River Song and the Living Mink Coat

Pocket and Odie have been holding top level meetings every day.  They discuss ideas to raise kibble.  They developed a million cookie plan and put me in charge.

Humans, if they are like our parents, get very upset when they see people wearing coats made from animal fur.  But other humans find them luxurious.  Pocket and Odie have discovered a compromise:  Live animal fur coats.

Because they are thinkers and I am a dog of action I was put in charge of this exciting project.  My first step was to hire my dog friends to catch, but not kill, cute little vermin with shiny fur.  

In our first two weeks we went zero days without an accident.  It is terribly difficult to teach dogs, who are bred to catch and kill, to catch and release, in a cage, where the vermin can happily live.  Each day we increased the numbers of captures and decreased the number of fatalities.  I had the dogs upload their catch to me.

When the vermin would downloaded to mommy’s computer she was very displeased to have a furry lap.  Mommy insisted that we set them free but Pocket convinced her to give me a chance training them.  We herded the vermin into our shed

That is where I put my expertise to use.  I had taken a course in vermin training at Trump University.  I ordered dozen of corduroy jackets and over several weeks I trained the vermin to stay on the jackets like that thing stays on Trump’s head.

Before we launched the jacket on the market we needed real life experience.  We asked Mommy to wear the jacket on our walk.  She balked because it was 86 degrees and the jacket was covered with rats.  But she believes in our endeavours and, after several shots of tequila, we were on our way.

The first day things did not go as planned.  Two minutes into our walk a group of dogs saw Mommy’s jacket, jumped her, removed the jacket, and carried it off.

I really a going to miss those rats.

The second day Mr. Whitikar was sitting on a bench in his yard sorting his nuts when the vermin left the jacket and attacked Mr. Whitikar.  Neither he, nor his nuts, will be the same again.

I was very upset.  Maybe the problem wasn’t with my Trump University education.  Another class action suit I have to withdraw from.  

Please send me more vermin.  I have to train them how not to smell.  And how not to be smelled.  I know I can do it.

Look for our line sometime around Christmas.

(Which Christmas is still in question.)

Wordless Wednesday

Beat This Caption

"Excuse me?  Are you the dog who ate my sister?"

Pup of the Week: Tommy and Rickey - The New



We angels have been inundated with prayers, of late:  For Leo, Josie, Paco, Dot, Junior, and so many more.  Life holds one terrible promise:  All mortal dogs will join me on the immortal side when it is their time.  When that happens hearts will be shattered.  I know of only one cure:  The New.

I have a couple of friends who are The New.  One is Tommy, named for the legendary Tommy Tunes.  He is a puppy.  Puppy breath is an elixir for broken hearts.  It is the new car smell of the dog world.

 

We have gleefully witnessed Tommy grow up.  We met him in the middle of March at seven weeks old.  We watched him as he grew from a constant pee machine and a chewer to learning the sound of the kibble bag and can opener.   Then through his toilet training, his invite to sleep in the big bed, his shots and gradual weight gain, and the loss of his baby teeth.  Watching, and reading about Tommy growing up has done us all good,  Puppies are hope and Tommy has given us hope.

The New don’t have to be puppies.  The New can be older.  These are the rescues.  Rickey is one such Rescue.  He was chosen by Angels Tupper and Max to live with his Mom, Boris, and new adoptee Macie.  But Tupper and Max were quite worried.  They had not properly vetted Rickey.  He was brought into their home on a seven day trial period.

Rescues bring a different set of problems than puppies but they are equally as taxing  He had food aggression, boundary issues, (anything on the counter was fair game to Rickey), not used to walking on a leash and had bad seperation issues.  He also tore a dew claw playing and he did not trust his Mom to treat it.  Adding a third dog to a family can be problematic and his Mom has wrestled, during this seven day trial period,  with what would be best for Rickey and  her own pups.   We do hope it works out for everyone.  Every family needs A New now and then.

It is very peaceful here, but sometimes, when the wind is thick and air delicate we can hear mortal, human, chatter rising from across the River.  These voices are angry and divisive.  Mostly say, hooray for our side.  

But there is also an undercurrent of words about love.  Many of these words were devoted to dogs (and some to cats.)  They were the same voices who spoke unkind words about one another.  That is when I realized an undeniable truth.

We dogs (and other pets, but I shall use the word dog, if a cat wants to write a blog they can use cat) bind people together.  Politically, culturally, racially, religiously, people are divided, but the love of dogs bring them together.

My parents are baseball fans.  They met at a baseball field.  In a movie a character talks about baseball and America.  It is a good speech, but it is better when you change the subject to dogs.

“The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been dogs. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers.  Love has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But dogs have marked the time. These dogs, these blessed creatures are part of our past, Ray. They remind us of all that once was good, and it could be again. Ohhhhhhhh, people need dogs, Ray. People will most definitely need dogs.”

I could not have said it better myself. If you don’t have one, got get yourself A New.

Now who is this Ray?

