Who the hell is Steven Colbert and why did he win a cute dog contest

Foley Monster here, and I have a bone to pick with America.

Us dogs don’t bother you for votes much, except for Pocket, and that’s a dog of a different color. We don’t take pride in much, some of us do dog shows, some of us do agility, but for the most part we’re content with good food and warm laps.

But we all take pride in our looks. There is no such thing as a bad looking dog. And when we compete in cutest dogs competitions, well, from the bitches to the lollipops we take it seriously.

You humans, all you have to vote for who is the cutest dog, but instead you go out and vote for a dog named after a talk show host.

Now I don’t know who or what a Steven Colbert is, and I don’t want to know. I don’t know why you would name your dog Steven Colbert, I don’t know why you would name your human Steven Colbert. It sounds like someone the Nazis stopped to ask directions from on the way to Paris.

The thing is, it’s got darn hard work for us pups to pose for these cute pictures. You silly human may think that you just sneak up on us and catch us looking cute, but the truth is we have put in hours of training and practice to look that good.

Take the classic smile picture.




You might think I was just standing there, minding my own business, but the truth is I spent days looking at my reflection in the sliding glass doors looking just right. First of all, to get that big a smile, and the tongue curled just right, we have to get a good pant on. Since panting is how we sweat a smile like that is equivalent to a giant pit stain on a human. So I have to get myself all worked up, in this case by lying in the hot sun. Then I have to make sure my eyes have the right sparkle, my head is tilted perfectly, my tongue is curled just so. That picture took me four weeks of practice. On some of those days I only slept 18 hours.

Now on this one.



It takes months of practice, because the eyes are shut, and it is hard to tell just how adorable you actually are. Also the tongue position is very important, too much tongue and it’s just gross, not enough and, well the tongue makes the cute. Plus you want the legs spread apart enough to be cunning, but not to look like you just got a ticket to Vegas on So You Think You Can Dance.

Now here’s one of Pocket.




It looks like she just got interrupted chewing a bone. In fact we took hours setting up that shot, getting the bone perfectly lined up, getting her situated just perfect, her head up, eyes clear. Then she sat for 45 minutes before one of our parents to notice, come over, and took a spontaneous picture.

The hardest picture is the sleeping picture. Look at this one of Sydney.



Have you ever tried to fall asleep cute? When you’re a dog you have to because who knows when someone will take a picture of you. We have to try and stay awake so we can practice looking cute while we sleep. Do you have any idea how hard it is to stay awake while you’re pretending to be asleep and still be cute?

So the next time you have to vote for a cute pet contest remember the hard work us pups have put in to get our picture taken (and I didn’t even get into the primping, pampering, grooming and personal dogscaping it takes to look this good all the time) and vote for who you think is the cutest dog, not after who is named for some stupid celebrity.

Because if it happens again I am taking the Foley Monster show to E! at 11:30 and kicking some Colbert ass.

Sleeping patterns

Our Sunday question was where do you sleep? Foley Monster and Pocket are bed sleepers. Yorkies are great dogs for bed sleeping, they’re tiny, so they don’t crowd you (although you would be amazed how much room Pocket can take up when she spreads across the bed) and when you’re cold you can grab them and stick them next to you turning them into little bed warmers. Often times, on very cold nights, Pocket is pulled back and forth so many times she needs to nap the entire next day.

When we first go to bed Foley decides to lick every inch her of Daddy’s face and hands like she’s Kirstie Alley at a Tasting Table. Pocket wants to play, first tug of war with a small rope, and then moving on to a larger one, while periodically joining Foley at the tasting table.

Then they will move to the desert table, which are things that have stuck to one another’s fur during the day. They lick and snip at one another, often leading to an over bite and a fight, which means Ted and I have to each grab one, lift them, pull them apart, while their legs still flap in the air like little propellers trying to get at one another.

Seconds later, when they’re put down on the bed, everyone is best friends again. Like all couples one is the first to sleep and that is Pocket. She will climb under the covers and settle down next to Mama. Foley goes back for seconds at Daddy’s tasting table, licking again, and sometimes, if she’s allowed humping her Daddy’s arm. The first night, when her new beaver toy was brought home, she began to hump that in bed, and we all turned away in shame.

Then Foley will mosey down to the end of the bed, and begin to scratch and spin. Sometimes, on cold night, when the comforter is at the end of the bed in wait for the late night temperature dip, Foley will decide she wants to be wrapped in it, and will sit at the foot, glaring at us, until one of us pulls up the comforter so she can burrow into it. She will sit the for half the night, those tiny brown eyes burning through the book I’m reading, until one of us puffs up the comforter for her, or she caves. Then she begins to scratch, and scratch, and scratch, until she finally settles down.

Sometime during the night, usually when I have to go to the bathroom, Foley will wake up and decide to go under the covers. If I don’t get up I’ll feel her paw scratching my shoulder and I, in my barely awake stupor, will lift the blanket, usually while she’s standing on it, and then shove her under the covers. I start to fall back to sleep when I hear: scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch for ten minutes. Sometimes I will tell her to stop it, and then I hear scratch, scratch, scratch, spin, spin, settle.

Pocket will usually sleep right up against me, but sometimes Foley will get up, walk over her, and look at her. Pocket will lift her head and see Foley’s “move your ass away from the warm spot next to Mommy.” Sometimes she’ll just put her head back down and Foley will either continue to stare at her, or begin trying to stick her nose under her, until Pocket moves, or scratch at me until I wake and move her. Pocket will then snuggle up with Ted.

