January 31, 2010 Pup of the week is Morgan

I would like to say that this week's Pup of the Week decision was hard. But unfortunately it was all to easy, because this week we all lost one of our best friends.

I don't need to save it to the end. We all know Morgan is our pup of the week, of the month, of the year, of the decade, of the century, of the last century. His humble Mom, who adored him with a love as great as any in the world, in the blog announcing his going to the Bridge, put her friend's father's passing first, always thinking of others and even with her heart breaking, she still is putting her friend Martha's pain before her own.




We look up in the sky, and we can see Morgan's Sheriff badge shine, and we know he is looking over all of us. But in his own way he always has been. His Mom's been looking over us too, and now it's time we look over her.

Sometimes when we can't find words we steal and modify the words of others, and that's what we're doing here. So this is for Morgan the Miracle Maltese, our Pup of the Week, and his beautiful Mom.





Morgan came down from heaven yesterday
He stayed with me just long enough to rescue me
And he told me a story yesterday,
About the sweet love between a wonderful Mom and a Miracle Maltese
And then he spread his wings high over me
He said tomorrow I will be by your side

And I said "fly on my sweet Morgan,
Fly on through the sky,
Fly on my sweet Morgan,
Forever you will be by my side"

Sure enough this morning Morgan came unto me
Silver wings silhouetted against the child's sunrise
And Miracle Morgan said unto me
"today is the day to put tears aside,
Don't miss me, my love you'll carry every day
You'll see it in every pup's pretty smile"
And then she took off high over yonder

And I said "fly on my sweet Morgan,
Fly on through the sky,
Fly on my sweet Morgan,
Forever you will be by my side"

Killling the beast in the cellar

There is a beast that lives in the cellar. I don't like it. It eats fire, it makes a loud noise, and sometimes it bangs. The beast has a purpose. It exhales hot breath throughout the house keeping us warm. But the beast has become sick and has to go away. The beast slayer is working on it now. Then we will have a new beast to keep us warm.

Friday morning Mommy and Daddy weren't working. I don't know why. They feel no morale obligation to keep me informed of their schedule. When we get in bed I placate Pocket with a little playing, then start licking all the good tasting things that have attached themselves to Daddy's skin off of him, and finally crawl down to the end of the bed to sleep while Pocket sleeps cuddled with Mommy.,

Sometime during the night, usually Mommy's first time to pee, I go under the covers with her, kick Pocket out of the warm snuggle spot she has made, and spend the rest of the time sleeping next to her. Thursday night, I woke up earlier, and even with my permanent hairy coat I knew it was cold. I got up, and began pawing Mommy until she lifted the covers. It was so cold I didn't even move Pocket from her spot, just snuggled up and joined her there.

I woke Mommy up enough to make her need to pee, and Pocket and I went right for the spot she was lying. When she came back she was saying "it's cold, it's cold, oh crap it's cold." She got into bed, grabbed both of us, and put us next to her like little furry bed warmers.

Daddy was the next one up. Pocket shook her head and whispered to me: "I may pee a lot but I don't do it in the middle of the night and wake us up." I nodded. When Daddy came back in he grabbed the big blue quilt that is our last line of defense against the cold, snatched us and put us next to him. We knew we were going to spend the night getting jerked back and forth like a catfish on a line between Mommy and Daddy seeking warm furry snugglies.

By the time the alarm went off we were all huddled together for warmth. Daddy said he thought the furnace went off. "Do you think?" I asked. Mommy told him he should go downstairs and feed the beast it's morning fire so he will breath the hot air and warm the house. He agreed, then we all fell asleep again for two hours.

Mommy awoke again, smacked Daddy, and told him to go light "The Pilot," which must be the Beast's name. He ran downstairs, in nothing but his knickers, fed the beast, and ran back upstairs, telling Mommy it was 48 degrees, then grabbing Pocket, who had gone to the end of the bed, and sliding her under the covers.

I took offense to this, attacked her and we fought. Mommy grabbed me, Daddy grabbed Pocket, they held us apart, put us down, and we went at it again. They separated us, Mommy holding me as I licked my leg, Daddy kept Pocket on his chest, until whatever had turned on our aggression switch was turned off, and we settled next to each other, licking our wounds.

For the next half hour the four of us lay together, the cold air slowly warming, as we shared our body heat, perfectly snuggled. It was the safest I ever felt.

We finally got out of bed, when the temperature reached a balmy 60 degrees, and get this, then I got a bath. I don't appreciate baths on warm days, never mind when it's barely above freezing.

I got a bath Friday because Saturday Daughter #2's husband came over with grand daughters #1, #3, and #5. He is a licensed beast killer. He went into the basement. Grandbaby #1, the artist, took my picture, hopefully to use as the basis for another drawing. Babies #3 and #5 got the Barbie Dolls (Pocket loves chewing their shoes; the Barbies, that is,) the building blocks, and tightened their shoes for some first rate Pocket harassment while I settled into Mommy's recliner to watch the action when suddenly a loud sound emanated from the basement scaring us still; the beast slaying had begun.

The banging, the screeching as the beast fought back, the hammering as he beat against it, and the whaling made our heads hurt. Then Grand Baby #1 took Mommy's new Mario Brothers Wii game and taught her how to play, and the loud music and squeals meshed with the screeching and banging making a symphony of confusion in our little Yorkie minds.

Daughter #2 came to pick up the girls and now we're sitting, in the falling temperatures, as the fight continues downstairs. I do know if you ever have to fight a Heat Beast you do need a great deal of nourishment known as Bud Light. Pocket has spent the last five hours, shaking, trembling, and whining with each bang. When she wasn't on Mommy's lap, she was on Daddy's shoulder, and even his head. Son in law #2 says he's almost ready to fire up the new beast, so I better post this before he blows up the house.

Hopefully we will be blogging again tomorrow.

Oh crap! The smoke alarms just went off. Pocket is shaking so hard she invented the vibrating recliner. Remember us all when we were young a beautiful!

Pocket's persistant peeing problem is dwindling

Guess who is peeing less? That's right, me, Pocket Dog. I don't know why. I am socially drinking as much as usual. I'm playing just as hard as always. In fact I killed my green ball. One of my first blogs at the Tanner Brigade was about the passing of my orange ball. Now it's my green ball. Thank god I have a plethora of balls.

