles when he sold his company. We were able to make it home safely without facing the wrath of the Hobo because he was making googley eyes and leaving bacon strips for the girl down the street.

Pocket then decided we should use Erin’s layout as the main layout for the Tanner Brigade. I knew immediately how I felt about this. If people like it, then it was my idea, if they don’t, it was all Pocket. I think it will affect pages that contain blogs, members, videos, photos, and forums. Let us know what you think. We want to snazzy the place up a bit.

I am very excited about the upcoming year for the Tanner Brigade. It’s our first full year together and we’re trying to come up with even more fun events. We have so many brilliant pups here: the computer expertise of Erin, the beautiful artistry of Zoe, the fun contests run by Luca and the Argentinian pack, Shiloh’s Caniscopes, the Pack’s Puppy Digest, Tadertot’s Popsicle jokes, Hobo’s business blogs, Hattie Mae’s fashion photos, Sarah Jane’s smart tips for dog owners in the economy humans screwed up so badly, Buttons’ wisdom, the runway magic of the Lambies, and the daily miracle of Morgan.

So please either let me know if you like the new look, or Pocket know how badly she screwed up the old look. We look forward to many fun days of play at the Tanner Brigade, and to be ready with snuggles, soft licks, and broad shoulders, for the bad days.

We may not be calm, or very assertive, but we are a pack: loved by our parents, unconditionally loving them back, and looked over by Tanner and the Rainbow Bridge Angels.

We are the Tanner Brigade.

Long may we run.