Pocket and the Lopper

It was ‘round midnight October 30.  In a few minutes, Halloween would commence.  Daddy took me for my midnight poop. Where we live is always quiet at night.  We are surrounded by the elderly who are fast asleep hours before our late night sojourn.  It is rare to see a soul.

We were a hundred feet from our home.  We had just passed the crossroads when we heard the most terrible grunting and snorting.  Was it some wild animal? We have seen deer and turkeys running in the moonlight. But this sound could only be made by a wild boar or a mad human.

Daddy turned and looked down the western crossroad.   He saw a figure, slowly moving forward, grunting and snorting, moving his hands in front of him, parting the air, like he was doing the butterfly stroke.  He was certainly not a resident, and who would be walking in our neighborhood at night when all the residents were asleep? Could it be the lopper?

“Don’t say anything,” Daddy said to me.

“Woof, woof, woof, woof,” I said.  Sorry, instinct!

The lopper turned towards us, and then slowly walked, snorting, grunting, and stumbling, like the undead.  Daddy reached in his pocket for his phone thinking about calling mommy, but there was no time. The lopper was ten feet away and closing.  “Can I ask you a question?” he growled.

When you meet a grunting, snarling creature near midnight on the day before Halloween, you never want to be asked a question.  It could be “Have you ever danced with the devil by the pale moonlight?” It could be “Why so serious?” it could be “do you mind if eat your brains?” or “Have you ever been lopped by the lopper?”

Daddy told him he could.  I stepped behind him to protect his rear and keep him between me and the lopper.  “How do I get out of here?” the lopper asked.

Daddy told him to turn around, take a left at the end of the street, to keep following and he would come to the main road.  The lopper thanked him, said his name was Chris, he had gone out to get some cigarettes, decided to visit his grandmother, and got lost.  He thanked Daddy and began walking towards the exit.
We walked 20 feet away.  Daddy wanted to keep plenty of room between us and the lopper.  When we turned around, he was gone. 

We hurried home, and Daddy told Mommy the strange tale.  
Halloween night, at midnight, we were back outside, under the moonlight, passing the crossroad.   We stopped where we had met the lopper. It was 120 feet from home. Daddy realized that the night before when we moved 20 feet away from the lopper, he should have been 80 feet before the curve in the road, and still visible.

  Also, our neighborhood is not hard to navigate, there is no place within a mile to get cigarettes, and it is doubtful he was visiting his grandmother because our pack is the only souls awake in the park that late at night.

A question whispered through the trees.  Was it real? Or was he a lost soul, since departed, pushing through the dimensions, snorting in frustration, looking for his way to the Bridge, and his grandmother, who was waiting?  A chill passed through us both. Was it an encounter with a strange human or with a spirit in the night?

Mommy thinks the lopper story is just a couple of overactive imaginations run amok.  But every time we go out at night, our eyes and ears are open for the return of the lopper.  He is still out there, when it gets dark, grunting and snorting, looking for his grandmother and the way home.


If you go out, with only the pale moon to light your way, and hear snorting and grunting, watch out for the lopper looking to get home.

Wordless Wednesday

Beat This Caption

Oh my God, I think I am getting another Mommy

Monday Question

How much does the time change bother you?

Pocket:  Our parents are lucky because we love being in bed.  We don't wake them up.  But we do start looking for our supper earlier and I had an upset stomach on Monday.  I don't handle change well.

November 4 2018 Pups of the Week: Trip and Lily

Thankfully, we have had a quiet week here at the Bridge.  My blogger friends let me know a buddy of theirs, Dennis the Vizsla, had crossed.  We had never barked at one another but have common friends, so I made sure Dennis was brought to the village that borders Doggyspace, Blogville, so he could meet all the friends that preceded him to the Bridge and learn how to visit his parents and try to ease their pain.
Once Dennis was settled I searched for dogs to be named Pup of the Week who should be recognized for their bravery, perseverance, and most importantly, love.