Ever since I went to see Doctor Cold Hands I've been peeing less. Maybe it's because the Doctor said he could put me on medication to calm me down. I don't want to be the dog that sits drooling in the chair, scoffing down Foley-tinis, asking to be wheeled into the sunny spot and having my diaper changed 12 times a day (actually, except for the wheeling part, that's exactly how my day is now.)

Mommy agreed. Even with the difficulties that my leaking brings she wouldn't want to change my personality, most of the time.

Up to now I was on a fairly regular weekday peeing schedule

5:30: Get up. Pee
5:35: If I have a walk, pee again before going inside. If not then I just let my pee flag fly
6:05: While Mommy and Daddy are getting ready I have a big bowl of water and pee
6:35: Daddy goes to take me out, sees that I have peed, grows frustrated, takes me out anyway, where, usually I will find reserve pee.
My morning pees are done and I am ready to go in my crate until Mommy comes home at 2:30. Then:
2:35: Pee
2:40: Jump up and down, excited to see Mom, find a corner, pee.
4:15: Daddy comes home. He rushes to take me out before I pee.
4:30: Daddy and I are playing ball. I am having so much fun I pee.
4:35: Daddy sees that I have peed and gets mad. He takes me out. I don't pee
4:40: I pee.
5:10: If Daddy guesses right I pee outside, if not, oh well
6:00: See 5:10.
6:30: Mommy and Daddy are eating. Foley is begging for food but only getting kibble. I'm bored. I pee.
7:00: Daddy takes me out with the trash. He brings me back. I pee. This is our only money in the bank peeing of the night.
7:45: We try to get in one more pee before we settle down for TV watching. Sometimes I go, but sometimes my bladder is tuckered out.
9:00: Before he makes snacks Daddy takes me out. I pee. Unless I hopped down five minutes earlier and peed before he could get to me.
10:00: Bed time. One more pee (unless I grew restless and wanted to play ball, and got played with, then I squeeze out a pee around 9:30.

So that's about 14 pees a day. I averaged the same on weekends. I just smush them all together.

But now I'm down to about 7 pees a day, couple in the morning, one when Mommy gets home, one when Daddy gets home, one after playing ball, one after supper, and maybe one more at night.

I don't know why I have changed, but I do have a theory. I think there are Who's living in my carpet.

That's right, beneath our feet there is a small Whoville settlement, and I've been peeing on them for two years. I think they call me the Pocket who Peed on Christmas. Recently, when I was lying on the rug, I heard them singing "Fahoo Foray, Fahoo Foray, get your umbrella, it's Pocket peeing day." And according to the Whos, my bladder grew three sizes that day. So now I am able to hold it longer and there is even talk that I might be able to go without my undergarment if I keep the pee sucked up inside me until it's time to be released.

So, I want to thank my Mommy for having so much patience, and either the Whos who made my bladder grow larger, or the doctor, who has me so drugged up I think the carpet is singing to me.

Either way Pocket has gone three accident free days in this workplace. We will keep you posted, with postings. Now I'm going to listen to the Whos.

They're playing Baba O'Foley.

The Bownight Show with Foley Monster

Now that I have successfully driven Conan O'Brien off the air and pushed Jay Leno back to 11:30 Pocket and I will be taking over the 10:00 time slot at NBC whenever we are awake for more than an hour and remember we have a show. This is the transcript of our first effort

Pocket: From the Tanner Brigade Home Office it's the Bownight Show with your host Foley Monster. Foley's guest tonight is recently elected Massachusetts Senator Scott Brown, with Cocoa Puff and the All Labrador Band, and me, I'm Pocket Dog, and now here's Foley.

Foley: Thank you, thank you. Please. Did you see the big football games yesterday? More dropped balls then at a male puppy obedience school. You don't drop your ball when you're carrying it do you Pocket?

Pocket: That's correct Yorkie.

Foley: Pocket and I had an interesting weekend, we went baby sitting for Daughter #2. She has these two, tiny little people, we call them Grand Daughters #3 and #5. It's like ordering from a Chinese Menu. I'll have to #3, and a little of the #5.

Pocket: Chinese food makes me gassy.

Foley: Air makes you gassy. So we get there, and we're both carried in, I because, as you know, I'm the Queen and I deserve hailing, and Pocket because when her feet hits linoleum she's peeing.

Pocket: They say I'm an excitable pisser.

Foley: Well you spend more time excited then Tiger Woods at the Hooters Open. So we get there, and these two little children, they come at us like tiny Frankenstein Monsters. The smaller one, she runs with that rocking back and forth motion like she's Otis trying to pass a sobriety test after a night of Foley-tinis. And the thing is the cat is going to carry Otis home. The cat's the one they ought to be testing, Otis is just going to lie there passed out. Do we have a picture. Yes, here's Otis failing his sobriety test.




Pocket: Friends do not let friends drink and ride cats.

Foley: Thank you for the PSA. The pissing service announcement. And this is the cat, so, you see what I'm saying, I don't know whose driving who.



Foley: So anyway, we're at the thing, the babysitting, and the little one is stumbling around like Frankenstein, and she can't talk either, so she's going "et ta poppy, et ta poppy" and I don't know if she's saying get the puppy or eat the puppy, or eat the pooppy because with Pocket, you never know when she's going to drop a Vick bomb.



Pocket: I have no control over my body when I'm excited.

Foley: Yes, you and Charlie Sheen. And the other grand baby, she's slightly older, what she does is she runs up to Pocket, and she stamps her feet and yells as loud as she can.

Pocket: I think she gets that from her mother.

Foley: Meanwhile I'm being held by Daddy and I'm like Jerry Jones in the owner's box just watching all the action. Then you hid.

Pocket: Under the kitchen chair, where the wood that we're not supposed to chew on is.

Foley: Then they run out of the room and come back, and now they're on wheels. I mean who in their right mind would give them wheels? So now they're just flying around. And the little one, she's on this thing with Big Wheels. So we made it over to the couch and we were safe.

Pocket: The leather couch.

Foley: Yeah, not too big a fan of the leather couch.

Pocket: It make my genitals sweat.

Foley: OK Pocket, that's enough. And, get this, I got over my fear of the stairs. If you remember last time we babysat I fell down the stairs, and Regis had to host the show for a couple of weeks. Do you remember that?

Pocket: Talk about your excited pisser.

Foley: That's right. Anyway, this time, didn't fall down the stairs at all.

