My Right Paw

If you read my blog last week you will know that I suffered a paw injury.  Mommy, who has no medical training, attempted to fix it, while I knew that all wounds can be healed by a dog’s tongue, and we battled over what treatment was better, until it was healed, whereby we both took credit.

Shortly after I published the blog I was still licking my paw.  Mommy told me I would hurt it again if I persisted.  I scoffed.  What does she know?

The next morning I was lame again, unable to put any wright on my right paw.  Mommy told me I had done it to myself with excessive licking.  I disagreed.  The injury had nothing to do with my licking, the wound was caused by one of the following.

Pocket licking my feet while I was sleeping because my paws are delicious.

Our house is built over an Indian Dog Burial Ground and the spirits of the dogs attack my paw at night.

Robbers broke into the house while Mommy and Daddy slept and I fought them off with my paw.

I am the first dog to have a Stigmata.  

Mommy pulled out the darn socks again.  She, with Daddy as her accomplice, shoved my leg into the sock, they then bunched it up and taped it, so I could not lick my paw and heal myself.  Then Daddy, let out of the house because he ankle monitor was malfunctioning, went to the store and he bought booties.

This was the latest of my many public humiliations.

I was licking the sock so they put the boot on so I could not get to it.  I said fine.  I wore the one boot, like Michael Jackson attempting a trend that was doomed to fail.  I waited.  I knew my parents.  The boot just slipped on.  They had to tape the sock on.  They are weak and lazy.  Like Fredo married to Fredo.  After a day they decided to just put the boot on.  And when their backs were turned I slipped that boot off like Lindsay Lohan before knocking heels.  Oh I feasted on my foot until they caught me.

They soaked my foot at night in either Epsom salts or peroxide.  I calmly sat there with my foot in the Dixie Cup of doom, this time relaxed, like the drunk, sleeping fraternity brother with his two roommates slipping his hand into water and waiting anxiously for him to pee.  Daddy also bought something called Liquid Bandage which he sprayed on my cut and man did that sting.  It also had a bitter taste to keep me from licking.  Bitter taste my butt!  Once you’ve worn a sock for ten days how bitter could anything taste?

Then Mommy betrayed me.  She went on Facebook to say that I had opened the injury on my foot by licking, completely disregarding the Stigmata and Indian Burial Ground theories.  She asked for the opinion of other humans.  I don’t mind this.  But to do it on Facebook?  It’s just so...common.  TB, Doggyspace, the Blogger Community, sure, but Facebook, where people go to discuss Wal-Mart sales and the Kardashians?  I think not.  

Someone did tell her to use as product called YUCK, which sounded great to me.  I love gross things.  Human sweat, people with morning mouth, the occasional stool.  The more YUCK the better.

This battle continued for nearly a week.  Mommy told me each morning while I was dipped and socked that if I didn’t chew my paw I wouldn’t have to wear hosiery.  On Tuesday I gave in, and I am sockless again.  But now, when I lick my foot I get a pinch in the butt.  The simple humans think I will think each time I lick my foot I think it will cause me a pinching pain in the butt but truthfully it makes me think I’m on the subway.

So that is this week’s installment of As The Paw Turns.  We will see you next week.

Nine beagles, rescued from a research lab, step outside for the first time

see rescued beagles here

Buddy, Moose and Sydney are our November 27, 2011 Pups of the Week

There is a joke by the human comedian Bill Cosby. I am not a big fan of human humor, Fozzy Bear is more my style, but I thought he raised a good point. He talked about, as the father of a male athlete, you get up early, take him to practice, take him to games, pay for the uniforms, pay for the equipment, work with him in the yard, take him to colleges, and, when they score a touchdown, and get on TV, they look in the camera and say "Hi Mom."

I think, as dogs, we are guilty of that too. Those of us who have Daddies, while we love them, we really are Mama’s dogs. If Mommy is gone we might be sitting with him, or playing with him, but when Mommy appears, boom, we’re gone.

