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.