Pocket: That's because Daddy held you when Mommy put the grand babies to bed. You never even went up the stairs.

Foley: But I would have.

Pocket: If you had gone up the stairs you would have ended up looking like this.



Foley: Oh that's not right.

Pocket: Talk about your Hooters Open.

Foley: OK. Do we have time for the thing? We do. OK. From the home office, well we're at the home office, geeze, next time I'm showing up for rehearsal, so from here: Top Ten Reasons We Love Ladybug. OK are you ready?

#10: She classes up Hobo Hudson's neighborhood.
#9: Even when she's on a restricted diet her pooh tastes magnificent.
#8: She looks adversity in the face and says "Bo-la-la"
#7: She's well groomed
#6: She's the sweetest dog we know named after an insect
#5: Even when she's sick she always has a kind word for everyone
#4: Her bows
#3: Her wonderful parents who are letting her stay with us longer
#2: She's our friend even when we do dumb things
#1: She finally has given people something nice to see when they go to Florida.

Foley: OK. Our first guest is the nearly elected Republican Senator from our state Massachusetts, that's the seat you were running for wasn't it Pocket?

Pocket: That is correct Yorkie.

Foley: Well try to keep a civil fart in your butt. Now here is soon to be Senator Brown.

(Senator Brown walks out to applause.)

Foley: Welcome Senator, now, you're here with Pocket, one of your opponents, is there any bad blood between you?

Brown: No, no, Pocket ran a good clean campaign. She gave us quite a fright. I think if she was a little older, and house broken, I may have been in a great deal of trouble. At least more trouble than Martha Coakley.

Foley: Hah-hah-hah. She went on vacation and wouldn't go shake people's hands and ask for their vote, and spelled Massachusetts wrong in an ad, and ran the worst campaign since Barney Fife ran for Sheriff against Andy. What a silly girl. Hah-hah-hah. Oh. That's funny stuff.

Brown: We enjoy laughing about it at my house with my daughters, who are totally available, and doable. They're hot. One of them was on American Idol. Hot and available. My girls. On I Tunes.

Foley: Speaking of hot, what can you tell me about this picture.




Brown: Oh, well, I was young, and, it was a kick, just something fun.

Foley: But it's gross, I mean you're all hairy. I don't let my Daddy come anywhere near me when he's like that. You either have your head covered in hair, or your entire body, these little spurts of growth you got going on there. Ugh.

Pocket: I'm pretty sure I saw you washing my friend Foxy last week. We have the picture here.




Brown: I have not had bathing relations with that animal.

Pocket: I think we have a scandal.

Foley: You have hairy legs, the mystery bather has hairy legs. I don't think it can be much clearer. You are the serial bather.

Brown: I'd like to get back to the issues.

Foley: So there you have it. Scott Brown secretly gets naked and washes dogs with his hairy body. Can impeachment be far behind? I would like to thank Cocoa and the Labradors and my sister Pocket, our guest dirty, hairy, naked dog washer Scott Brown. Thank you all and have a good night, now get away from me Senator Sicko.

January 24 2010 Pups of the Week are the K Dogs

Before we get to our Pup of the Week we must take a moment to bestow the Pawents of the Week award. In the past two weeks we have honored Ladybug and Sage with our highest recognition, and we could give these two wonderful dogs Pup of the Week every week. But they are both shy and modest dogs and would not want to constant recognition.

So let's take a moment to recognize their pawrents with the Pawrents of the Week award. They have had an incredibly difficult week, watching their beloved dogs in pain and suffering, and they have held strong, determined to do was right for their little, lovable balls of fur. So, for all the Brigade Members, and dogs everywhere, we would like to give them a big thank you and lots of licks.

With all the sadness this week there has been one happy story. Atypically, it begin with a sad story, as our Pup of the Week lost a beloved sister and became depressed. She wasn't eating, She spent most of her time sleeping. Her puppy heart was broken. Thankfully her parents knew exactly what to do. They went to the shelter to find a new sister.

They filled out the papers, they had the home visit, and then they were approved to bring home Kady to help heal the large hole in their hearts that Krie left, and to give another dog the enormous amount of love they have in their hearts.

We haven't heard back from the K & K grrls about how well Kady has fit in with the family or how well Kenya has welcomed her, but we're sure their parent made their transition simple and sweet.

(OK embarrassing admission: I am not sure Kenya is the dog that is not eating, so I am making a dog pup of the week whose name I am not 100% sure of, but that is what the edit button is for. Also the girls got locked out of their first profile and had to create a new one and I don't know how to fix it so we can delete the old one. Sigh.)

So congrats to our newest members, the K & K grrls, Kenya (oh boy I hope so) and Kady, and their wonderful pawrents (plus Ladybug's and Sage's pawrents) for being our Pups and Pawents of the week.

Foley Monster is losing the battle of the lap

I'm the type of dog that doesn't like to settle down, where there is a warm place to be sitting I'll be lying around, I'll snuggle into a ball just a cute as anything you've ever seen, but it's my Mommy's lap that's fit for a Queen.

They call me the Foley Monster, yeah the Foley Monster, I sleep around, around, around, around.

Throughout my life, when I'm done sleeping in my brown furry house, or the couch, or the end of the chair, preferably under a blanket, I stand, stretch, and head for my Mommy's warm, comfortable lap. But lately there's been a sign on her lap reading "ocupada," and sitting in my spot: Where I sleep! Where my children come and play with their toys! is Pocket. She broke my heart. She broke my heart.

I nuzzle her. I let out a pur. My teeth go back and I growl. I plead to Mommy with a pitiful howl.

"Foley if you wanted to be on my lap you shouldn't have got up," she says. "Pocket is sitting here, now shoo,"

"Now shoo?" You do not shoo a Monster. Was Frankenstien shooed? Godzilla? If you shooed them they would wreck your town.

I find another place on the recliner to sit, and grumble, mumble, tumble, and even fumble. Yet Pocket remains.

And I have to look at her. Please! Do not think this is mere jealousy. What makes my ovaries roll over in their specimen dish is that she's so unprofessional. When you sleep on Mommy's lap you curl up with your head near your tail, and when you look up a little flash of white can be seen beneath your brown eyes. It melts hearts.

Pocket lays on her lap like Lindsay Lohan sprawled out in an alley at 7:00 in the morning, arms and legs splayed everywhere, fluffy wide open for the puparrazi to film. It's not just that she's in my spot, it's that she has no respect for it.