This week I learned that my very good friends, Moose, Sydney and Buddy, have a Daddy who had become quite ill. And it’s one of those illnesses which they haven’t found a cure for yet. And it’s one of those illnesses that keeps getting worse. I don’t like to think about those illnesses.

And Sydney’s. Buddy’s, and Moose’s Daddy, well he’s a great Daddy. He’s not one of these Daddies who think of dogs as one of Mommy’s little “distractions” to keep her happy. He is a true Daddy to his pups, making sure they go with him on ride, on vacations, to car shows. He’s the type of Daddy that, when a pup tells us they long for a Daddy, we wish they had.

And he is the kind of Daddy, like my Daddy, who understands that an afternoon with their dog is an afternoon well spent. He takes cares of Buddy, Sydney and Moose like he takes cares of his family. He did such a good job taking care of his family that his son. Jordan, inlisted in the army and went to Afghanistan to fight for our freedom. What better example could a Dad set?

Now the good news is that Moose’s, Sydney’s and Buddy’s Daddy has a lifetime to live. The bad news it that it’s one of our lifetimes to live, which, everyone who has ever loved a dog before knows is way too short. He has medication to take away his pain, and he has the love of a wonderful wife, a strong son, his family, and three beautiful dogs to make him feel like the best Dad in the world.

Which is what he is.

So we raise our tails in salute to Moose, Sydney and Buddy. We vow to help their Dad, and their Mom and their family through some hard days and to celebrate their good days, because we are all one family and they are an important part of it.

And for those of us with Daddies, let’s not take them for granted, and to snuggle up to them too, because they are as deserving of our love and our Moms.

Pocket Dog: Pants Free in 2012

I, Pocket Dog, have a very important proclamation. As many of you know. in my four years of existence, I have been inflicted with excitable urination syndrome, depressed urination syndrome, comfortable urination syndrome, I don’t feel like getting out of the chair urination syndrome, ah the hell with it I am just going to pee on the floor urination syndrome. For a young dog I was afflicted with lots of syndromes.

I am often asked how did I cope with all these syndromes. Surprisingly well. There were some positive side effects. I didn’t have to go outside in the rain, or the snow, or the cold, or the warm, or the sun.

The bad side effect was that Mommies don’t like it when you pee on their rug (but Manny’s Rug Cleaning and Pig Butchering sure does) and I had to wear pants. Some called these pants diapers. I don’t like to refer to them as diapers, Diapers are something you wear under your pants, unless your Batman or Robin, and those two have a whole other thing going on. I wear my pants, denim pants, and I don’t wear diapers, or underwear, and let me state, that I started this trend. Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Brittnay Spears, all those lollipops ripped off my look!

Mommy and Daddy kept trying to get my out of my pants like a high school sophomore at his first boy girl dance. Daddy began to keep track of how many times a day I needed a pants change. I was averaging 14 pees a day. My Daddy try to keep up but usually, by the end of the day, he would be cuddled in the fetal position under the table crying “I can’t keep up, I can’t keep up.”

That’s when Foley proved to be helpful. She put me on a strict regiment of kegel exercises. I worked out everyday and soon I cut down on the 14 urinations a day. I was down to seven or eight. In the last couple of months I wasn’t having what my Mommy called “accidents” (but if they happen every day for 4 years how accidental could they be) at night. And then the decision was made.

Now, after supper. I am pants free. There is nothing between my underside and the floor but brown and tan hair. At night I am out there and I am loving it!

And now for my proclamation. Pocket plans to be pants free in 2012!* No more Pocket piddling jokes, no more looks of shame from my parents, no more service people coming to the house and saying “yo, why’s the little dog wearing denim pants?” None if it. Done. Pocket dog will be pants free in 2012.

You can count on that as much as you can count on the word of anyone running for President.