Sometimes, if we sleep late, I will wake up with my hand resting near one of the dogs and my head nestled up against theirs and it is so sweet until I realize…..that….is…..not….her…head! Then I jump out of bed shaking and shivering like John Candy and Steve Martin in Planes, Trains and Automobiles.

But, for all of my complaining, there is nothing like waking up on a cold morning with a few hours left to sleep snuggled with warm dogs. That makes everything else worthwhile.

Daddy brought home a beaver

Foley: Yesterday Daddy came home with a great surprise. Pocket and I each enjoy a game where Daddy wears a glove, and we bite on his fingers (not hard at all) and tug on the glove. I know it’s not supposed to be done because you don’t want pups to think they can bite hands but we’ve always known to do it only when there’s a glove. I wouldn’t recommend this game for any dog over five pounds. Anyway Daddy comes home with a beaver. And get this, he could stick his hand right into the beaver. Right up to the wrist. I mean the size of the hole in this beaver was huge. Biggest beaver hole I have ever seen. Anyway, Daddy put his hand in the beaver, and then he began moving it along the floor like it was a real beaver, and I was on it, growling and shaking my butt and it was a terrific amount of fun.

Pocket: Today, for some completely crazy reason, Daddy came home with a live beaver! What kind of person brings a live beaver into the house? A lot of time it would lie there sleeping and I’d attack it and it was fun, but then Daddy would go over to it and the next thing I know the thing is moving around and darting at me. What the hell was that?

Foley: It’s a toy. A freaking toy. It’s not a real beaver. You know how Mommy is about Daddy bringing strange beaver into the house and then sticking his hand into it (up to his wrist.) It’s a toy for us to play with, that’s all.

Pocket: I head Mommy say “You paid nine dollars for a beaver!” She didn’t say toy, she said beaver, that freaking thing is alive and believe me, the last thing a politician in an important political race needs is to be caught with some freaky beaver.

Foley: OK, Pocket, my little sister. You know how Daddy used to play with you using the glove, well he just sticks his hand up the beaver and it’s the same thing. You have a hand, a Pocket, and a beaver, that’s hours of fun

Pocket: I know the glove, I’ve smelled the glove. I love the glove. That beaver is not a glove.

Foley: OK, see the beaver, watch Daddy, see how he goes over to the beaver, see how he slips his hand in the beaver hole, and now see the beaver moving?

Pocket: Holy cow! There is beaver in the living room. (Pocket scampers up the stairs.)

Foley: You don’t know what you’re missing little sister. I’m just going to lay here and lick my beaver.

Foley's mid-dog crises

At the end of the night, before bed, Daddy takes us for one final spin around the common lawn where the gazebo is at our condo complex. The past two nights, as we’ve walked past the darkened windows, on the grass, near the gazebo, was the world’s fattest, roundest squirrel.

Both Pocket and I made the line of our flexi-leash unspool like a fishing reel with a catfish on the business end. We both jumped and attacked the giant squirrel.

It was a football.

Now Pocket, we don’t expect much from Pocket, being a politician and all. Dogs go into politics when they can’t find real jobs. But me? The Mini-Monster? Unable to distinguish between a squirrel and a football? What is becoming of me?

I hear the whispers, of course I do: Too many Foley-tinis; too much time playing Sim-Dog and chasing Sim-squirrel; that I’m nine now and much like my forlorn ovaries my faculties are starting to slip.

Well, this is nonsense, what does mistaking a football for a squirrel mean anyway? We continued onwards, and then before us we both saw it, a giant bird, gently flapping it’s wings, and we charged after it, and ran straight into a fallen branch.

How did I make this mistake? What is happening to me? Excuse me one second: “Pocket, stop growling and shaking that thing, it’s just a branch you twit!” Thank you.

Then I began to put the pieces together: The DVA meltdown, the stint in re-hab, the 24 hour foley-tini-a-thon.

I am going through a mid dog crises.

I did learn many things in re-hab. One was how to complete a twelve bone program as part of my recovery. A big part of that is truth telling, so I need to make you aware of the following signs of a mid dog crises.

For the last three weeks I have been wearing fur extensions.

I’ve been dying my tail hair. Am I kidding myself? Does no one notice the paws don’t match the tip?

I pimped out the stroller Mommy sometimes puts me in when she takes me into the city so now it’s a convertible.

I’ve been sneaking out of the house during the day and sleeping on another Mommy’s lap.

I’m eating less, sleeping more, and while I’m still farting, I don’t enjoy it.

I cashed in all my kibble on E-Bay for a Tom Arnold lunch box because I thought he was the pig in Green Acres.

I told Pocket I really loved her.

That was the last straw. I know I have a problem and I am going to start working on correcting it. First step?

More Foley-tinis please.

How my crazy sister will help me get elected to the Senate

Hello friends. Pocket here. Wow, what a crazy week it’s been. I’m no longer a Kennedy. I am very happy with that. I think it’s time to let Pocket be Pocket. There was the wonderful afternoon with our friends on the yacht, then Foley’s embarrassing break down at the DVA’s. This morning Foley’s friends (enablers?) broke her out of re-hab and she’s back home, sleeping with Mommy after finishing a big bowl of Foley-tinis.

At first I thought how terribly Foley’s actions would affect my Senate chances. No one wants a skelaton in their closet, even if it’s a five pound one. But then I realized, all great politicians have crazy siblings.