I have begun to take retaliatory action. Her green ball is almost destroyed. Today I tried to finish it off but Daddy took it away. During nap time I bitched and moaned and whined and groaned so much she finally decided to move so she could get some sleep.

I know, I could just stay in her lap all day. If it's open my Mom will always give me first dibs.

But I can't do that,

Cause I'[m the Foley Monster. The Foley Monster.

And I sleep around around around around.

Pocket's concession speech

Bichons, Lhasos, Weimaraners, lend me your ears. I just got off the phone with Senator-elect Scott Brown to concede the election and congratulate him on a well run race. He promised to take me for a ride in his truck. I have never been in a truck. If Mommy and Daddy had bought me a truck I might be Senator-elect, but this is no time to look back in anger.

I would also like to thank Attorney General Martha Coakley on a race run. I have heard much criticism of her performance and I take exception. She did a commendable job for someone who cannot speak the English language, suffers from severe vertigo, is unable to find Massachusetts on a Texaco road map, and thinks Raider Sinica is a Yankee fan.

Then there is Joe Kennedy, the Labrador Retriever who adopted the Kennedy name I rejected and ran as an independent. He did not get many votes, maybe a few more than me. I would like to take this moment to remind him that the Tanner Brigade gets the yacht the last weekends of July and August.

I do think I cost myself some votes when I vacillated over the weekend. I tried to drag a throw rug over to cover it, but soon my vacillation was exposed in public. It is true that I did ask voters not to vote for me on election day, but that was because I did not want to influence the election in a negative manner by drawing votes to what was nothing more than a vanity candidacy, and I was afraid that my Saturday night tryst with a matted beagle, a randy Siamese, and a snout full of Foleytinis would be portrayed in a negative light.

(As well it should have. We got jiggy with it.)

Today we are left to reflect on the meaning of the election of the century of the week. During my campaign I have been told what humans want is change. But while my fellow candidates spoke, I stayed under the table, waited for food to drop, and listened. (Editor's note from Foley: She was peeing.)

This country is broken. Now I've broken stuff before. And I don't know how to fix things. But I can break it in a whole new way. Take a chair for instance. Say Foley and I were playing. We run into a chair, knock it over, and break the arm. Mommy is made because her chair is broken. Foley and I swear to change the chair while she is out. When Mommy goes to the store we chew the leg off. We changed the chair. But when Mommy comes home she's still mad. Because while we worked really hard on the chair, and we changed the chair, we didn't fix it.

What people need is a fix they can believe in. Ironically I did not learn this until after the election is over. Maybe a guy in a truck is someone who can fix it. But I doubt it. Nothing against him but until the non truck driving men (and women) there realize it's not just about change, but about fix, stuff is going to stay broken.

I do have one suggestion. We have given humans 235 years of bringing change and not fixing much, maybe it's time for us dogs to run things, so in 2010, vote for Canines for Change. We'll fix stuff (unless there's a rabbit, or a squirrel, or a warm spot in the sun, then all bets are off.)

A visit with Aunt Bev

Today I had a very exciting day. I got to go to the Retirement Home and see Aunt Bev. And I got to do it without Pissy Pocket, because, well, she's pissy. So, for an hour today I was where I belong, the center of attention.

Mommy and Daddy felt bad because they had not seen Aunt Bev since before Christmas, and what better offering to bring then a Foley Monster. I pranced in (OK, there was a great deal of sand to prevent icing on the ground so I was carried in, but Daddy pranced) and all the women there smiled at me.

It was a short prance down the hall to Aunt Bev's room. When we went in she saw me and a big smile creased her lovely face. Daddy held me up as I sniffed and snuggled. We then gathered at the far end of the room, her in her recliner, Mommy in a chair in the corner, and Daddy, having dragged a chair across the room, and creating such a disturbance that it caused a nurse to enter the room and ask if there was a wild animal in there, which made Daddy turn red in embarrassment and me to stick out my chest at her description of me as a wild animal, by the bed.

Mommy and Daddy were sitting close enough so they could each have a hand stroking me. I did what I do best. I sat and was adorable. I was excited so I was panting. When I pant my eyes are wide, like big brown pools you could swim in for days, and my tongue curls out of my mouth like a wonderful water slide that goes past big white mountains with heavy plaque buildup.

Mommy, Daddy and Aunt Bev were talking. I don't know what it was about. Nor do I care. My job was to sit in either Mommy's or Daddy's lap and look beautiful. Head tilted, big smile, ears erect: just the perfect model of a Yorkie.Every time Aunt Bev looked at me she needed to feel like she was looking at the most precious creature on the planet, and have her heart and mind filled with peace. And baby I rocked it.

I got down a few times to check out the floor. Then, at the end of the visit I saw this other beautiful Yorkie that looked just like me, on a window in the door, with someone who looked just like Mommy, and I would growl at it, but then I remembered my duty, and went back to looking perfect.

Finally it was time to go. We helped Auntie Bev up and we walked out into the common area. And there they were. Like stallions running in the green fields of Chile. Thriving in their own habitat. A half dozen old women on a couch in front of a TV. Daddy walked me over to them and it was like they found a vision of Jesus in the toast. They smiled, and laughed, and their hearts were filled with a joy not felt since childhood. They rubbed my head, my chin, my back, my...hey, cut your nails, and watch the tail lady, hey you're pinching me, OK back off you rubes!

But I had to forgive them. This was the biggest thing to happen to them since Elvis visited the PX. They were back scratching me when my sensitive nose picked up a peculiar scent. I turned to see a King Cavalier Spaniel being held by a woman. Damn! I knew I should have marked the rug so I could claim this as my petting grounds. Daddy walked my over to this wild, untamable beast, and our necks craned as we gave each other a long sniff.

'How are they today?" he asked.

"The one with the white sweater has nails like a velociraptor," I whispered. "And the big one, when she scratches your tummy, it's like she's looking for her wedding ring in a pile of cookie dough."

He nodded. "Ive been there solider," he said. "I want to thank you for providing a service to my friends here today, you go home a lay on your Mommy's lap, I'll take it from here." He then gave me a little puppy salute, and as my heart swelled, I returned it.

Before we went home Mommy took a picture of Aunt Bev and me. She took it with her Barkberry and she isn't very good with it, but it's a picture of me and one of my very sweetest friends, Aunt Bev.