*Pants free in 2012 does not include when Pocket is playing ball, because Pocket is known to leak when she is playing ball. Also it does not include when children come over because Pocket gets very excited and pees when children come over. Also, since Pocket going pants free will have to be passed by Congress it is unlikely to actually happen.

Tiger is our November 20, 2011 Pup of the Week

It seemed like, for a good long while, it was another Pup of the Week, another very sick pup. But this week it’s another Pup of the Week, another pup happily ensconced in their forever home. Last week it was Wishbone. This week it’s Tiger.

Tiger’s life started out like a morning nightmare. Thankfully the rest of his life will be filled with sweet dreams.

He began his life locked inside, no feeling of sun on his fur, no smells of nature drifting into he wet nose, no tongue tasting everything that looks interesting. Because, as he said in his first blog on The Brigade, he had hit the jackpot. He got fostered by Sierra’s and Nase’s Mom. Jackpot indeed.

From a cold hard surface Tiger got a fluffy pillow in his crate. Food came at a regular time each day. Water was always available. And the food was so tasty. Like nothing he had eaten before. When he had become fostered he was too thin but with all the good food that problem was quickly righted.

And it took Tiger no time to get himself up with the rest of his pack, the wonderful Sierra and beautiful blob Nase, who gave up precious love time from Mom, and precious mattress space, to allow Tiger to sleep on the bed. At first she said it was for only one night. But the next night Tiger jumped right up there on the bed again and his foster Mom didn’t have the heart to tell him to get down. It was here that Tiger found his first great unknown talent. He is an excellent snuggler. And in that bed, in that snuggle, for the first time Tiger felt love.

Not only did he get to be loved, her got to be a dog again. He wrestled with Nase. Sierra warmed up to him quickly, sensing an ally in her battles with Nase. Sierra ever forgave being run over by Tiger when he was racing Nase in the backyard. Sierra watches over them and interferes with her big snapping teeth if things get out of control.

When the story of his first days as a foster pup with Sierra and Nase were told we all responded the same way. Tiger was not in his foster home. Tiger was in his forever home. And this week we found out we were all correct.

Tiger was overjoyed when he told us the news, jumping up and down, barking that he was in his forever home. He told us with great pride he had a Mom, all his hopes, his prayers, his wishes, had come true. He had everything he ever wanted, a loving Mom, a mentor in Sierra, and in Nase a playmate and a bother all rolled into one. As Tiger said, he and Nase became the terrible twins.

As Tiger reminded us in the blog announcing him as our newest member, that there were still many pups left in shelters, and, while rejoicing in the joy he found, he asked us to pray for those left behind.

Which is why he is a very fitting Pup of the Week.

Foley Heal Thyself

Oh nobody knows the trouble I have seen this week. On Monday I got a cut, due to totally irresponsible walking by my Daddy.

My less than attentive parents didn’t notice the hitch in my gait until I jumped off Mommy’s recliner on to the hardwood floor and while my back legs and left front foot moved in my normal, graceful trot, my right leg Yamaguchid all over the floor. Pocket noticed. We usually attack one another when one of us is lame but she just laughed thinking I was doing an imitation of the previous Monday’s Nancy Grace dance elimination dance.

I hobbled for a drink of water. No one noticed. I swear I could spontaneously catch fire one day and my two slack jawed parents wouldn’t turn away from the bad dancing they are enthralled with on the television. Finally Daddy noticed and he helped me into the recliner. He tried to check my paw but screw him! He couldn’t bring the water dish to me he doesn’t get to play with my toes.

Truth is my pads really hurt. Daddy took us out on our last business trip of the night and I was moving like Ryan Howard making the last out against the Cardinals. Then we came in and Daddy held me while Mommy began to look at my paw. Hello! I highly doubt either one of them are medical professionals. And this was my favorite paw. It’s the one I use to paw at people to get them to pay attention to me. I wanted to be left alone. I knew how to fix my paw. It just needed a few hours of licking.