Bill Clinton had Roger. Jimmy Carter had Billy. Jack Kennedy had Teddy, Teddy had Jack, and Bobby was lucky enough to have them both. Jeb Bush had W. who started an unnecessary war and forgot to listen to the weather report for the Mississippi Delta.

Maybe that one wasn’t good. But if you’re running for office, crazy in the family is never a bad thing.

I had begun to wonder, after losing the Kennedys and Foley’s incident, if I should abandon my Senate run. And then on Wednesday Zoe’s Mom Connie Gross drew the most wonderful picture of me in the Senate. I have been inspired to continue with my campaign for all puppies everywhere and owe Connie Gross my forever thanks.

Now enough with the Gross lets get back to the Crazy.

Having Foley as my sister means any mistake I may make either on the campaign or in office won’t top the news cycle for long because what I can do bad Foley can do badder. I will always publicly support my big sister, but then will “accidentally” speak into an open mike calling my beloved sister a “jack-ass.”

There is plenty of precedent to show Foley’s mistakes can only help me: Woodrow Wilson’s brother Desmond left the beloved sitcom Sanford and Son making many fans angry, but it did not hurt President Wilson; The unfulfilled promise and often selfish play of NBA guard Rickey Pierce did not prevent Franklin Pierce from being President; the slovenly housekeeping of Oscar Madison did not stop James Madison from reaching great heights; and don’t even get me started on Kenny Reagan.

So every time Foley either slaps or insults a cat, leads a raid on an unsuspecting castle, storms on stage at an awards show (we are keeping her away from the Emmy’s, Lord knows what she will do if Cherry Jones doesn’t win for 24,) it’s a plus for me.

So go ahead Foley, let your Crazy flag fly and I’ll ride your warped coattails all the way into the Senate.

Goodnight and God bless

Foley breaks out of rehab with a little help from her friends

I have to thank my fellow Tanner Brigade members for the wonderful raid on the Lassie Ford clinic that broke me out of re-hab, where I did not want to stay: No, no, no.

I was in my room watching Animal Precinct while my roommate Underdog was buffing my paws. (He’s not very good as a superhero but quite adept as a shoeshine boy.) I heard on the intercom the sharp tones of Nurse Ratchit: “Paging Dr. Howard, Dr Fine, Dr. Howard.”

I knew everyone on the staff. There were no doctors by that name. Then the door flew open. Shams, Duke and Fay-Fay stumbled in wearing stethoscopes and those big light things on their heads. “We’ze here to rescue you!” Shams said. Underdog jumped on the bed, yelled: “Here I come to save the day!” and curled up into a wonderful sleep.

The Pack told me to follow them down the hall. The orderlies who were supposed to be watching me were watching Ladybug instead as she strutted around in her nurses uniform. They didn’t pay any attention to us at all. We slinked down the walls until we found a hole.

Moe stuck his head out. “Follow me, I made a tunnel,” he said. I was worried because my bigger friends would be left behind but the Pack said they were going back for Ladybug then would walk right out the front door. Meanwhile I stuck close behind Moe in the hole he had dug. His ass smelled remarkably refreshing.

Guards patrolled the building’s parameter. I was afraid we’d get caught because they were very mean. When we got outside they yelled at us to stop but from behind a tree Gracie and Max Earnest ran out. They rolled over on their backs. The mean guards said: “oh, look at the cute puppies, how precious.”

Moe motioned for me to hurry over to a waiting car. I turned. Gracie and Max were activating their belly copters. (It was one of their brother Teddie Bond’s favorite gadgets.) They flew over to awaiting car where Dulce was sitting behind the wheel of his Chrysler Beagle.

I climbed in the back seat with Moe. Gracie and Max landed on the roof. They jumped in through the windows. Shams, Duke, Fay-Fay and Ladybug all climbed in too. Next to Dulce was Lilly holding a stopwatch. My little friend had planned the entire rescue. She told me to open the gift in the back. I ripped into it. There was a cake from Max and Tupper. It’s what I found inside that truly made me happy. They had baked Foley-tinis right into the cake. Yum.

Dulce started the car. Boy, was he a terrible driver. He hit the car in front of us, and the car behind us, but I didn’t care. I was getting sprung. “What about the guards at the gate?” I asked. “I have that covered too!” Lilly said.

We stopped at the gate where Hobo sat surrounded by guards. At his tiny paws was a case of Grey Goose. Humans, they sure do love their geese. They gave Hobo a scratch on the head, then gratefully opened the gate for us just as Hobo hopped in the car.

We headed home with Dulce running lots of cars right off the highway. Soon I was back home with Mommy, with one slice of Max and Tupper’s Foley-tini cake for my Mom.

So thank you all my friends. I did not like re-hab. No, no, no.

I will continue my wonderful lifestyle of getting by with a little help from my friends, getting high with a little help from my friends. Gonna try with a little help from my friends.

Foley's letter from re-hab

Hi everyone. I am writing you from my room at the Lassie Ford clinic. I have come here for a much-deserved rest. Can you believe it’s been almost a year since I joined cyber-space, writing blogs, leaving comments, making forever friends? It’s so nice to come here and relax.

Oh, and apparently I have a “drinking problem.”

I believe it was the exhaustion that caused my improper interrupting of Sandy’s speech at the DVA’s even though the counselors here seem the believe it’s my fictitious “drinking problem.” God I could use a Foley-tini right now.

But I do like it here. And you will never believe who I ran into? Princess. What…..a lush. All that power went straight to her head and then spilled out into a blender.

