Foley Take Exception to the New Way a Dog's Age is Calculated

 I read another study by people who know nothing about dogs but pretend they are experts. This one had the most scurrilous claims ever made against nature's most perfect creature.  The report pontificates that dog's age much faster than people realize. In fact, when dogs turn two, they are actually 40 in human years.

I know why these researchers have advanced this convoluted argument.  Humans have a completely different view of aging than dogs do. We don't pay any attention to the calendar.  Worrying about time passing is wasting time, and we don't have time for that.

Humans mark off each day like they are completing a prison sentence.  Dogs only measure time by meals. We consider the space between eating as an entire day, especially since we spend so much time sleeping.  When we bother our parents to feed us, we are telling them the alarm didn't go off, and they are LATE. We are worried about their missing work or an appointment.  It's not that we are just hungry. Honest. We aren’t obsessed with eating. We wish to keep you on schedule.  

Every person has rejoiced in watching a two-year-old dog play.  We are so full of life and energy. So, when they turn 40, people keep themselves from thinking they are aging by saying, “how can we become old, we are the same age as that spunky little dog?”  Ratcheting up our age so that humans can feel better about themselves is just wrong.

 I have discovered an addendum to the research that states when we turn three; we are considered to be 50 in human years.  We are not yet elderly, but we are putting some kibble away for retirement, checking out property in Florida, and if we are intact, asking our vet about a little blue pill that will help us keep up with those one-year-old bitches.

According to the study, when we are four, we are 72.  After that, we start aging one year at a time.  

Humans should adjust their ages, so they are in line with the traditional way that dog years are calculated:  Baby, child, adult, middle-aged, and crap shot— the five ages of man. It will save on you having to buy a new present every year, attending office birthday parties, and leaving with unwanted calories and a sugar rush headache.

Age would not be measured by date, but by accomplishment, when a baby becomes toilet trained, they are now a child. When they move out and start paying rent or mortgage, they become an adult  (if they fail and move back home this period is known as a second childhood, and there is no party when they run out again.). When the final child moves away, or the last bit of hair turns gray, middle-aged is reached.  When you lose your car keys for the tenth time or pee in your pants more than just a little, it's a crapshoot.

While the last two events are dispiriting, at least as the unfortunate events unfold, people can look forward to a party and presents afterward. Be wary of Grandpa peeing himself just for the party.


So remember good people as another year hurdles to a finish you are not another year older you are just closer to crapshoots.

Pocket Recounts Her Parents' Thanksgiving from Long Ago

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends. 

This is my lucky thirteenth turkey day, and with each one, I find more reasons to be thankful.

When I was a young pup, Foley and I hosted Thanksgiving at our house.  It was filled with family and the best of all babies. Oh, how Foley and I loved babies!   They are humans in the purest form. Everything we do delights them. Their small, soft hands are perfect for petting.  And, they always dropped delicious food on the floor, which we happily scoffed up.  

When mommy had her knee surgeries, the grown children decided to rotate the holidays at their houses.  That was the death knell for the big family get-together. Once Thanksgiving is held at the kids’ homes, they began to wonder why they had to invite their brothers, sisters, and their obnoxious kids.  Gradually the holiday becomes just the immediate family until the mom can’t cook any longer, and then it gets split up between their children’s houses, and the pattern begins again. Years after their mother last lamented her kids not getting together at the holiday; the children realize why she despaired.

My parents look back fondly on their youth when they were crammed into their grandparents’ tiny houses, or, as they were called at the time, houses.  There were aunts and uncles wrapping their nieces and nephews in uncomfortable, hugs, and distributing wet kisses. The girls would either try to help in the kitchen, where their efforts were not fully appreciated, or find a bedroom where they drew, colored, played, and were reminded why cousins were better than friends.   The boys went into a crowded room where big men sat on small chairs or crammed onto couches to watch football. Every five minutes, one of the uncles would ask their nephews to get them a beer. There was a refrigerator in the basement stocked with Narragansetts. The boys would walk down the crooked, uneven, cellar stairs into the musty basement, take one more beer, then they could confidently carry from the stash, climb the stairs, and like a nervous dog playing fetch, bring the beer to the rapidly intoxicated uncles.  