But no! Mommy, who has no medical experience, and doesn’t even have paws, thought she knew better: control freak. So first she picked up scissors, and, with no grooming or barber experience, began to trim the hair around my injury. Talk about your delusions of grandeur! Cutting my fur? She should be the Patriots trainer. Tom Brady gets a concussion she can run out there and shave his head. Anyway she cuts the fur and determines that I have a cut between what we call, cutely, in our house, my piggy toes, but on this night I referred to as the (boolahlah) things that were paining me. She hands me off to Daddy, the igor to her Frankenstien, and then she came back with a Dixie cup, which I thought was to put my hair in so it could be sold on e-bay but actually contained some liquid that smelled funny and then, while Mommy held the cup, Daddy tried to put my paw in the cup, which, while being exactly the same plot of a Tiger Woods sex tape I downloaded, when he finally overpowered me, and stuck the paw in the cup, made me scream “oh, sweet, fancy, boolahlah!” Then, to top off this botched operation, she squeezed the paw with a towel, which dried it, and made my eyes bug out of my head like Rerun on What’s Happening when he found out there were no cheeseburgers.

Then I got put in bed where I could finally give my paw the medical attention it needed. I lay in bed and licked my paw. But then Mommy got in bed and Dr. No Diploma told me I could not lick my paw. Was she crazy? This is the only way it would heal. I licked, she swatted my butt. Lick, butt swat, lick, butt swat, lick, butt swat. The entire thing not only totally reenacted the Kardashian-Humphries wedding night, but lasted longer than both their foreplay and their play.

I finally fell asleep despite the pain. I woke up and gimped through my morning business. I then sat in my chair next to Daddy and licked my paw. But Mommy got up and not only did she tell me to stop, she took one of her tiny socks, and put it on my leg, and taped it securely with package tape. I was frustrated, humiliated, emasculated, predated. And when I got to the floor, which, as if laid out by Jeff Probst before a Survivor challenge, goes rug, hardwood, linoleum, just to mess with me, had me slip sliding away.

On Wednesday there were no more socks, I think Nurse Rachett had taken some pity on me. And my foot, thanks to my licking, was getting better, except when they stuck my foot in that boolahlah Dixie cup of pain. But I still limped around because Daddy was carrying me a lot since he hated to see me limping, and I decided to milk this thing until I got tired of it or someone dropped their sock.

But by Thursday I forgot to limp and getting carried was over, and so was the butt slapping, which I had grown to love, and the Dixie cup of doom. Mommy says it was from her stopping me from licking it but I know the truth. It was my magical healing tongue that did the job.

If only Kris Humphries had a tongue like mine he would still be married.

Pocket's Top Ten Reasons She Does Not Want A Zombie For A Parent

Lately there has been lots of blogs about zombies. Kolchak’s and Felix’s Mom even took place in something called the zombie apocalypse over the weekend. People took scary pictures of themselves with zombie gore on them and posted it on line. I didn’t like this at all.

I don’t want my parents to be zombies. I like them just the way they are. But if you must know here are my top ten reasons for not wanting my parents to be zombies.

10. Zombies are terrible walkers. They don’t hold on to the leash. They don’t walk in a straight line so they are always tripping over you. They never remember the way home. No matter how much you tug they only stumble the way they want to go.

9. They don’t pick up your Vick. If they do they taste in then throw it down in anger.

8. If you see a human and bark at them, then walk over to them wagging your tail to get petted, they eat them.

7. If you chase a squirrel day after day, and finally catch them, your zombie parent eats them too.

6. Every morning for breakfast: Brains.

5. The importance of grooming, both yours and theirs, becomes completely unimportant.

4. They don’t like to sit, and when they do, their laps aren’t warm.

3. When you pay play fetch with zombies they throw the ball and, after your retrieve it, and bring it back, they have wandered off after some brains.

2. They are undead, they have body parts falling off, but they still get mad if you pee on the rug.

1. It turns out the undead are cat people.