And she’s not even the most famous pup here (but she thinks she is.) Underdog is here, and that little dude can’t even fly. He just takes a running leap and smashes against the wall (makes me miss Pocket.) And McGruff the crime dog? Someone had his paw in the stash. I don’t believe he is even a duly deputized member of the law.

It’s not just puppies either. That chimp that belonged to Michael Jackson: Bubbles, he keeps everyone up all night swinging from the lights until an unlicensed anesthesiologist finally gets him asleep. Then he wakes up in the morning and starts throwing his feces in the air and when the feces hit the fans I call Pocket for lawyers, guns and money.

There are some dogs owned by celebrities here too, but I try to steer clear of them. Both Paris Hilton’s and Lindsay Lohan’s dogs have been here for extended stays. Whenever I go into the activities room the two of them are always on their backs with their legs spread showing their most private areas off to anyone who doesn’t have the pride to turn away. Plus the two of them keep eating all the heartworm medication.

There are even some kitties here too. The one on the internet who keeps jumping in and out of boxes? There are those goldfish treats at the bottom of the box. Left to her own devices, that cat would eat goldfish treats until she weighed 1,000 pounds.

I was raking the lawn the other day with this wonderful horse with a beautiful singing voice. It was later that night when I found out it was Amy Winehouse, animal re-hab was the only de-tox she hadn’t been thrown out of.

I only plan to be here a couple of more days. I am doing everything the councilors say so I can get home to Mommy. Sometimes rest is a good thing.

And to Pocket, I’ll be back to managing your campaign any day now, so get the Foley-tinis on ice.

Foley creates scene at Video Doggy Awards

As you may imagine, my sister Foley has spent most of the day upstairs on her blanket, barely sticking her head out the bedroom door as the press waits anxiously for a statement with their satellite trucks blocking my view of the kitties lying on the gazebo in the sun.

I don’t know where things went so horribly wrong. We were all having such a good time, sailing on the Kennedy yacht, peeing on the poop deck, pooping on the pee deck. And then came Sunday.

We had been waiting for Sunday for so long. It was the VDA’s: The Video Doggy Awards. We all got dressed up in our finest. Hattie Mae wore the most brilliant dress, Chelsea and Ashton had on their Red Raiders jerseys, everyone agreed Taabatha was stunning and Zoe was her usual graceful self.

The show opened with moving tributes to the Bubs, Tanner and Sophie, then another tribute to our wonderful friend Teddie Bond, and when Morgan came out to deliver an award we gave our little miracle man and sit up and stay ovation.

Hobo Hudson hosted the show in his usual erudite manner bringing down the house when he asked. “How many DS executives does it take to change a light bulb? Trick question: None of the bulbs can be changed because all the threads have been closed.”

Then it was my time to take the stage. I had been chosen to present best performance by a Lollipop in a video. The favorite was Ladybug at sunset but in an upset Sandy's Maggie and the water hose won

Sandy was so stunned and happy to win. She put her paws around the microphone and began to bark when suddenly, from across the stage came Foley, and this time she had her full Monster on.

She grabbed the mike out of Sandy’s hands and began to bark. “I’m sorry to interrupt you Sandy but I just wanted to say that Ladybug had one of the greatest videos of all time, it had the lake, and the sunset, it was beautiful.” I nipped her in the ear and nosed her off the stage as our doggy friends began to howl in anger.

Sandy seemed shaken through the rest of her speech, and later that night, when Lady Bug won best video, she graciously brought Sandy up on the stage with her. Foley, of course, saw none of this, was she was sleeping under the podium.

Sadly, I knew the truth. While out on the ocean pretending to be Kennedys Foley became a little too much like one, and got her full drunk on. While she does love both Sandy and Ladybug, she had been upset about Ladybug being sick and wanted to speak up for her friend.

A little while ago my sister gave me this statement:

“I would like to apologize to my friends, to Sandy, to Ladybug, to everyone for my actions Sunday night. I had never tasted a Cape Codder before and never should have had twelve bowls. I was in an impaired state when I took the microphone from Sandy and I am currently under my Mommy’s observation for exhaustion.”

I know my sister is, according to all the veterinary records, a bitch, but she is a bitch to everyone, so please find it in your heart to forgive her. A five-pound dog should never have twelve bowls of Cape Codders and then be given a live microphone.

I have to go, I have Jay’s people on line two about tomorrow night’s show.

The Pocket Kennedy saga concludes

Pocket has made it into the Kennedy inner sanctum at Hyannis Port and convinced The Kennedy that she is a real member of the family. Just as she was about to be fully backed by the family a woman notices a puddle on the floor.

“What is this puddle?” the woman asked.

“Ah, don’t worry, ah, must be spilled chowder,” The Kennedy said.

Pocket let out a big sigh of relief: If they couldn’t tell the difference between chowder and pee then who was she to disagree.

“Now Pocket, we are going put the entire weight of the Kennedy family behind you.” He grabbed a briefcase and opened it. He took out a paper with rows of people’s name followed by numbers. “This is a list of people who will be contributing to your campaign,” he said.

Pocket looked at the list. “Well isn’t that sweet,” she said. “I have about 100 of my doggy friends who will be giving me a million dollars and moving to Massachusetts to vote for me.”

“Ahh, yes, that’s impressive, we have a million people on the docks in Ireland ready to come ashore and vote for you for a hundred dollars. It’ll ahh, all balance out.”