Pup of the week: January 17, 2010

My parents favorite team is the Patriots. They won lots of games this season, which should make them happy, but they lost the last one, and that made them angry. I don't know why. Seems like only one team wins a season, and that leaves lots of unhappy slope noses. Why spend so much time on something that ultimately makes you unhappy? It's like if every time we chased the squirrel after we caught it we'd have to get a bath. Come to think of it, that's what happens.

But, as I drift in and out of my doggy naps I hear how these teams are in the fight of their lives, and this makes me angry. Because none of these men are in the fight of their lives. I'd probably spend more time watching and less napping if they were.

But if they want to understand what to fight for your life is, they should meet our pup of the week.

He is in the fight of his life. This week he became very sick and this illness has caused his poor Mom so much heartache and pain. He has been a very brave pup. Far braver than me. I don't even want to have my teeth cleaned. He has had to have several blood tests, dozens of pills ingested, all sorts of pokes and prods, He's had his paws shaved, had drugs pumped into him, and even a blood transfusion.

Before the blood transfusion it looked like the bridge was calling him. Each breath was so hard. But he fought to stay with his sweet Mom, and after a very difficult day he returned home with his tail wagging and eyes full of love for his Mom.

The diagnosis is AIHA, Auto Immune Hemolytic Anemia. I don't know what that is. All I know is the more letters or initials something has the worse it is. He is going to have more dogtor visits; more prodding; more poking, and no promises on what he will find at the end of this road.

But we will going on the road with his Mom and him. Before I announce his name, although you all know who he is, may I take time for a tip of the tail to my Brigade friends who have been so great with their comments, prayers, and good mojo, that have helped to convince the Bridge Angels not to come calling yet. The Prayer Brigade shall not let up.

So it is my great honor to name the toughest fighter we have in the Brigade, a laughing Spaniel, who, no matter how large the doctor's say his heart grows, it will never match the true power of love in his heart; a dog who went through horrible treatments and pain for days and bounced back with a wag and a smile,

For those reasons, and many more, Sage is out Pup of the Week.

A vote for Pocket is a vote for?

Election day is Tuesday and I was prepared to plead with my friends who are Massachusetts voters to write in the name Pocket Dog, and the address 60 Hodges Avenue (which is the site of the State Mental Hospital across the street, but I've marked it enough time so it is mine) Taunton MA, for United States Senator.

But now I am reluctant to do so, because these humans who are campaigning against me, and their supporters, are crazier then a rabid squirrel in the noonday sun. The pundits (I must admit, I don't know what that is, it sounds like something I leave on the rug) say the race is too close to call. Sometimes I wish I was too close to call, when I'm having fun upstairs, and Mommy wants me down.

I have to admit I've been fooling you. I know a little pup like me can't win a Senate seat. And if I did I wouldn't want to leave my Mom and move all the way down to Washing Town. But I did have a goal.

I wanted, from family, my TB friends, and Mommy's Facebook allies, to get ten votes. Then there would be stories in the paper about the little dog that somehow got ten votes and it didn't have any affect on the election at all.

But what if the votes that went to me cost someone the election? Then all those tea baggers, liberal wing nuts, and other mean tweeters and bloggers would descend on us and burn the cone of shame on our lawn.

I don't want that to happen. What I have found after I dipped my paw in the pee puddle of politics is that politicians are cruel, vicious people, like poor pitbulls that have been beat too much. Just today, while Mommy were watching the news, both candidates kept running advertisements doing nothing but bad barking about the other one, and all I could wonder is how two such miserable people could get a nomination for anything.

Then during nap time, the phone rings. Mommy, Foley and I were in a pig pile on the recliner when our peaceful sojourn was interrupted. Daddy answered and, no lie, it was the President asking us to vote for one of the candidates. Foley grabbed the phone and asked him if he found a dog tag she lost during our crashing of the state dinner, but that old President just kept prattling on. So Foley hung up on him. I am sure there will be no repercussions from that.

(Our nap was also interrupted by Foley's grumbling that I was on Momma's lap. She went "mumble, grumble, whine, grumble, hey I can lick my crotch, lick, lick, grumble, mumble, whine, whine, hey that crotch is tasty, lick, lick, grumble, mumble, grumble.)

So, I decided, after my nap, that I would not be asking for votes. But I had planned to ask for votes by telling you what a vote for Pocket was for: And I will still do so, because it's stuck in my brain and needs to come out.

A vote for Pocket is a vote against the idiocy of bipartisan politics. In short: MA state law read that the Governor appointed a Senator if a seat were to become vacant; but when MA democrats thought John Kerry would be elected President (Ba-ha-ha-ha) they changed the law so Republican Governor Romney would not be able to appoint a Republican, and made it an election; after Senator Kennedy passed they tried to change the law again to let Democratic Governor Patrick appoint a Democrat, but public opinion was so harsh they settled on a temporary appointment with an election pending; then the Democrats could not decide on a candidate making taxpayers pay for a costly primary; leading to Tuesday's election. What a big pile of Vick. So a vote for Pocket is a vote against big piles of Vick.

(I'm not even sure what I just wrote.)

A vote for Pocket is a vote for whimsy. Of laying with your friends on the grass under the bright sun thinking of silly, fanciful things you would do with your life, like being a fireman in space, or someday having a dog who got ten votes in a statewide election.

A vote for Pocket is a vote for laughter, where we live in a world where everything isn't so somber and each drop of rain is argued over and blame isn't assigned to it. A vote for Pocket is a declaration that life does not have to be so serious and glum.

A vote for Pocket is a signal that we've had enough of the extremes that this country has become. A vote for Pocket is not a vote for us or them, but for ourselves. A vote for Pocket says if you don't cut this vick out we'll turn the country over to the dogs.

A vote for Pocket would have been fun. It's too bad we don't live in a country where you could vote for a Pocket without having to worry that you'd become the story of the moment knocking Tiger Woods and Leno off the front page.

A vote for Pocket is a vote for innocence and we could all use some innocence again.

A vet visit leaves Pocket still pissy and Foley Monster pissed

The Foley Monster is outraged! She is flummoxed! She is appalled!

On Monday Pocket and I went to the vets for our yearly check up. We had decided, as a family, that the main health care issue we would discuss is Pocket’s persistent peeing. That was it! Sure, we’d get poked, prodded, maybe even jabbed, you have to expect these things, but then we’d move on to the problem pisser.

