The Ruby Rose and the Big Little Angels 3 Blog

Well, friends, today did not go as well as I had hoped. I had a 10:00 meeting with Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick. There is a debate going on as to whether the law should be changed to allow the Governor to either appoint a temporary, or permanent, replacement for Senator Kennedy’s seat, or whether there should be a special election. I favor a special election because I think my combination of level headed thinking and overpowering cuteness will carry the ticket. But, to be safe, I had scheduled a meeting with him so he would at least consider appointing me. I do not believe that Governor Patrick will turn this into the circus that Governor Rod Blagojevich did. Governor Patrick is black and the only African-American who could pull off Blagojevich’s hairstyle was James Brown. But, while I may be just shy of two, I am wise, and know the Governor will expect something for the appointment, which is why I am fully prepared to hump his wrist. Last night Foley stayed up late giving

I have come here today, to announce that I am officially a candidate for the seat of United States Senator from the Commonwealth Of Massachusetts. Some of you may feel that too little time has passed since our beloved Senator Kennedy’s death to announce my candidacy, I would say to them to remember, I am a dog and for every one day you age, I age seven, so to me, the Senator has been dead weeks. Others say to me “Pocket: Why set your sights so high? Why not run for the House of Representative first?” The answer is simple. I am not housebroken. As was done almost 50 years ago it is time to pass the torch to a new generation, a generation born in this century, this decade, the past couple of years actually, and a new species, because let’s face it, dogs could not possibly do a worse job than humans. I vow on this day that the only tail I will chase in Washington is my own, when Senators go out for the night for a little tail it will be to meet with me, that the days of one bu

Daddy is always late coming home on Tuesdays. We don’t like when he’s late. Pocket sits on the couch, looking out the window, waiting. I sleep on Mommy’s lap, but I sleep tensely. But we’re not angry, because Tuesday is the afternoon that Daddy spends with his Auntie Bev, and if it wasn’t for Auntie Bev none of us would exist. You see Mommy, believe it or not, had one rule when she married Daddy. OK, two rules, one is she wouldn’t do that, and two was no dogs. That’s right my Mommy was an anti-dogtite. Daddy knew if the puppy window ever opened he would have to jump through it quickly. And it did open, out of nowhere, one day at the mall. The seeds had been planted years before Mommy and Daddy were even married when this little Shih Tzu jumped out of a car near where Mommy was living, ran into the woods, and ended up in her driveway, jumping in her lap as soon as she opened her car door. Mommy called Daddy and they went to the police station and the animal control office

I was reading my Daddy’s boyhood dog Barney’s diary last night looking for more wit and wisdom when I found an interesting conversation he had with my Daddy when he was a boy. My Daddy never played sports. That uncoordinated bugaboo got him. But when he was a boy he liked to grab his glove and throw the ball against the pitch back set up under the maple trees. One day he was doing this and a storm came up. He ran into the cellar. He liked it there when it rained because he looked like a Major Leaguer peering out of the dugout. It had been a hot day, and Barney had taken refuge in the cellar, but he smelled his friend on the steps, stood, stretched, and walked over to him. He sat down next to Daddy who stroked his heavy black fur. Because Barney was an outside dog and didn’t cotton to baths Daddy ended up with a thin film of black on his hand. Barney wasn’t like dogs today. He roamed the neighborhood and ruled it from one end to the other. My Daddy’s Auntie lived up the

I start my morning like most Americans. I take my human out for his morning walk, hoping to squeeze in a pee and possibly a Vick (that’s my new word for it, thanks to the wit and wisdom of my good friends Reba and Dodger) then go inside, have a bowl of water, some morning kibble and turkey, and check my e-mails. I saw a message from one of my human Facebook friends, and I clicked it, and was stunned by what I saw. My Mommy, my most trusted human, had stolen my Facebook page. I looked over at Daddy, sitting in his recliner, with Pocket sitting on his shoulder licking his mouth, while he tried to program the DVR. I asked him why my Facebook account was changed. “Ask Mommy,” he said. That was his answer for everything. I don’t even know why I asked. (Yes I do. Spite. When you interrupt Daddy programming the DVR he has to start again.) Then I went upstairs to the bathroom where my Mom was taking her shower and waited outside. When the water stopped I began scratching on the

Daddy, the less intelligent of the two slope noses that I live with, got a call from someone called a PA yesterday after he had something called an MRI. Do you find it as annoying as I do that so many humans speak in initials? Well there was good news and bad news. The good news is that he does not have a torn ligament. “Nice,” I thought when he said it. “I haven’t had a good walk in two months while girlie man here is limping around with a splinter in his leg.” Then he said that the MRI had shown he has a fractured leg. Well. That’s a shame. Daddy doesn’t know what they are going to do, immobilize him (how do you immobilize someone who only moves to eat and pee?), put him in a cast, or operate on him. If they operate he may not be recovered until February. That’s when I realized what I needed: A new Daddy. So I am putting out an open casting call for a new Daddy for Pocket and me. You will get a nice bed to sleep in, very good meals (Mommy is a great cook), and the