Pocket continued to study the paper. “Why would all these kind people give me money, they haven’t even sniffed me yet?”

“Well, Pocket, they ahh, give you their money, and then they will, ahh, tell you how to vote on issues.”

Pocket stopped looking at the list. “Oh, I don’t know about that Mr. Kennedy. I was planning on looking at each issue individually, weighing the pro and cons of each, and voting on what I believe is the best for the country.”

“Hah hah hah hah hah!” the Kennedy laughed so hard chowder came out of one nostril and Scotch out of the other. ‘We ought to have you speak at the correspondents dinner, you’d kill there.”

Pocket tilted her head and looked up at him confused.

“Oh my god, ah, you’re not kidding. You really are a pup aren’t you? Well ahh, this is how our country works, men, ahh, give you money to help you, ahh, get elected, you do what they want so you can, ahh, get elected again.”

“Oh I don’t even like my Mommy telling me what to do, quiet down, get off the back of the couch, don’t pee there. I think people should give me money and let me pass legislation as I see fit, and if they disagree, they can give their money to someone else next time,” Pocket said.

The Kennedy gave her a look of disappointment and took back the list. “I am sorry Pocket but no Kennedy could ever have so little knowledge of how the American political system works. I’m afraid I am going to have to not only withdraw our support for your candidacy, but also ask you not to refer to yourself as a Kennedy during the campaign.”

Pocket felt her little heart breaking. The Kennedy stood up and told her that she was going to have to leave. She walked out of the house with her head down just as she heard the lady Kennedy say “Hey, this isn’t chowder.”

She was surprised to find her sister Foley waiting for her. “What did they say?” Foley asked.

“I wouldn’t agree to let people who contribute money to the campaign tell me how to vote so they said I wasn’t a Kennedy and asked me to leave,” Pocket said with her tail between her legs.

Foley gave her a playful nip and then a big kiss. “What are you doing that for I failed at becoming a Kennedy?” she said.

“You stood up for what you believe Pocket. You showed that you couldn’t be bought, most humans wouldn’t be able to do that. And when you’re elected Senator you won’t be beholden to special interest groups, just your doggy friends. I’m proud of you,” Foley said giving her a lick.

“You’ve never been proud of me before!” Pocket said, her tongue curling into a smile.

“Well I am today, now look over there, see that Portuguese Water Dog on that boat, that’s Splash, and look on deck, there’s 12, Chappy, Whiskey, Matilda, Luca, Tadertot, Shiloh, Cali, Hurley, Max, Tupper, Pokey, Macdougal, Brody, Sandy, Mollie, Morgan, Hattie, Zoey, Hobo, Erin and Cocoa Puff, and there are more below deck, all here to support you. Splash is going to steal the boat and go sailing, you coming?”

“Did they bring a million dollars?” Pocket asked.

“They brought their love and friendship,” Foley told her.

“That’s nice but I have a tough primary ahead.” Foley told her to forget about the election for one day and have fun sailing with their friends. Pocket smiled he widest smile and asked if she could pee on the deck.

“Of course you can Pocket, now let’s get over to the boat before they cast off.”

The two sisters bounced toward the ship, their tails wagging. “What do you think about another family?” Pocket asked. “How about Pocket Bush?”

“I think Pocket’s just fine,” Foley said as the climbed on the deck and set out to sea.

Pocket reaches the inner sanctum

Pocket has gone to Hyannis Port to meet her new family, the Kennedys, but, upon finding out that she was neutered, and sexually inactive, it was determined she could not possibly be a true Kennedy and had the door slammed in her little face. But when all seemed lost the door opened.

“Ahh,” the Kennedy man who opened the door said. “A neutered sex-less Kennedy, now, ahh, that could work for us. No sex scandals, no Vatican denying annulment, you might be, ahh, on to something here,” he said motioning for Pocket to cross the threshold. When she did she entered a large living room with floor to ceiling windows giving an expansive view of the Atlantic.

“Oh no,” Pocket thought, “all that water’s going to make me pee.’

The man pointed towards a chair and told Pocket to sit. She hopped up on it. “Would you like some chodaw?” the Kennedy asked. ‘No thank you,’ I answered, “chowder gets stuck in my fur and smells.”

“Ah, that’s the most disgusting thing I have ever heard,” Kennedy said, “but I like it. How are your drinking habits?”

“As soon as it gets poured I’m right over there lapping it up before my sister gets hers,” I said. “I’m told I get more on the ground than in my mouth.” The Kennedy was smiling and nodding his head along with her. “And if I drink too much too fast I get that snorts and end up peeing on the floor.”

“My God, it’s like looking in the mirror,” the Kennedy said. “Now, about ahh, driving, do you do it?”

“Oh no I don’t drive at all,” Pocket said.

“That’s good, we’ve ahh, we’ve had our problems driving.”

“I do like to stick my head out of the car while it’s moving,” I said.

“Umm, yes, uhh, you might have to stop doing that, we’ve, uhh, found out the hard way it’s better to keep your head in the car.”

Pocket thought that would be a small sacrifice to make.

“Have you served in the ahh, military, it is ahh, very important to have that on your, ahh resume.”

“My sister and I led the assault on the Princess’ castle the day Tanner went to Rainbow Bridge,” I said.

“Ahh, very good, code, the walls have ears, and what was your rank?”

“Lollipop!”

The Kennedy was taken aback, and then held up his hand. “Well the Senator always believed in don’t ask don’t tell. What is your position on health care?”