Every year, precisely at halftime, dinner was served.  The kids sat on mismatched chairs around a card table. They had to remember to keep their feet on the floor.  If one inadvertently swung and connected with the wobbly table legs, everyone would be wearing soda. There was a hierarchy at the kids’ table.  The oldest was in charge, and they practiced for when they would host the holiday. This consisted of telling their younger peers not to kick, hit, reach, or talk with their mouths full. This was good practice for the younger children, especially those who would someday be eating holiday meals in prison. 

The adults gathered around a long table too small for the group.  Sometimes there would be two tables of uneven height covered by one table cloth.  A pair of unfortunate souls would have to sit where the tables met and find a place to rest their feet around the two table legs, both centered on their crotches while balancing their plates on the uneven surface. If your place was set with your back to the wall, a trip to the bathroom before sitting was necessary because you would be trapped until the last pie was cut and served.  

Dinner progressed slowly.   By the time the first dinner had completed their meal, the last was being served.  Seconds were forbidden until firsts were served.  
There was plenty of extra food unless you were trapped with your back to the wall.  Then you were reduced to personifying Oliver begging for more.

After the tryptophan kicked in, the kids were anxious to go home.  The adults gathered in the living room, traded stories of what happened the past year, and reminisced about growing up in “The Village.”  There were no phones, no computers, no Instagram: Photos were things you brought with you in a small, thick album. The spouses tried to join in, but with each story, they were more excluded until they retreated to the kitchen to nibble on leftovers and lament their designation as “the others.”  Sleeping kids would be jolted awake by an aunt with a camera and flashbulb emitting the equivalent of a nuclear flash. 'You were so cute sleeping," the photo-taking Aunt said. The question "why didn't you just let me lie here," would go unanswered.

Finally, the family went their separate ways.  The trip home was interrupted by a stop at the Fotomat to drop off the film with the hope that a couple of the shots would be good enough to be shared the following Thanksgiving.  

Today Thanksgivings are supposed to be better, as is everything in the modern world.  But, with the people so connected now, there are no new stories, no unknown occurrences, no pictures unseen, no mysteries photo of a guy in military uniform with his arm around your mom.  Now every picture is identified with hashtags and links to more pictures of the subject.

Just as I would like to go back to when we had a house full of babies, I think my parents would like to go back to those simpler, crowded Thanksgiving.

At least we have our memories.  

Wordless Wednesday

Beat This Caption

Oh no!  I just went Brexit on my pillow

Monday Question

What are your chances of getting some turkey Thanksgiving?

POCKET:  We might get some deli turkey but my parents are going to my skin sister's so no food on the floor

Bentley Sir Licks a Lot Comes to Rainbow Bridge

Earlier this month, a little white fuzzball full of kisses came bounding across Rainbow Bridge with tears in his eyes.  His name is Bently, but to his family, he is Sir Licks A Lot. The Bridge had finally claimed him after years of trying.

By the time Bently surrendered to the dark angels, his body was spent.  He had given every ounce of his devotion. His parents had seen him rally remarkably from the brink of passing before, but we only can recover so many times before the deficit becomes too steep to mount.

  When he was eight years old, Bentley suffered paralysis.  His doctor told his mom there was no hope. The vet suggested that Bently be sent to the Bridge.  When his mom looked at her dear boy, she saw a dog that was not ready to give up. She took Bently home and became his physical therapist.  Within six months, through determination and love, Bently was running again.

Bently would become paralyzed when his body failed again.  Once more, love and determination would triumph as Bently regained the ability to walk and then chased off the bad Bridge angels that were after him.

Following that, Bently was diagnosed with a herniated disc. When you walk the world on four legs, your back takes a pounding.  A dog who develops a spinal issue encounters unbearable pain. But Bently powered through his setback for longer than any human believed possible.  The little dog exhibited the heart of a lion.