I went to the groomers on Saturday. I had so much fun there. We played avoid the clippers, splash the bath, wiggle under the dryer. I love the groomers. But I love it more when I hear my Mommy and Daddy come in. I couldn’t wait until the pretty lady got the cage door open. I leapt out into her arms and began to do the push off so I could get to Mommy. The pretty girl had me in one arm and the docile Foley in the other and when she got to my Mommy she handed me over and said: “This ones so bad.” So bad? Who? Me? I’m not bad? Am I? I’m not saying I’m perfect. No pup is. But bad? I know I bark a lot when Mommy or Daddy gets me out of the crate when they get home. They do all the things the people trainers say. They don’t act excited, they don’t even really talk to me. But all the way down stairs, while I am getting leashed up, going out the door, and even peeing, I’m barking my little head off. But that’s not bad. Is it? And I totally validated the Iranian election too early. I ha

The President had been correct. Everyone soon forgot my confrontation with the cat burglar after our White House dinner. But there was one aspect of the story that refused to die. Lou Dobbs continued to insist that I was not a real Yorkie and I could not produce any paper work to show I was. His theory took on ever more credence when the following picture ran in the papers the day after my visit. As you can see I have a tail. Because of this I am not considered and Yorkshire Terrier by the AKC and cannot get the papers to prove to Mr. Dobbs that I am, indeed, a Yorkie. First of all, I am obviously a Yorkie. I have a Yorkie face, Yorkie ears, Yorkie body, Yorkie attitude and Yorkie intelligence. That my breeders did not choose to snip off a perfectly fine tail to meet some archaic standard by the masochists at the AKC should not stop me from taking my rightful spot in my breed. Second of all, it is a shame that Yorkies are having their tail cropped and more Mommies and Daddi

I am a dog of many accomplishments. I defeated the Princess, helped found the Tanner Brigade, have a loyal following, and with these accomplishments has flourished a great amount of confidence. But when I learned I was to have dinner with the President all my well-earned confidence dwindled away. I made an appointment with my groomer and got a very beautiful puppy cut. I had her put a white ribbon in my hair and had her clean and iron my Tanner Brigade neckerchief. I even had her squirt me with a scent so I would not offend. They offered to fly Mommy and me down to Washington but neither one of us like that. We had Daddy stay home with Pocket, because, let’s face it, if Pocket went to the White House it wouldn’t be the White House anymore, it would be the yellow or brown house. We left by car. Mommy did most of the driving. I did a little bit, like when we were on the Jersey Turnpike and I woke up, curled up in the front seat, and saw Mommy sleeping with her head agains

It all began so innocently. Pocket and I were outside, walking around the grounds of our condo. She spied it first. The all white kitty, looking around like a sneaky cat, then beginning to slip into the doggy door. It was Pocket, really, the whole thing was her fault, she told me that kitty did not belong in that house. Well I am the General, not just online, but in my community too, and I have a duty to protect my neighbors’ homes, so I ran up to the door, and asked that kitty what she was doing. “What?” the kitty said. “This is my house! Why are you bothering me?” “I have an obligation to the community to make sure no strange kitties slip into our doggy doors, if you could please just step out and let me see your tags,” I asked, very nicely. “Why you hassling me? Is it because I’m a cat?” the kitty asked. “No. Of course not. That’s outrageous,” I said. “Some of my best friends are cats. My fathers a cat.” “No, you see a cat trying to get in a stuck doggy door i

Foley: Yesterday was set to be a normal Saturday, sleep and snuggle late, get my scratches from Daddy while he sits on the floor on the computer throwing the green ball for Pocket, and then going to my blanket to lie in the sun while Mommy and Daddy run errands. Pocket: And I have to go in my crate because I have a “peeing” problems and a “chewing” problem and a “Foley tries to kill me when we’re left alone” problem. So uncool. Foley: But then it came time to leave instead of scooting us upstairs there were leashes grabbed, and talk about us going on a road trip. Much excited barking ensued. Pocket: I thought we were going out for road kill. My mouth watered with anticipation at the thought of crushed squirrel over tar, possum and gravel, and the always delicious skunk a’la’car. But alas, it was only a car ride. Foley: Pocket and I both have important jobs before car rides. We need to run, wiggle and squirm as much as possible so it is impossible to get us leashed, and once we

When Foley first learned that her legal services were required in Los Angeles, and who her client would be, she was tempted to decline. But, after consulting with her fellow members of the Tanner Brigade she decided to take the case. She met Deputy Chief Glynn Johnson in the offices of his attorneys: Ripemoff and Screwem. Chief Johnson sat at the conference table alone. When he saw the two Yorkies enter, each wearing black-framed glasses and carrying a briefcase in their teeth he stood and backed against a wall. “Relax Chief,” Foley said. “We aren’t here to do any harm, we have been asked by Ripemoff and Screwem to be co-counsel.” “But you’re dogs!” he said. “Can’t get anything past you,” Foley said. “When you have a rapist on trial, you have a female co-counsel sit at the table with him, if a white man is arrested for a hate crime against a black man, then you want a black man at the table with him. If you senselessly beat a helpless puppy you then you get a puppy to sit at the