“Every time I go to the Doctor I get something rammed up my butt hole and I don’t like it. I don’t think we should have to take it up the bum hole every time we get sick.”

The Kennedy smashed his hand on the table spilling the contents of his tray, making two great tastes that taste great together, chowder and scotch. “There it is. Not even the Senator put it so succinctly. American shouldn’t have to take it up the bum hole every time they go to the Doctor. I am going to have to pass that on to Barak. Pocket, we are proud to have you as a Kennedy and you have our full support for the Senate seat.”

Pocket’s tongue curled up in a big smile. Things could not have possibly gone better and she could see herself in Washington passing laws to help all her doggy friends.

“Hey,” the female Kennedy said. “What is there a puddle under the table?”

Pocket’s smile quickly disapeered and her stubby tail went between her legs.

To be continued

Pocket meets the Kennedys

On Labor Day I received the most exciting news, Joseph Kennedy had decided not to seek his Uncle’s Senate seat leaving only one Kennedy in the running, the newly christened Pocket Kennedy.

It was time for me to take my place, not just in the Senate, but at the Kennedy’s ancesteral home in Hyannis Port. I climbed aboard my Pocket Rocket and flew down Route 495, over the Sagamore Bridge, to the Kennedy compound.

I walked up to the wide porch and scratched at the door. One of those Kennedy men who look like they were created in the basement from the same mold answered and looked down at me.

“Hello, I am Pocket Kennedy!” I said.

“Theeers a doug on the pooch!” this unknown Kennedy said.

Oh no. I had taken so much time to prepare and there was a doug on me. What the heck’s a doug?

“Ask it what it wants,” a woman’s voice said from inside.

“Ahh, What do you, ahh, want?” the older Kennedy asked.

“I am a Kennedy. Pocket Kennedy. I am running for the Senate seat and I wanted to meet my new family.” I said.

“Well, ahh, how do I know that ahh, you ah one of us ahh?”

“Give him the test!” the woman said.

“Ahh,” the man said. “The ahh test, yes. Ah, who is your ah, fatha?” I said I didn’t know. “Ahh, that is correct, very good. Now, who is your motha?” I said all knew was my AKC paperwork said she was a bitch. “Ah, correct again. Finally, how many children do you have that ah, don’t live with you?”

“I can’t have children I have been fixed,” I said.

“Ahh, no, that’s wrong, we ahh, we breed like rabbits, but thanks for coming,” he then shut the door in my face.

What was I to do? If I couldn’t get into the inner sanctum how would I prove I was a Kennedy?

Suddenly the door opened again

To be continued

Suck day is here

Well it finally arrived, the day I dread every year: Suck day, the day Mommy goes back to work.

I knew it was coming. Pocket, so sweet, so innocent, she wouldn’t know if a herd of buffaloes were coming, but I knew. The days were a little shorter, the nights were a little colder, Mommy was complaining about have to go back to GD work a lot more.

We woke up this morning, spoiled from a four-day weekend of sleeping late, and when we went out, it was dark. I hate going out for my morning pee in the dark. When we got inside Mommy was already stirring, making the bed, and then hurrying into the shower. I looked at Pocket. “The jigs up!” I said. “Well get me a towel so no one can see it!” Pocket said.

Mommy was quickly out of the shower. She is always quickly out of the shower the first day of work. By the last day of work in June she will be in the shower for an hour and a half. Then Daddy went in and out of the shower so fast I don’t think he even got wet.

“Why are they going so fast?” Pocket asked.

“Mommy’s going back to work,” I said.

“Mommy doesn’t work,” Pocket scoffed. “Who is going to hire her, people who need to test recliners for sleeping positions with Yorkies?”

“And she wants to be a Senator!” I thought, and then I thought: “She wants to be a Senator. Pocket could take some of that stimulus money, put it into recliner testing for puppies, and Mommy could do the type of job she was born to do. Brilliant!”

“Pocket, when you’re elected Senator you could appropriate some stimulus money for Mommy to test recliners and she would never have to go back to work!” I said excitedly.

“Mommy’s going back to work?” she asked.

And she wants to be a Senator.

We did get some lap time, but it wasn’t summer, relaxed, no tension in the thighs lap time, it was anxious, twitching, I have to get up and go to work soon thighs. I hate those thighs. Then she was up to do her hair. She’s so unlucky. I go once every two months and my hair is beautiful.

Then finally it was time for work, and my lap of kindness was gone for the summer. I didn’t always sit with her, but it was nice to come down the stairs from the warm puddle of sun and see she was there. I am always happy to be on my blanket, and Pocket was in her crate working Mommy’s old blackberry with no batteries thinking she was drumming up Senate support but was only whittling down her claws. Soon we were both asleep, then popped up as we heard the door opening, and Mommy was home.

She did some chores but soon we were all in our recliner. I think Yorkie recliner tester is the job she was born to do. Who knows, maybe working a dead blackberry will help Pocket get elected and Mom to get her dream job.

I might be behind this Pocket for Senate thing after all.

Sad Dearborn case leaves no one to poop on

One of my favorite endeavors is to wander across the street (don’t worry, I look both ways) and speak to my geese friends that spend the day eating grass and relieving themselves on my stomping grounds at the state mental facility. I tell them about some human who has been mean to pups, and ask them to fly overhead and poop on the offender. They have regularly scheduled appointments at LT’s house.