First is Trip.  This poor baby spent nine years in dog prison forced to breed to make puppies for his “owner” to sell.  I know there are hundreds of frat boys who heard this story and said “locked up and forced to have sex, score!” but dogs are not made for such a life, and hopefully no one is driving the frat boys to vote Tuesday, although it probably won’t matter, because they would just write in “me” on every line and wait for their cool new job.

Sorry, I digressed.   Trip and many other dogs were pulled from their puppy mill hell by the National Mill Dog Rescue.  The confused, but grateful pups were put in a van and driven to one of National Mill Dog’s facilities.  No one knew why Trip only had three legs, but that did not slow him down a bit. He enjoyed every moment of his new burst of freedom and charmed the Rescue’s workers.

Trip did have his down moments.  He had to get a bath and a brush.  There were lots of shots and even an operation to have him neutered. Trip was grateful for the surgery.  After nine years enough with the sex!

Trip was adopted shortly before Halloween and is now living like a prince getting all the love and attention he was cruelly denied.  I hope he has lots of years to make memories with his new family, so the bad memories fade away forever.

Rescue groups do a great deal of good work, but I also know a lot of parents who have got lost in the bureaucracy rescuing dogs create.  In Houston that almost led to a pug and her mom, who was suffering from cancer, being permanently separated.

The hero of our story, Lily, was in her Houston Texas backyard in August when she saw an opening in the fence and decided to explore the neighborhood. Before she could find her way home, a concerned citizen found her wandering the streets and turned her over to Animal Control.  Lily knew she had made a horrible mistake. She did not have tags or a chip and could not tell the people at Animal Control where she belonged. She was then given to the Rescue Group PugHearts.

Her frantic owner Rhina Cantu, who was undergoing chemotherapy at the time, searched for Lily.  By the time she called Animal Control Lily had been surrendered to PugHearts. China contacted PugHearts, and they said the Rescue required proof of ownership before they would turn over Lily.  Rhina had not got a license for Lily and did not have a sales receipt. PugHearts would not turn return Lily until they were sure Rhina was not trying to swindle them.

Rhina brought them pictures of her and Lily, but PugHearts told her they still were not proof of ownership.  Rhina asked to see Lily, knowing the dog would respond to her. But PugHearts refused. When Rhina hired a lawyer, PugHearts said Lily had been adopted by a family in Illinois.

Lily had not been rehomed. Last week a happy Lily was reunited with Rhina when the rescue decided not to contest the lawsuit.  Lily gave her mom 1,000 kisses and danced happily, just as Rhina said she would. Rhina knew the Rescue was doing its best to makes sure her baby was not put in a bad home.  She just wished she could have met with Lily weeks before and the Rescue could see how the little Pug reacted when she saw her mom.


There was a lot of unhappiness for Lily and Trip, but the important thing is that they are in their forever home with their loving parents.

Judge Foley Has an Order: Vote

On Wednesday my parents put Pocket in her crate, and left River, standing on her back legs, looking out the window, as they departed in their tiny white car.  My sisters were puzzled about their destination, but I knew, they were going to early voting.

Dogs don’t get to vote.  We are allowed to run for office, because of a quirk in the regulations.  Pocket ran the for the Massachusetts open Senate seat in 2000, and did surprisingly well, until she withdrew from the race, against my advice, after she pooped on the floor during a debate, certainly not the worst debate performance this century, but enough to shame Pocket.

It is a shame that dogs are not allowed to vote because only we, at least the nonworking ones, have a schedule flexible enough to study all sides of the issues and reach a reasoned decision.  Unfortunately, we are also the Lord’s most loyal creatures, and, when we enter the voting station, if our parents told us to vote a certain way, we would do it, even if it went against our interests because pleasing our parents is what we dogs do.  Word of how easily persuaded we are would spread, and unscrupulous characters would empty out the pound days before the election to put their candidate over the top, then return us once their mission was accomplished.