Bentley had a special relationship with his mom. He was a trained service dog who helped her survive the harsh world.  It takes a lot of patience and training to become a service dog. I certainly couldn't have done it. The reward is you are never left behind, and you help your parents in ways we ordinary dogs only dream about.  You become like a part of your parent’s body. When you pass to the Bridge, the parent not only loses their best friend but their most trusted appendage. It is devastating.

When Bentley was overdue to arrive at the Bridge, the bad angels sent illness after illness to him, and he was able to fight them all off until finally, a simple cyst ended his mortal existence.  When it burst, Bently’s body began to shut down.

He lost the ability to walk, to control his bodily functions, and to stand. He stopped eating and drinking.   His parents tried everything. They spent a fortune on medications. But nothing could hold back the inevitable. On November 2, Bently went to the Bridge.

From the time he put his first paw on the Bridge, Bently enjoyed his pain-free existence.  He was suddenly overcome with an intense case of the zooms. He ran up the steps and past me, through the town square, around the theater, and back to us. His tongue was delightfully curled.  Before the end of the day, there would be time for sorrow, for longing, and regrets. There would be lessons taught about to visit his parents in their dreams, and in ghostly forms. There would be reunions and meetings with the other pets who were lucky enough to share a mom with Bentley’s mom. 


But for now, Bentley enjoyed his healthy body and being able to run faster than the wind itself once again.

Foley, Conan, and Canine Seal Heroes

As you are well aware, all dogs are heroes, and we save lives. Occasionally, a dogs’ bravery will be publicized, and the country revels in their achievement.  That happened in October when a dog helped the military capture one of the world’s most wanted terrorists, Abi Bakr al Baghdadi, known to his Isis friends as Kirk,  and throughout Syria as the host of the game show: The Qirsh is s_ˈɪ_ɹ_ɪ__ə.  

I am not a political dog.  Politics is frowned upon at the Bridge.  It is the hobgoblin of mortal minds, and we angels don't need it.  We are free, as long as we don't break the Big Guy's commandments. If we do, we are turned into minions and forced to do manual labor until we are back to thinking correctly.  The United States is still months away from establishing that type of order. 

I do take exception to the President, stating that Baghdadi died like a dog.  I had an image of US special forces entering Baghdadi's home and ordering him to stand, only to find he was unable to do so.  After a brief discussion with a doctor who accompanied them, the special forces wrapped Baghdadi in a blanket, held him tight, told him how much they loved him, then gave him a shot so he could slip away to the Bridge.  No, this guy blew himself up. No dog blows himself up, at least not on purpose. The way he died could not be any further from how we pass, except he was surrounded by his family, even if they were screaming and desperately trying to get away from him before he blew them up. 
  
These brave dogs, some of whose names are classified, for reasons I don’t quite understand because it’s not like people are going to look their name up in the phonebook and then seek retribution, took the lead in the raid.  They put their lives on the line to run down and corner the most wanted terrorist in the world. All dogs put aside their safety for the concerns of humans, but they took their fidelity to an entirely new level. 

These brave dogs, some of whose names are classified, for reasons I don’t quite understand because it’s not like people are going to look their name up in the phonebook and then seek retribution, took the lead in the raid.  They put their lives on the line to run down and corner the most wanted terrorist in the world. All dogs put aside their safety for the concerns of humans, but they took their fidelity to an entirely new level.

We dogs don’t want humans to know everything that we do for them.  If they found out that we are a superior life form that is here to protect them, they might stop feeding us and picking up our poop.  So let’s just keep it between us. Remember, if there is a terrorist in the neighborhood you need taken down, let your dog know. You will sleep better after the person dies like a terrorist and by blowing himself up.




Dying like a dog should not be an insult because we dogs are allowed to die with dignity.  Conversely, there should be no higher compliment than being told you lived like a dog. That means you were kind, brave, honorable, and put other humans first, just like a dog.