Tails From Rainbow Bridge: Meeting Harambe

Rainbow Bridge has no end.  Next to where we dogs live is the humans’ area, and beyond that horses, and farm animals, and further out the truly wild animals like the lions and gorillas.  We dogs never visit the wild animal area and they never visit ours.

Until Monday.

I was curled up on a bank watching Romey, the fish.  He was reeling in a fish, swallowing it whole, then looking down into the water where the same fish magically appeared and bit his hook ready to be reeled up again.

“You know that’s the same fish,” I told him.

“I don’t care,” Romey says.  “Tastes good.

Then the ground began to shake.  We heard paws rapidly pounding on the ground.  We looked up to see a giant beast walking towards us.

“Big monkey,” Romey said.  “I am going to tell Smoochy.”

Before I could stop Romey, he was scampering towards Smoochy’s house.  The other dog were giving the gorilla a wide berth, but I refused to show I was afraid.  I walked up to him and asked him if I could help him

“I am new here,” the gorilla said.  “I am lost.”

“You want to head North, past the mountains, that is where you will find the jungle.”

He thanked me and turned to leave, but he had sparked my Yorkie inquisitive nature.  I asked him how he arrived.

He scratched his head.  “I was in jail,” he said.  “I don’t know why I was in prison.  I never did anything wrong.  But they still locked me up, in a terrible place, called Cincinnati.  My jailers were very friendly.  I ate healthy food regularly, I was treated kindly, and I had two female gorillas for conjugals, but I still dreamt of being in the jungle.

The worst part of my sentence was the humans who would come and stare at me.  Some would make monkey sounds; some would point and laugh:  It was cruel and unusual punishment.  There were some nice people, but I hated being watched all the time.

“Sunday a family was watching me.  The mother should have been watching her son.  I sure was.  The kid climbs through the barriers, and he falls into my pod.  At first, I thought he was going to break me out, but he just laid there crying.  All the people were screaming.  I grabbed the kid and tried to protect him with my body, but the child was crying, and the people were screaming.  I grabbed the child.  I walked him towards where he fell.  I was going to throw him back up.  It wasn’t my fault the kid couldn’t keep up with me.  I have no babysitting experience.  Then my keepers showed up with guns.   I thought they were going to shoot the whiney kid, but they didn’t.  They shot me and here I am.”

I told him how sorry I was and that he should not have been shot.  He laughed.

“I’m free!” he said.  “No more prison, no more keepers.  I can go wherever I want, eat whatever I want; it is paradise.  Those keepers did me a favor, little dog.  Now I just need to find the jungle.”

I began to give directions again when I saw Smoochy and Romey running towards me.  Smoochy grabbed the gorilla by the hand.  “I have monkeys, stay with me, you can play with monkeys!”

I chuckled, expecting the gorilla to say not but he smiled and said that sounded like a lot of fun.  I was going to tell him no but who am I to deny a gorilla?  I watched as Smoochy and the gorilla left hand in hand.

So now we have a gorilla in the neighborhood.

It could be worse.

He could be in prison.

Pocket Takes on the Ning Weasels

In 2009 when Foley founded the Tanner Brigade neither of us had the room in our kitty condo’s) for the servers to support the traffic created by our friends.  We needed partners.

Foley investigated various services and decided to pair with a group called Ning.  Ning stood for Nice Internet (Not Great.) I was skeptical because weasels ran the site Foley said cost wise this was the best solution, and she could handle the weasels.  She scheduled a meeting.  We met in a dumpster behind the 7-11.  We met with three weasels, all wearing raincoats and fedoras, I began shaking.

They told Foley their service worked intermittently, that they seldom had representatives to handle complaints, and they were only in it for the money.  Foley calmly explained that she represented a conglomerate of dogs who would hunt them down and bite them in their tails if they did not cooperate. To my surprise, the weasels capitulated to a little Yorkie.

The site functioned for years with little problem.  If one of our members was dissatisfied Foley was not afraid to go to the weasel dumpster and set them straight;  Out of respect to her legacy, the weasels keep the site running with the same proficiency when she went to the Bridge.

Lately, the site has not run correctly.   Several of my friends can not get on the site, or were only allowed on to certain parts.  I sent the weasels several sweet notes telling them about our issues with no response.  I had to go to the dumpster.

I met them at midnight on a rainy night.  They were smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap gin.  I told them about our dissatisfaction with their recent efforts.   They snickered.  “Is that right pussycat?” one of them growled.

I stressed the problems we were having, and we would very much appreciate their investigating the matter.  This was met with the suggestion that I am taken out behind the dumpster and drowned in a puddle.

The weasels grabbed me.  I knew I shouldn’t have come here without Foley.  I not only had let my friend down, but now I was going to get a puddle bath.  Then I heard a growling sound from the dumpster lid.  We turned, and we saw this face:

The weasels let me go  The tallest one peed a little  The other two promised that they would upgrade their servers and solve all our problems.  They made me promise they would never have to see that face again.

Somedays I am so happy I have sisters.

Wordless Wednesday