The Ruby Rose and the Big Little Angels 3 Blog

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 huma

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 g

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 sleep

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

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 nev

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

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

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 Hud

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 dock

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

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

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

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 relea

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 arou

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 te

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 t