I went first. I weigh a magnificent 7.25 pounds. I’m a round, mean, fighting machine. The dogtor came in, read that I was nine years of age, and complimented me on how young I looked and how spry I acted. Well, I work out, I spend about an hour under the blanket putting my whiskers on. I mean all this doesn’t just happen!

Then he began to touch and prod. He was kind of ticklish. I put up with it. I can be a glutton for attention. Everything was just perfect; swab of the ears, beautiful; one little shot in the butt, not too bad.

Mommy was at the head of the table, closely supervising, making sure I wasn’t mistreated. Daddy was sitting in a chair holding Pocket with his arms extended towards me. Pocket was craning her neck, looking, sniffing, very curious about what procedure I was enduring.

Then Daddy talked. I specifically remember him being told not to talk. No one needed him to talk. Why Mommy taught him how to talk escapes me. He said: “she has some tartar build up on her teeth.” Oh I turned and gave him a look. Talk about my ta-ta’s will he? The Dogtor then opened my mouth, stuck his entire bulbous head inside, and told him he was right. I did have tartar.

“Let me get my gruesome instrument of extreme pain and torture,” the dogtor said. He got this sharp thingy, and then everyone, even Pocket, jumped on me, and Dr. Horrible again inserted his bulbous head into my mouth and began to scrape my ta-ta’s. You have no idea pain until you’ve had your ta-ta’s scraped while being held down by two men, two women, and a Yorkie.

Finally the torture stopped (but will my dignity ever return?) and I was handed to Daddy Judas while the dogtor took Pocket.

Normally I would spend the next day and a half in a snit but I had been waiting for this for weeks. The dogtor began to poke and prod Pocket. She got three jabs, and even the spray in the nose (and did not sneeze, very impressive but don’t tell her I said so.) Then came the moment I had been waiting for.

Mommy told the Dogtor about Pocket's persistent peeing problem. What would he suggest? A surgery? Pills that need to be forced down her throat? He asked questions. Does she pee in bed? No. In her crate? No. In a chair sitting with you? No. He then came to his conclusion:

"I think she's an excitable pee-er. She's just being herself."

Excuse me? You think she's just being herself? Oh that's unique. Yes. And when Tiger Woods slams his car full of Swedish models into a Mariachi Band I suppose that's just Tiger being Tiger. An excited pee-er. And I'm a frustrated masturbater but when I hump a stuffed animal nobody says it's just Foley being Foley.

Then they start to talk about litter box training her. Yes. That ought to class up the joint. A box of piss in the living room. Then we can just put the toilet between the recliners and bodily function our way completely through American Idol.

I was starting to get my mojo back as we were leaving the examining room, they were talking about my fluffy tail and my wonderfully curly tongue when the dogtor said he had one suggestion. Thank God. The man of science would now make sense. Pills? Spanking? A mean spirited trainer with a British accent?

"Foley is in excellent health," he said. Yes I am, more treats for me! "She is very strong!" That's right, time to reward me with a trained sister? "Why don't you make an appointment, bring her in, we'll give her a light anesthesia and do a teeth cleaning and possible extraction."

Say what?

A teeth cleaning? We came here to fix a problem pisser and now I'm getting knocked out to get my teeth brushed? How the hell did that happen?

Sometime in the summer I'm going to have to go to the dogtor for a day to get my teeth cleaned and you know why? Because, when people come over, and see the box of piss, and the pee stains on the rug, their attention will be diverted by my long, curly tongue, my wonderful tail, and my shiny white teeth.

So it's come to this. Nine years of living an exemplary life and I'm nothing but a beard for an immature pup with a house wetting issues.

Please, years, and years, and even more years from now, when I'm at the bridge, remember me as I was before I became nothing more than a diversion to cover for bad house training.

Monster out.

Trying to teach Pocket the treat game

I’ve been reading Pocket’s blog postings lately, and frankly, I’m concerned. Mommy always makes our vet appointments at the same time. If Pocket’s has one pending……oh crap. I hope it’s the female dogtor. I am much more accepting of women groping me then men. If it’s that old guy with the cold hands I am going to be one uncooperative bitch (@AKC registered). And he better not think of even sniffing my anal glands. Sicko!

You know how, when Pocket is sleeping on Mommy’s lap, I like to stealthily approach her and attack her with six pounds of ferociousness? Well, get this. Friday night I was walking across Mommy’s afghan to get to her lap while she sat in the cozy recliner when something tragic happened. My piggy toe got caught in the afghan. I looked at Mommy with my most helpless expression when wham! Pocket jumped on the recliner, lips back, teeth bared, snarling like a heffalump, and scared the preciousness out of me. Daddy grabbed her, put her on the floor, and held her down with one hand, while Mommy and he worked on freeing the toe. Once it was free I looked down on my sister, pushing back my teeth and snarling at her, but deep down, I was proud of her, another lesson learned by little Pocket at the foot of the Foley Monster. That someday, when I’m old and lame, she’ll probably kill me, tinges my pride slightly. But still, this old Yorkie is proud.

But she has never learned to properly play the treat game. It is quite simple. When you get your treat you don’t gobble it down as she does (so unprofessional), you let it sit, and wait, as slowly your slow learning sister creeps towards you with treat theft foremost in her mind.

There are three ways to play this game:

(1) The in between the paws: This is the game I usually play now, keeping the treat in between my paws while Pocket slowly tries to figure a way to snatch it from me. She starts with her head between her paws, doing an imitation of my treat. Then she slowly wiggles forward. Then, she pounces, trying to snatch it. I reach down, and lift it in my mouth, and, as she retreats, I spit if back out. Pocket begins to circle, waiting until she thinks she’s out of my peripheral vision and she makes her move again. I put it back in my mouth and she is left whining. Sometimes I drop it again for another round, and sometimes I eat it because it’s soggy and I’m tired.

(2) The ignore: This is where Mommy holds out the treat for me and I act like it is the most-vile thing I have ever seen. I even turn from it slightly. Then, when Pocket makes her move, I dart over, take it in my mouth, then spit it out and start over again. When I was young, this was my entire repertoire. But age has cost me my lightning fast reflexes. I still get by with expert positioning, guile, and timing. But Pocket beats me to the treat more times then I care to admit, and truthfully, I want the treat.

