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Where Foley discusses her sour stomach and reaches a conclusion on what caused it

What a week we have had. The baby sitting, the wonderful meeting with Ms. Laura and Pokey, you know sometimes a girl just needs to unwind. So Saturday night, after Mommy, Papa and Pocket fell asleep I snuck out the door and went down to my favorite watering hole, Smitty's Pub on Bay Street.

I shouldn't go to Smitty's. It's a bit of a rough spot. But when I stroll in everyone yells out "Monstah!" I take my stool at the end of the bar, pull out a cigar, order up a Foleytini, and sit back and enjoy myself a smoke.

Of course some Guido came in and thought he could shoot some stick better than me. I let him get up a couple of games, then ran the table, won me some kibble, which I cashed in for some more Foleytinis.

I was surprised to see sun light coming through the grimy windows and I staggered home, up the stairs and, after three wobbly tries, was able to jump into bed without my Mom being none the wiser.

I am not as young as I used to be, so I spent most of the day Sunday just relaxing, on a lap here, or a couch there. I did make sure I had some big meals to absorb the Foleytinis.

Slept well Sunday night. Ate well Monday morning. Then threw it up. I was stunned. I am the Monster. I don't throw up. And then, whut-wo. I felt waves rolling through my body from the tip of my nose to the point of my tail. I mean that's about eight inches of yuck.

I needed a place to sit down. I looked for Mommy but she was downstairs knocking down walls because the cellar had the gall to get water in it earlier this year. I had no one.

Then I saw Pocket. "Unh-uhh Sister Disco," she said. "You got drunk the night after we went to see Pokey, you get what you deserve." I proclaimed my innocence. "Then explain to me why I woke up next to a strange Daschund Sunday morning!" she asked. Well she had me there. Me and my shapely tail have got me in trouble more than once.

"Okay, Pocket, just don't tell Mommy," I asked. She promised. Then we heard Mommy coming up the stairs. She was sweaty, limping, bent in pain, which made it easier to see my vomit.

"Oh my gosh what has happened here?" she asked.

"Foley got drunk Saturday night, brought home some strange, and now she's got an upset stomach or a Doxie transmitted disease."

Mommy looked down at me frowning, and I looked up with my deep, brown, sad eyes like puddles of sorrow.

"Oh my poor baby! Are you not feeling well?" she asked. Score! I sadly sunk down to the floor and she picked me up so she could keep an eye on me while she got ready to go out.

From the desk of Pocket Dog: Are you kidding me? Are you freaking kidding me? She goes out, gets drunk, gets sick, and now she is being pampered over? I drink a bowl and a half of water, have to piddle, everyone is busy, probably fussing over that little Monster, I pee, and it's the end of the freaking world. And you know what? It will never end Someday, hopefully years from now Monster will go to the Bridge and it will be my time to be number one, but Mommy and Daddy will run out and get another puppy and go all gaga over it and there I'll be in my hand me down Salvation Army dress.

I lay on the bathroom floor while Mommy cleaned up nice. I put my paws flat on the floor, then my head on the floor between the paws, and I looked up so Mommy could see the whites of my eyes. In the world of dogs this is known as the kill position. Humans cannot resist it. When she came out of bathroom I rolled over on my side and panted and Mommy gave me a scratch.

She carried me downstairs, gently placed me in her recliner, did the laundry, came back up, and I climbed up to snuggled in her lap, and then Uh-Oh. It was like someone was pumping air right into my tender belly and it had no where to go. There were lightning bolts zipping back and forth around me. And the farts. One lifted me two feet off the recliner.

And food, Daddy put some down and I couldn't even look at it. The smell set off little belly bombs. I just wanted bed, and soon I was carried to my nice mattress. But even there, my place of comfort, my stomach would not settle, and I wouldn't look at the offered kibble. Daddy was waiting for his nightly licks where I lick every bit of sweat from his face and arms but not even that appealed to me.

Of course this made Daddy fret. I lay down next to Mommy and he spent the longest time scratching my butt, which was nice, I lay down next to Mommy, and Pocket came up with me, and we snuggled as a family and that helped settle my little stomach.

I felt a little better in the morning. Mommy made some chicken and rice and I ate most of it. Then Mommy and Daddy, who were feeling a little relieved at my slowly returning appetite, began to discuss what could have caused the sour stomach.

They decided it was the food they put me on. They had been mixing it in with an old one, then Mommy saw it had brown rice, and remembered brown rice didn't agree with me. So it was time to go back to the old food. Mystery solved. It was quite scary, but hopefully this will never happen again. Brown rice? Who would have guessed it caused so much trouble.

From the desk of Pocket Dog: What? Are you kidding me? Brown rice? She got drunk on too many Foleytinies. For heaven's sake read the blog! Oh I don't believe this. She gets away with everything. I'm sure she'll be out again this weekend. Wonder what they'll blame her next hangover on? Carrots? She has them so fooled. Boy, do I wish I was more like Foley.


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