I was scouring the Internet looking for someone to send my well-fed geese upon when I found this fellow: His name is Kenneth Lang Jr. and he lives in Dearborn Michigan up by our good friend Matilda. On July 22 he was found in his one level home, surrounded by 150 deceased pups, most of whom were kept frozen in a freezer, many of whom had died from puncture wounds to the heart, plus dozens other sickly, emaciated and filthy Chihuahuas. He lived in a brick house, with well-manicured bushes and neatly cut lawn. On the inside he had sealed his windows to contain the smell.

He was released on bond on September 4 and I was ready to get the geese loaded but something stopped me. Is this man a Michael Vick, abusing dogs for his own sick purposes, or is he a sick man, abusing dogs due to forces out of his control? According to the police he showed great concern for his dogs while in custody.

I guess I have a question for our humans. How is it possible that this man, who seemed to own this house, could hide these dogs for years without anyone noticing? There were hundreds of us in that house, but not a postman, not a neighbor, not a police officer noticed the barking or the smell?

While I don’t understand humans, I know how they act. They worry about getting involved. This Lang guy was released back on the street. What if he knew you were the one who reported him, who was responsible for taking what, through his twisted vision, were well taken care of dogs? What would happen to you? A slashed tire, a rock through a window, worse? Or would he hire a lawyer with less scruples then me and sue you. Suddenly, after your good deed, there is a chance you could lose everything you have worked so hard for in life. Dogs, we disagree, we tussle, and we move on. Humans let feelings do what they call linger, which means they never let go of their need for revenge. Pocket bites me, I bite Pocket, its over. For humans the biting goes on and on and on.

It isn’t just with us pups either. I heard about this girl kidnapped a dog’s life ago, who was kept in the back yard of this man’s home, bred, had babies, raised them there, and even when there were humans who were supposed to keep an eye on the man and visit him regularly, for 14 years no one noticed this kidnapped girl, who was now a woman, was there.

It would be nice if, when humans thought there was trouble, they could be free to speak up, and receive protection from those they spoke up against. It would also be nice if those who should be looking out for the Kenneth Langs of the world were doing so; protecting them, innocent children, and innocent pups like us.

I think I would rather be a pup than a human. I think our Mommies and Daddies probably feel the same way too. Our lives are much simpler. Of course if we’re the wrong sort of dog, like a pit bull, and we make a mistake, like nipping someone, we’re facing a death sentence. Humans seem to be able to nip one another over and over again.

So, I can’t, in good conscious send my geese to poop on Kenneth Lang, and I don’t know who I should send them for, sometimes there is just no one to poop on.

Except Michael Vick: So off to Philadelphia they fly, and since I’m in a particularly ornery mood, I want to warn all media members, if they treat him like anything more than an overpriced back up quarterback I am sending my flock towards the offending member, so if you go to an Eagles game, either at home or the road, even if it’s a bright sunny day, bring a hood, because you never know who is flying overhead.

Foley Monster apologizes to Hobo Hudson 's work force

There are times in life that we are forced to do things we don’t desire. Like getting dressed in a Halloween costume, getting our picture taken then put on line so people can vote and win $1,000 for our local shelter but instead of the winnings going to the shelter Mommy keeps it and spends it on Ambien and Grey Goose so she can get through the night with all those “freaking kids banging on the door then stealing all the Kit-Kat bars.”

Today I must issue an apology to the cats that work for Hobo Hudson. They are upset that I nipped Snowball when he allegedly was trying to enter his own home, but in reality was a cat burglar looking to abscond with some of my neighbor’s nip. I had promised the President not to talk about this, but since he can’t even get a five-minute segment on Schoolhouse Rock approved, I do not fear retribution.

I certainly never meant to cause any problems for my friend Hobo. He has been gracious enough to hire cats. I don’t know if you kitties have walked around Tampa, but many of the stores have “Help Wanted / Kitties Need Not Apply” signs; but that did not stop Hobo from reaching across the aisle and hiring you furry freaks of nature.

(Note to all the kitties in the Tanner Brigade: I am not referring to you. You are the world’s best kitties and I am proud to call you my friends. I know you all understand what happened with Snowball, and none of you are dumb enough to work for the slave wages Hobo pays.)

So please, go back to work for Double H. It’s not like anyone else is going to hire you. Let’s face it: You work five minutes for every hour you spend licking yourself like you’re working your way to a prize at the bottom of a Crackerjack box then are stunned when you cough up this giant ball of hair which even grosses out the Guinea Pigs.

Plus you’re nocturnal. Up all night doing god knows what. And don’t deny it because I see all of you when I stumble home at 3:00 AM after I get my drunk on. Who wants a staff that sleeps all day? OK, outside of Congress.

And your bathroom habits are absolutely disgusting. You go inside in a box. I mean who wants to hire someone who won’t go outside to do his Vicks? Nobody is hiring Pocket. That’s why she’s doing what everyone else does who can’t get hired for a job, running for political office. Plus Hobo probably has to clean the box, god knows the cats won’t, they’re too busy licking their paws. My Vicks either are absorbed in the earth to help flowers grow or end up on some kids shoe who tracks in the house and gets yelled at by their Mom.

So I hope you accept my sincere apology and the kind words I have for you kitties, and I ahope you go back to work for my friend Hobo. At least it will get you freaks off the street.

Pocket doesn't want much for her birthday, just a million dollars. Each

I would like to thank all my wonderful friends for their birthday wishes and kind words. I am the richest dog in the world because of all the wonderful friends I have.

But there are a couple of things you wonderful friends can do for me, this being my birthday and all. It would help me very much in my efforts to become a United States Senator (Remember: The Kennedys have been picking pockets for years, it’s time for a Pocket Kennedy.)