(3) The sit in: Or, more appropriately, the sit on. Basically I sit on the frackin’ thing. Pocket goes nuts running around trying to find it. Sure it gets warm, and sometimes, by the time I’m done, there’s some hair on it, but it’s my warmth, and my hair, so what do I care? There isn’t much sport in it, but there is humor. Pocket is sniffing all around my ribs, it tickles, I giggle, she whines and pouts, what’s not to like about it? Danm my sporting sensibility, if it wasn’t for that, this is what I would do all day.

I know many of you will be anxious to see if we can find a Dogtor to fix Pocket’s persistent leak. We’ll be back tomorrow or Wednesday with the answer.

Same Monster Time

Same Monster Channel.

Pup of the week: January 10, 2010 Ladybug

If you thought the debates over health care reform and airline security were tense, you should have been a fly on the wall at the Tanner Brigade home office as we discussed this week's pup of the week candidates.

We had two very clear candidates. One was the subject of a blog so perfectly written, so moving, that we retold it to every dog lover we knew and they were moved to tears.

The other is one of our favorite dogs of all time. She has bravely fought through a number of obstacles, including vomiting, lethargy, a restricted diet, and a terrible toilet in a humid camper.

We agreed that the first pup's story was as moving as any we have heard in more than a year of puppy networking. Their parents generosity, their disregard of their own needs, and their purity of heart deserved recognition.

But we had just made this pup's brother Pup of the Week a few weeks earlier. We have so many deserving dogs here that we would like to see them all honored.

Then Pocket, who had been studying the blog posts, said that several had a remarkable idea, awarding their Mom the Mom of the week award.

I, Foley, stood up and announced that this idea was ridiculous. Mom of the week. What is next, kitty of the, squirrel of the week? My comments were meant with silence. I reconsidered then announced that we should award a Mom of the week award. All the paws in the room clapped at my brilliance while Pocket sat back growling quietly to herself.

So, for this week, we announce our first ever Mom of the week: She is Apollo's, Ace's, Shakira's, Schultz's, Victory's and the two chi's Mom, who, when she learned that Apollo, in need of a pancreas transplant, would be getting it from a young Huskie in a kill shelter, sacrificed a few extra months with her beloved Apollo, to save the Huskie, who she named Freedom.

So congratulations to Apollo's, Ace's, Shakira's, Schultz's, Victory's and the two chi's Mom who is our first Mom of the week. And to your Dad, well, you're pretty good too, but you can be damn sure we'll be doing a kitty of the week before we do a Daddy of the week.

Now, on to our Pup of the Week.

She has been suffering so much more in the past months. She has had to take more pills than the Hilton sisters and been on the diet of the Olson twins. She has been poked and prodded like a citizen of Yemen trying to get on a Southwest airlines flight. She has been so desperately hungry she mugged Hobo's Dad but didn't have the strength to finish him off. She has scared her Mom so much watching her sleep was scarier then Paranormal. And yet through it all she has kept us smiling.

This week we got some fantastic news as her Bile Acid Test came back negative and she has gained two pounds. She still has a lot tests ahead of her, but she is such a brave pup, that she'll handle it like a stroll in the park. With every bit of news, if good or bad, she always presents it with a wink and a smile, even while committing a mugging.

Someday we will all face the testings, the diets, the uncertain future, that this lovely pup is facing, and when it is my time, I hope I can face it with the bravery and the humor that she, and her Mom are facing it.

So for that reason, and so many others Ladybug is our Pup of the Week

Pocket's Housebreaking theme song: Born To Pee

I have firmly committed myself to being a housebroken puppy, even if I have to become a pill popper to accomplish the goal. (After all Mommy and Daddy both need a half dozen pills to make it to work in the morning. The American Dream now comes in an easily swallowed tablet.)

To help me obtain this goal I have written, and will so be recording, with the Tanner Brigade band, my new single: "Born To Pee."

I hope you enjoy my noble effort at self-motivation:

In the summer we pee it out on the grass of a fresh cut American lawn
In winter we pee through doggy doors of plastic in banks of frigid snow
Sprung from crates out on the wet grass
Shaggy coated, piss dispensing and steppin out over the property line
Baby house training rips the bones from your back
It's a pee stain, it leaves Mommy looked pained
I should of learned this when I was wee
Cause pups like us baby we were born to pee

Gracie let me in and teach me how to mend
I need to learn how to be housebroken
Just wrap your paw round my colorful depends
And help me to leave outside a chitin
Together we could fill a yard with crap
We'll pee till we drop, baby we'll never go back
Will you pee with me against a flat tire
'cause baby I'm just a scared and lonely rug wetter
But I gotta find out how it feels
I wanna pee outside I wanna know if potty training is real

Beyond the doggy park recently groomed Shih Tzus pee down the boulevard
The girls lick their hohos with rear leg lifts
And the spaded boys try to pretend they're hard
The Pet-Co sign blinks bold and stark
Puppies are snuggled under a blank in a tryst
I wanna be with you Gracie on the lawn tonight
in a never ending piss

The sidewalks jammed with strutting poodles on a late night power walk
Everybody's vicking on the road tonight and there's no place left to step
Together Gracie we'll relieve our full bladders
Then we'll run on the grass, leap and roll - Oh!
Someday girl I don't know when we're gonna get to that time
Where we really have to go and we'll piss in the sun
But til then pups like us Maggie we were born to pee

Pocket's persistant peeing problem, perfect pictures, & place

On Monday, January 11, I will be going to the vet for my regular check up and to discuss my persistent peeing problem. I must admit, the prospect of a pee pow wow has me perplexed. I am perturbed with the prospect of lying prostrate on a couch while some psychiatrist probes my pained psyche to pin down if my peeing is provoked by being weened from the teet too early, abandonment issues, submission issues, or, Rainbow Bridge help me, having been overly examined by a creepy elderly vet with cold hands while just a pup.

It has been suggested by many a wise pup that my persistent peeing problem can be puzzled out by a pill prescription. This could very well be true, but I, Pocket, would propel that pill from my mouth like a prop plane. If Papa prefers Pocket to take a persistent peeing problem solving pill he best peel some Prosciutto, perfectly place Prosciutto over pill, pop in Pocket's portal and purchase his paws over Pocket's pie-hole until the pellet has passed Pocket's perfect pharynx. Papa will postulate if pill popping worked by looking for less pees in Pocket's perfectly penciled paragraphs.

