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Showing posts from July, 2009

In whch Foley and Pocket start a football team and sign Michael Vick

As most of my astute friends must know by now Mr. Michael Vick has been reinstated to play professional football by commissioner Pantywaste Knickertwist. Pocket and I knew we had to act quickly. We ignited the Pocket Rocket, I climbed on, and we flew to the icy part of hell to get Michael Vick’s John Hancock on a contract to play football for our new team, the Tanner Bubs. Winning games with a group of dogs and only one hardly professional human player would be a challenge, so we told Mr. Vick that we would be breaking training in the morning. We met in the big field at the State Mental Institution across the street from my house where they used to play croquet before someone realized that giving mental patients sticks with big wooden mallets on the end was a bad idea. Mr. Vick was already there when we arrived. I told him we needed to see if his arm was still strong, so we gave him a ball, and our star wide receiver, Sonic, took off after it, jumped, and had the ball graze off

Pocket has an ally

Last weekend Mommy and Daddy went away for a day, I believe to get away from Foley (Lord do I know how that is) and we spent Saturday night at our human sister Kim’s house, along with our cousins Bailey and Riley, our human grandbaby Maddie, and her sister, and my new best friend, Meghan. Meghan and I became best friends very quickly because we have so much in common. She is four and I am two. We both pee two dozen times a day. We also like to pee right after we’ve peed. I go outside pee, come in and pee. Meghan tells her Mommy she has to pee, then pees, gets all dressed again, then looks at her Mommy and says “I gotta pee.” It is neither of our faults: pee happens. We are both told no a lot. And stop it. And are asked what are we doing. We’re just being us. Jumping on the couch, barking out the window, inappropriately farting, putting things in our mouths that don’t go there, whining when we denied what is rightfully ours, and excitedly running down the hall chasing in

Kibbles and Bits

Why do humans need universal health care? What about universal dog care? I mean the Lord blessed them with speech, opposable thumbs, the ability to put on a band air, and they still can’t manage to agree on their own health care. And these are the ones we are dependant on for our own health care? What has been their greatest achievement in dog care? The head cone. They stick our little heads in big cones so we get humiliated whenever we turn around and clunk our cone. I think when it comes to health care, the entire country is wearing a giant cone. Mommy and Daddy went away to Wolfeboro New Hampshire last weekend and left me at my sister Kim’s house. They have this great big beastly dog named Riley. His mouth is bigger than my butt and that is never a good ratio. But we got along good. My cousin Bailey the Shih Tzu was there. She is 11 years old and at night when she sleeps with her Mommy she wears diapers because she’s sprung a leak. Is this my future? Are we going to

The Pawnight Show with Foley Monster

Pocket: Live, from the Tanner Brigade, it’s the Foley Monster Show. Foley’s guest tonight is Apollo 11 astronaut Neil Armstrong, and now, here’s Foley. Foley: Thank you Pocket and welcome to the Foley Monster show, and tonight our guest is Apollo 11 astronaut Neil Armstrong, welcome Mr. Armstrong. Armstrong: Thank you, Foley, uh, my manager didn’t mention that you were dogs. I could have done Charlie Rose. Foley: Mr. Armstrong, you are famous for doing the first moonwalk. What my audience wants to know is, if you were going for a walk, why not take your dog? Armstrong: Well, Foley, us NASA astronauts were a busy bunch. I didn’t have time to take care of a dog. Foley: No dog huh? Pocket: Can’t trust a man who doesn’t own a dog. Armstrong: And with the moon having less gravity a small dog like you could just float away. Foley: Then why didn’t you take some cats, like the ones who sit on my deck? I wouldn’t mind them floating away. Armstrong: We weren’t

Happy Birthday DS

In honor of the one year anniversary of our former website, which we shall refer to by it’s initials popular on the fast paced internet, DS, instead of it’s full name, Dog Slaves, Pocket and I would like to take a moment to recount the first year of it’s most storied history. July 15, 2008 The founder of DS, who we shall refer to by his initials popular on the fast paced internet, LT, instead of his full name, Little Tool, settles on his latest get rich quick scheme, a web site for dogs, after his first idea, a web site for frogs, croaked. BAH HAH HAH HAH HAH HAH HAH July 19, 2008: A dejected LT announces that he is shutting down the site after only attracting profiles from five computer analysts living in San Pedro California all with the same first name. One of his investors point out to him that the site is improperly named Douggy Space, not Doggy Space. The frustrated five accounts named Doug take Douggy Space to Ning where, as of this date, they have five members. A

The diary in the sea chest

If you read my last blog, you will know that my human brother Chad has moved out, and Daddy is destroying the stairway trying to bring his discarded furniture up from the basement so Mommy and Daddy can remodel. Some of these discarded items have been in my Daddy’s family for decades, including an old sea man’s (tee-hee) chest that Daddy’s Granddad carried up the pier on to one end of the battleship and shortly afterwards down the other pier and back home having deduced that his contribution to the Allied cause in the First World War was to grow grapes, make wine, and ship it to Germany hoping that the Kaiser would get blind drunk and surrender. History is unclear on the success of this endeavor. Pocket and I investigated this sea chest yesterday and found the diary of Daddy’s boyhood dog Barney. (A diary is like a blog that no one gets to read. I don’t understand the point either.) Pocket and I spent the morning reading it and we were fascinated to realize that stupidity is passed d