So the first thing I need you to do is very easy. You all have to move to Massachusetts. You can live wherever you want, near the beaches of Cape Cod; in the wonderful mountains of the Berkshires; in the cradle of liberty at Lexington or Concord; or in Boston, one of the world’s great cities.

The second request is even easier. I need a million dollars for what is called my “war chest.” I don’t really know what this is. I think it is something I wear just above my tummy to protect my little thumper. I don’t know why I need one but all the television stations say I do.

To make it easier and avoid confusion I don’t expect you all to sit around and figure who should give what. I need you all to give a million dollars. This can be by check, or money order, or one of those mules with the saddlebags over their back with a grizzly old prospector accompanying him.

A woman announced that she too wants to be Senator, which I found rude, I mean Lollipops Unite, right ladies? But I guess she doesn’t believe in sisterhood and won’t acquiesce (the biggest word I have ever used, I am learning so good.) At first when I heard she was running my little paws curled up in fists of rage, which was cool but when I walked I listed to left and tipped over, because I heard the woman was both an Attorney and a General and we all know someone who is both a General and Attorney but Foley said she won’t even run after squirrels anymore, never mind chasing a seat. If a recliner is moving Foley can always find a stationary one.

I don’t know if I’m a Dogacrat or a Repuplican. It just seems like all those folks do is yell at one another and nothing ever gets done. Foley said I should be an indogpendent, which sounds OK to me. She said I won’t have to run in a primary. What that means is that I can stay in the running right up until January.

Well I can’t wait until you all move here and give me a million dollars. I know Pokey Lunn will be around next weekend. Pokey I’ll meet you at the pizza place across from the Comcast Center and you can give me the million then. Big bills please, I’m small and can’t carry lots of cash.

Well thanks for all the birthday wishes and when you all move here and give me a million dollars we’ll have a cook out. See you soon.

Momma has a hole in her head and no Yorkies on her lap

Foley: Today our Mommy had her tooth out. It was tooth number 14. I don’t know why humans number their teeth. I name mine. There’s Stewie, Brian, Peter, Quagmire. Two years ago Meg and Joe were stolen by the tooth fairy while I was getting mouth surgery. Revenge shall be mine.

Pocket: Mommy always takes care of us when we’re not feeling well so we decided to work in shifts taking care of her when she got home. She came in with the side of her face a little puffy. She hooked me up and took me outside where I peed (SCORE) and then I came back in.

Foley: I was going to follow them downstairs. I got about four steps down and the bright sun was coming through the sun roof and I figured I would just lie there for a second and it so warmed my fur and my eyes began to flutter and then I slowly drifted off, which was understandable, as I had been awake almost 40 seconds.

Pocket: I came back inside and got my treat. I jumped on the back of the couch and looked outside where there was nothing. HAH AH! I had scared everything away. But they would be back when they think I’m off duty and start walking on my lawn and across my pavement and then I would announce my presence with authority.

Foley: I was in dreamland, running with Tanner; checking out books at the library with Hobo; visiting the Museum of Fine arts with Zoey; licking Popsicles with Tadertot; drinking Mai-Tai’s with Chase and Gucci; dancing the tango with Luca, and chasing the mailman with Pepsi.

Pocket: I saw Mama go to the refrigerator and get some ice for her puffy face. She sat in the recliner and lifted her legs and laid back. I was sure Foley was with her. If I went over there she would just snap at me and chase me off so I might as well stay ensconced in my position.

Foley: I awoke from my busy afternoon in dreamland. I needed a nap. Then I remembered Mama. She was probably sitting down there stroking Pocket. I should got down there and chase her off. But the sun was now hitting my blanket at the end of the bed. I love a warm blanket. I decided to give Pocket her day in the sun while I spent mine lying in the sun.

Pocket: That guy going to get his mail, I think that’s Glen Beck. Hey, hey Glen, stop freaking out the elderly. Oh, it’s Franks and Beans. Oh, there’s the sinister Chiuhuah. I hate that thing. Hey Chihuaha. (Fowl language redacted). Hey Foley, come over here and look at the Chihuaha.

Foley: There I am, trying to rest, when I hear Pocket barking, when she’s supposed to be with Momma. Now I have to leave my spot and go downstairs. I reach the landing and poor Momma is all alone while Suzie Pees-a-lot is barking out the window. Well Pocket had enough time with Momma, I am taking my spot now.

Pocket: Foley wasn’t sitting with Momma. She must of got up to go to lay in the sun. Man, she would miss her va-jay-jay if it wasn’t at the end of her tongue. I was going to take this opportunity to climb into Momma’s warm lap. I hopped off the couch and lay down.

Foley: I came downstairs and there was Pocket on her lap. Well enough of that. I jumped up, growled and snapped at her.

Pocket: So she comes back downstairs after sitting with Momma all day and she wants to snap at me! I snapped right back Jack.

Foley: What? She thinks this lap is her lap. Time to fight.

Momma: I picked Foley up and pushed Pocket away. I told them both if they couldn’t sit with me when I needed them then I didn’t want them sitting with me now. They both got down. Pocket sat on the couch and Foley in the other recliner.

Foley: I don’t believe this. I gave Pocket one little thing to do and she screws it up.

Pocket: I don’t believe this. I gave Foley one little thing to do and she screws it up.

Foley and Pocket: Sisters!

Momma: Maybe I’ll get a cat.