Here at the Bridge, where we have angels who have roamed these lands since the beginning of time, the right to vote is precious.  So many souls who were subjugated to the rule of others, without getting a say in their government, are thrilled that humans have the right to participate in government and elect their leaders.  They are stunned that people could have this precious right and not exercise it. The fewer people vote, the more unworthy their government becomes.

I beg you all, as a representative of those who never got the franchise, to make every effort to cast your vote this election.  I am not campaigning for one side or the other. Vote for who you want, but don’t let that vote define you. Your political views are a small slice of the pie that makes you the person you are.  Your neighbors, co-workers, relatives, and friends may not see the world the way you do and vote differently, but that does not make them a bad person. When judging a person do not just look at their political views, step back and see every piece of the pie.  The loving dog parents, the good companion, the supportive friend, and the caring mom or dad.

Here at Doggyspace, we stand united.  I wish I could say the same of the parents who helped us create our original online world.  Some of them are no longer friends because of who they for voted for. They may be only concentrating on a person’s single piece of the pie, or the person themselves overinflates the importance of that one slice, but it is a shame because what dogs have brought together no human should drive asunder.

So please, go vote for who you want, and then contact a friend you know voted the other way, and send them love, because, in the end, they are who you will rely on.  No one ever passed away surrounded by the people he voted for. Family and friends, more than a political alliance, gives you a rich life.


And of course, the dog.

River and the Invading Halloween Caravan

When our home was built, by the original owners, before I was born, it did not We have an enclosed porch.  That was added later, to the side of the house, where the main door is. This directs the flow of traffic to the steps, which are by our big kitchen window, so I can see anyone who attempts to enter our home.

When my parents are out of the house, and I am anxious about their whereabouts, I jump on to the dinner table so I can see the entire driveway, and get down to bark when they arrive and my torture ends.  Please, don’t tell my parents I do this. They would be very upset if they knew I got on the table. I don’t know why. They walk over the spot on the floor where I eat, why do they care if I walk over the spot they eat?  

I could not get up on the table Wednesday night, because my parents were home, but I wish I could.  I needed the vantage point. During my walk earlier in the day I had sniffed out a report of a caravan, mostly children, all dressed in costumes, some in masks,  some accompanied by adults, moving, in a hoard, towards our southern border.

There was no information peed about what this caravan wanted, but the rumors were that they desired to take our hard earned candy, and if we did not meet their demands they would show their true terrorist agenda by playing a “trick” on us.  How barbaric. 

This could not be tolerated. I instructed myself, a Griffon army of one, to take a position on the love seat and look through the kitchen window, towards the south so that I could see this caravan approaching.

I did not expect to see them during the day.  Of course, they would wait to nightfall when the costumed hoard could invade our neighboorhood unseen.  I prepared to use my two greatest assets, my resting bitch face and loud bark. I would scare these marauders from our borders permanently, then call a meeting of the elders, because there really ought to be a wall.

Shortly after dusk, I saw the first members of the caravan, disguised as a vampire, Wonder Woman, Batman, and a princess. I had to respect their willingness to blend in with us Americans, albeit only at Times Square, but they would not fool either my family or me. The costumes seemed hastily put together.  Obviously, they were not sending us their best people.

I began my warning bark.  Pocket joined in.  She didn’t know why.  She just barks when I bark.  We scampered to the window.  They were gathered outside our porch door just waiting to invade.  Our eyes were on them instead of our dad.  I never expected him to go on the porch with our candy, but that is what he did. He was going to negotiate with these terrorists.  He opened the screen door, just what the caravan needed to invade our house!  He held out the candy, the mauraders took it and retreated.

My Daddy came back inside.  I tried to tell him that opening the door to the invaders was a bad idea but we would not listen.  Several groups came to the house that night, and all retreated back south once they got their candy.  It was a risky play, but it proved that anyone invading our country could be turned back with kindness and candy.
Make sure you have a bag full of Snickers at all times.  It is our only defense from the costumed, marauding caravan that invaded our communities once a year under cover of darkness.