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 his teeth and fall on the ground.
I looked at Pocket and nodded. She jumped up, grabbed the electrical cables, with Ashton’s help hooked them up to Mr. Vick’s ankles, and Chelsea turned on the battery.
“Ooohhhhh” Mr Vick yelled like a giant cocktail weenie and then did a passable moonwalk as smoke rose from the tops of his shoes.
“What did ya all go and do that for?” he asked, slapping his ankles trying to put out his burning socks.
“You didn’t complete the pass. You really didn’t show the spirit we were looking for on that play. This is just a motivational tool that we have developed,” I explained.
Mr. Vick asked for some water and Hobo dragged over a pail filled with brackish water.
“What is this?” he asked.
“It’s water,” Hobo said. “We imported it from a kennel in Virginia, thought it would make you feel at home.”
“You aren’t too good to drink kennel water are you Mr. Vick?” Pocket asked.
“No, that’s OK,” he said, knowing commissioner Pantywaste Knickertwist had told him we would be suspended if he said anything negative about pups. He grimaced as he began to drink the dirty water when suddenly he was hit from behind and thrown ten feet.
“Hey Foley, Pocket, it’s me Matilda,” the big black Newfoundland said.
“Hi Matilda, do you remember what I told you your job is?” I asked.
”Get the quarterback!’ she said.
Foley pointed at Vick. “There he is,” she said as a stunned Vick tried to pick himself up out of the dirt.
“Got him!” Matilda said and she ran along the grass, picked him up in her mouth, and carried him off a hundred yards in the wrong direction, as Vick said: “Ow, oh ow, oh ow, ow, ow, oh help me, I’m being carried off by a big black dog, ow, ow, oh she’s slobbering, oh I’m all wet, ow, ow, oh look a penny, missed it, ow, ow, ow.”
Foley sent Chase and Gucci to bring the wet little human back. Matilda dropped him on the ground and said she was sorry and was given a nice, cold, bowl of water.
“Why can’t I get some nice water!” Vick cried.
“You just got beaten by a dog who doesn’t even know the rules,” Foley said. “No soup for you.”
A dejected Vick got up. “We need to see if you still run,” Foley said nosing the ball toward him.
“Whatcha’ want me to do?” he asked.
“Just run with the ball and we will send our defenders against you.”
Vick nodded. He picked up the ball and ran back and forth smiling as Morgan, Brookie, Gracie Anne, and the Lambies chased after him. He turned up field towards the goal line when he heard a rumbling and turned to see the most frightening site. Shama, Karma, and the Pack were racing towards him.
He turned and tried to run the other way as the pups hit him high and low and then began to pull at him like he was the lone soft chew toy left at the house. Vick was screaming as the dogs tore at him, and then Duke grabbed an arm and carried it off.
“Don’t run off the with that arm!” Pocket yelled. “I promised Macdougal a bone for his birthday.”
“Hey, those dogs just stole my arm!” as Vick stood, stumbling towards Foley.
“It wasn’t your throwing arm was it?” Foley asked.
“No,” the one armed quarterback answered.
“Then what are you complaining about?” Foley said.
“Oh Foley,” Pocket, the more compassionate of the duo said. “You should be nice to Mr. Vick.” She looked up at him. “Would you like a Pepsi?” she asked.
“Well, I’d like my arm back better but a Pepsi would be sweet,” Vick said.
“Oh Pepsi,” Pocket and Foley called out.
Vick saw the little beagle running towards him. “What, that beagle got my Pepsi?” he asked.
“No. That beagle is your Pepsi,” Foley said.
The little beagle then jumped in the air and bit Vick on what humans call the crotch.
“Oh my God. This dog is biting my little Vick,” the quarterback yelled. “Ow, ow, ow, oh please have it let go, please save Mr. Little Vick, oh look a quarter, can’t reach it, ow, ow, ow ow!”
“That’s the way to catch the Pepsi spirit!” Hobo said.
“Look at Pepsi, she has a taste for life!” Baarney yelled.
“Pepsi now! Pepsi now! Pepsi now!” the other dogs chanted.
“Why is this dog biting me?” Vick asked.
“She’s the choice of our generation!” Foley said.
Pepsi finally let go and Vick fell to his knees, her one arm holding the affected area when he felt the ground shaking and looked up to see Ruger running towards him again and he cried out no as Ruger picked him up in his mouth and ran off behind the buildings.
A short time later Ruger came back with a foot in his mouth.
“That’s all that’s left,” he said. “I tossed him up in the air to play with him, his foot came off, and he slid into this lime pit.”
“I think he’s dead,” Foley said. She stared ahead thinking. “Yup, definitely dead.”
“Once again the Tanner Brigade solves a problem in the puppy world,” Hobo said.
“Let go get Frosty Paws to celebrate,” Foley said.
“But what about football?” Pocket asked with the ball at her feet. “Bauser and Hattie made these nice uniforms, why can’t we play?”
“Put the ball in your mouth,” Foley said. Her sister did. “Now let’s play kill the Pocket with the ball!” Foley said as the other dogs took off after Pocket who happily scampered across the field as the sun set over the happy brigade.