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 couch and throws the ball and depending on which way it bounces it could go in the kitchen, the dining room, or the bathroom. Every throw a million things could happen. When Daddy lifts that ball and gets ready to throw it, oh the anticipation is palatable, and I don’t even know what that means!

I run after the ball, and then I nose it to push it along, usually under the water dish, or behind the cabinet in the kitchen, or under the liquor cabinet, and then I stand and bark at the ball until Daddy comes and gets it (unless it’s the liquor cabinet because Mommy’s already there.) He used to crawl over but now he stands up and limps, and I get very impatient waiting for him to gimp over. And then he gets mad at me, because he goes back, throws the ball, and I nose it under something again, and Daddy pulls himself up to get it, and yells at me, and Mommy says in Portuglish “Stop throwing the ball, you good guy!” The entire system’s breaking down. It’s all very disturbing.

Plus it is interfering with my never-ending potty training. I need to be out for a while to empty the tank. If not I come in and sprinkle here and there. But now Daddy either just goes on the porch and gives me a little bit of the flexi-leash to find my spot, and then right back inside, or we’re out for fifteen minutes as Daddy drags his leg behind, and I take a nap on the grass waiting for him to catch up to me.

And we aren’t going for walks. Daddy does a lot of walking at work and by the time he gets home he needs to ice his leg and take ibpawfun. Then Daddy sits on the floor, plays ball with me, scratches Foley or lets her lick his hand, while he tries to transcribe either my thoughts, or Foley’s on the Tanner Brigade. So there’s Daddy, on the floor, one hand playing with me, one hand scratching Foley, trying to type on the computer, and if he stops Foley gets snitzy so he tries to type with his nose. I know, what an idiot.

But now that he’s broken, I don’t’ know how much longer he’ll be able to do it. I don’t know how I broke him, if it was pulling me while I’m chasing a bunny, or while he was crawling on the floor to dislodge a wedged ball, or if he stepped in a hole walking us at the state medical institution after the arrest of a serial digger.

Mommy and Daddy are both going to the same knee doctor in August. I hope he’s a good doctor and I hope they don’t tense up when they insert the thermometer into their buttocks because at that point, even though you are nervous, it is much better to relax. Mommy is going to have to get her knee replaced again and I don’t know what they are going to do with Daddy. He can’t run right now but when they come at him with that thermometer he might be cured.

Mommy said he might have to have cat-throat-scope-it surgery. I hope they don’t make him into a pussy. Ugh.

So July will be our month of limps. I just don’t understand humans. They call them evolved but here they are limping on two legs while Foley and I are rocking and rolling on four.

But at least his arm still works, and if the thermometer does not hurt his butt he can still sit and throw, and as long as I watch where I’m nosing the ball, the fun will never stop.

Excuse my Portuguese but my Daddy is a bigger idiot than yours, and I’m willing to fight over it.