I’m looking at the dog in the mirror by Foley Monster

When I saw Zoe Boe’s Mom’s drawing of yours truly dressed as the so called King of Pop I decided to learn more about the her inspiration and wiped out my Daddy’s I Tunes account by downloading his music. There was a song that struck a chord with your Mini-Monster of Pop. Mr. Jackson sings that he wants to make the world a better place and will do so by starting with the man in the mirror. I would like to make the world a better place, and I am starting with the dog in the mirror. 1. I will not attack Pocket without just cause. Provided we all agree that her breathing is just cause. 2. I will not be possessive of my Mommy’s lap and share it with others. Provided she gains about 300 pounds so there is plenty of lap for everyone. 3. I will no longer tell embarrassing stories about my Daddy Like this one: On the Fourth of July Daddy went to the Red Sox game and Mommy went to her brother’s house in Plymouth for a cookout. Well, Daddy got home first. The day before Mommy w

I broke my Daddy by Pocket

I am breaking my Mommy and Daddy by Pocket Ever since I came to live with my Mommy and Daddy, Mommy has limped. I don’t know why, I figure Foley did something to break her. But now Daddy is limping and I think it must be my fault. Daddy is the one who walks us, takes us out to do our business, and gets on the floor to play with us. He still does it, but now he does it slowly, stops several times, and winces. I don’t know how I broke him, but, like my missing orange ball and my missing ovaries things are different and I think it’s my fault. He still gets down on the floor to play with us. He’s such a good guy. Mommy calls him good guy in Portuguese. For those of you who don’t know Portuguese the word for “good guy” is idiot. Mommy also thinks I’m a good guy. When I’m sitting on the couch barking at the blowing leaves she yells: “Pocket you idiot get out of the window,” and I look at her and say: “But Momma, I’m a girl!’ Daddy sits on the floor with his back to the

Foley Monster goes to a therapist about her anger issues

At the insistence of Zoe Boe, Foley Monster has agreed to enter anger management. Let’s drop in on a session. Foley Monster comes into the room, wearing her new Tanner Brigade bandanna, and jumps on the couch. Doctor Phred, who is working with Foley on her anger issues clears his throat. Foley growls and jumps down. “What did I tell you about the couch Foley?” Dr. Phred asks. “That is my couch, I have control over it and you can’t get on the couch until I give you permission because you are a dog, I am a human, and I am the pack leader.” Foley sighed and repeated to herself: “Accept others and have patience, accept others and have patience, accept that this guy has an extraordinary connection to his couch and be patient for the lightning strike that will leave him nothing but a cinder under my paw.” “Now Foley,” Dr. Phred said. “Do you accept that this is my couch?” “Yes Doctor,” Foley answered. “And how does that make you feel?” Foley looked at him, opened her m

Foley Monster's fireworks rant

I usually blog just for my dog friends but today I am blogging for their stupid Mommies and Daddies and their stupid friends. What is your freaking fascination with fireworks? Every single municipality has to have their own fireworks display. Heaven forbid we don’t have fireworks. If not then the mindless lemmings couldn’t go and sit on the grass (and really when do your Mommies and Daddies ever sit on the grass except at a Jimmy Buffett concert when they smoke their “doobies,” their “Maryjane”? Their “reefer”?) and look up at the sky and say “oooooh, look at the green ones, oooooh look at the yellow one, oooooh look at the blue ones!” You want to see something green, look at the grass, you want to see something yellow, look at the sun, you want to see something blue, look at the sky. Walk outside on a summer day, look up, look down, there’s your fireworks display. “Oh it lights up the sky just like it’s daytime,” the humans say. Yeah? You know what we got lots of during

The Declaration of Dogpendence

It has been suggested that I help our friends from other nations understand the Fourth of July. I am sorry I am late writing this but I found out what happens when you stick a bottle rocket up a Yorkie’s butt. It took me half the day to find where Pocket landed. But now that Pocket is home, safe, sound, and singed I may begin. Hobo Hudson has presented to Foley and Pocket the Declaration of Dogdependence. Foley is reading it aloud. Hobo reading: “When in the Course of puppy events, it becomes necessary for dogs to dissolve the bandwidths which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of dogkind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.” Foley: Hobo, I have no idea what that means. Hobo: We are telling Levi that we have to separate from his web site because we have th

Foley and Kate plus 8

Foley and Kate Plus 8 CAMERA SHOWS FOLEY AND KATE SITTING ON THE COUCH TOGETHER AT THE END OF THE EPISODE. Kate: Well, I hope you’re happy Foley, you ruined the children’s trip to Chuck E. Cheese. Foley: Look lady, I’m a Terrier. I see a giant rat I attack. Kate: You scared the children terribly. When you had his ankle in your mouth and you were shaking his leg, and stuffing was flying everywhere, I have never seen the children so upset. Jon never bit a pizza parlor’s mascot on the leg, I can say that for the man. Foley: How was I to know a giant rat was going to be there? Kate: The name of the place is Chuck E. Cheese what did you think? Foley: I thought the mascot would be I giant block of cheese. Why didn’t they name the place Chuck E. Rat? Kate: It took me all day to calm Mady down. Foley: Oh please, do not get me started on Mady, that kid needs to be tested. Kate: I don’t believe you just said that! We agreed we would not discuss Mady on camera.