Barking of things that are perfectly penciled we all know that no one can match our Zoe Boe's Mom Connie when it comes to drawing, but in our extended family we may have found a dog sketcher to replace her when she finally decides to step away from the easel. On Christmas Granddaughter #1, Mackenzie Perkins, presented to Foley and I her interpretation of us done in paint.


At the tender age of nine I think she shows outstanding promise (Foley is also nine and she ain't painted nuthin'.) While Foley loves it, secretly, I love it more, because, if you study it closely, you will notice that I'M BIGGER. That's because I know I hold a special place in her heart, and each time I look at her picture I'm reminded of the special place she has in mine.

As I write about perfect things and perfect thoughts I am reminded of my perfect place. Some nights, as we all lie together on our soft bed, with Foley under the quilt at the end, a spot from which she can hop off and download herself for further mischief without waking anyone, Mommy and Daddy, who like to read at night, will have sleep's dark and slient gate call for them simultaneously. When that happens Mommy, who sleeps on the right will roll over towards the edge of the bed and Daddy will roll over toward her, and put his arm around her, and his head half on hers and half on the pillow.

And where am I? Snuggled right between them, up against Mommy's lower back, and Daddy's tummy, and it's so nice there, so warm, so gentle. I don't worry there, not about anything, because we are all together, safe in our shared body hear, breathing quietly together, where nothing can harm us. Eventually Daddy rolls over, and Foley comes wandering under the covers, but I'm still protected by the warmth of that little moment when it's just me, Mommy and Daddy cuddled up against the world.

Pokey Lunn>\: Pup of the week January 3, 2010

When I was just a puppy and came home with Mommy and Daddy for the first time I did not know what to expect. How would I be welcomed? Would I be chased out like an interloper or welcomed with open paws? I was put down on the floor, just slightly larger then a bug, and Daddy brought down a black and white Shih Tzu. Daddy placed her on the floor. Immediately her tail began to wag, her mouth opened in a wide smile, she walked over to me, and gave me a welcome home nuzzle and kiss.

I knew I was home. I resolved if they were ever to bring home a pup for me to meet I would greet them with the warmth and graciousness that Blake had greeted me. Each time a new dog was brought home, as my parents took me to greet them, Blake's hospitality was foremost in my mind, until I saw them, and thought "Hey, who the hell is playing with my toys?" and started barking. The intention was there, but the worst angels of my nature always took hold.

I know how difficult it was for Blake to greet me as an equal, and firmly support dogs who resist any interloper into the circle of love that is completed by their Mom and them. But I have an awe-filled respect for those dogs who welcome a pup, whose sole intention is to steal some of their beloved Mom's affection, as a best friend.

And no dog I know has done so like our Pup of the Week: Pokey Lunn.

For those of you who don't know, the Brigade has a new pack member, a beautiful boy who answers to Cooper Lunn. His Mom brought him home on New Year's Day, the best gotcha day of all. She was worried, of course, because Pokey owns so much of heart big heart, and Mom would never do anything to hurt him, that the Pokester wouldn't understand why there was an intruder on his couch and would welcome him with the distrust and trepidation, of, well, a Mini Monster.

But after a little sniff, a little nuzzle, the tail started wagging, the smile came out and Cooper Lunn's Gotcha Day was over. He was home.

So, for his graciousness, his hospitality, and his beautiful spirit (and wonderful Mom) Pokey Lunn is our Pup of the Week, and you're all invited to our place for next year's Cooper Lunn's Gotcha Day's Eve party. We'll wait until ten seconds before midnight, count down from ten, then watch his balls drop

A New Year for the Tanner Brigade

Hi, the Foley Monster here, wishing you all a happy and healthy New Year. We haven’t posted a blog in a week. We were on staycation. We had a great time. We played the slots at Mohegan Sun, had a dinner at a nice restaurant (but it was our second choice, the first had spiked milkshakes but it wasn’t open, we’re still wracked with disappointment), we celebrated my Mom’s birthday, we stayed up New Year’s Eve watching the annual exploiting of Dick Clark’s deteriorating health while drinking Foleytinis (Mix cocanut rum, peach schanppes, pineapple liquor, and orange juice and garnish with a jerky stick). On Friday Pocket and I chopped down the Christmas tree then hid under the bed when Mommy began yelling about it being artificial. (Mommy’s New Year Resolution was to be calm and assertive, oops.) Guess you’re not supposed to chop down an artificial tree. Who knew? Saturday we helped Daddy get rid of the snow with our massive pees.

Pocket made a resolution not to pee in the house anymore. She broke that shortly after we chopped down the Christmas tree. I had resolved not to attack Pocket anymore if she didn’t pee, but I am no longer held to the resolution. I have not attacked her yet. My main weapon is surprise, which is why I attack her in her sleep.

We finally figured out how to use one of Erin’s layouts on our homepage. We were so excited we accidentally downloaded ourselves to Hobo Hudson’s house, which normally is a good thing, but my forgetting to file paperwork in time may have cost him a few thousand kibbles when he sold his company. We were able to make it home safely without facing the wrath of the Hobo because he was making googley eyes and leaving bacon strips for the girl down the street.

Pocket then decided we should use Erin’s layout as the main layout for the Tanner Brigade. I knew immediately how I felt about this. If people like it, then it was my idea, if they don’t, it was all Pocket. I think it will affect pages that contain blogs, members, videos, photos, and forums. Let us know what you think. We want to snazzy the place up a bit.

I am very excited about the upcoming year for the Tanner Brigade. It’s our first full year together and we’re trying to come up with even more fun events. We have so many brilliant pups here: the computer expertise of Erin, the beautiful artistry of Zoe, the fun contests run by Luca and the Argentinian pack, Shiloh’s Caniscopes, the Pack’s Puppy Digest, Tadertot’s Popsicle jokes, Hobo’s business blogs, Hattie Mae’s fashion photos, Sarah Jane’s smart tips for dog owners in the economy humans screwed up so badly, Buttons’ wisdom, the runway magic of the Lambies, and the daily miracle of Morgan.

So please either let me know if you like the new look, or Pocket know how badly she screwed up the old look. We look forward to many fun days of play at the Tanner Brigade, and to be ready with snuggles, soft licks, and broad shoulders, for the bad days.

We may not be calm, or very assertive, but we are a pack: loved by our parents, unconditionally loving them back, and looked over by Tanner and the Rainbow Bridge Angels.

We are the Tanner Brigade.

Long may we run.