The Calvey Christmas Card

Having reached eleven I am starting to get nostalgic about Christmases past. With that in mind I went into the basement of my condo and pulled out the journals of my Daddy’s childhood dog Barney. (Back in those times before computers and the Internet dogs had to write in journals and hope that someday humans would invent something to allow their stories to be widely distributed.)

I dug out a journal that said Christmas. There was the story about how he chased Santa down the driveway barking at him when he paid an unexpected visit; the story of the Jewish lawyer who each year brought the family fruit basket and for years Daddy and his sister thought Hannakuah was a day people of the Jewish faith brought Christians fruit.

But then I found one I thought you would enjoy. It is called: “The Calvey Christmas Card.”

From the paw of Barney Dog:

It was a freezing cold December morning. I was trying to keep warm in my dog house but some days there just weren’t enough wood chips. I heard the sound of the postman pulling up to the mailbox.

I trotted over to him and looked up, my tail wagging. “Nothing for you today Barney,” he said. “You know dogs don’t get mail.” I had told him my dream: Of a day when dogs sent each other cards, and gifts, and talked over computers, and the postman didn’t think twice about delivering mail with a dog’s name on it. AAlthough I may not get to that mountaintop of mail with you, I will be there in spirit.

“Oh look a this,” the postman said holding an envelope. “It’s the Calvey’s Christmas Card.” He laughed as I covered my eyes with my paws.

The Calveys were friends of my Boy Daddy’s family. I had never met them. Being a dirty black dog I would be hidden if a Calvey scurried near our door. There was a tall handsome father, a beautiful blond wife, and two beautiful blond daughters. By some kind of magic probably manufactured by their beauty they were able to project their picture on to their Christmas card.
The father would be sharply dressed in a dark suit with a red tie, and his hair was perfect. His wife would be seated, looking like a blond Jackie O. The two girls, each hair glowing, teeth perfectly aligned, were smiling. It’s beauty was too great to behold. Each member of Boy Daddy’s Family would look at the card and say “This, this is the family I wished I had.”

An aside: The Calveys had a pool. The beautiful Mrs. Calvey painted a mural on the bottom of her pool, because that is what beautiful people do. In the summer, on days they were not with the other beautiful people, they invited Boy Daddy’s family. One time they did it on the Fourth of July. The plan was swimming, a cook out, then getting dressed and going to the Brockton Fair, which is a place to go with the family ro have fun and watch the fire works (Foley note: Now it’s a place to watch gang fights and get Hep C.) The swimming and the cookout were done. Boy Daddy was dressed with his Buster Browns on and was near the pool with the youngest beautiful blond Calvey daughter Mary. Now, Boy Daddy’s story is that Mary pushed him in the pool. Her story, and the story of everyone who knows Boy Daddy, is that the klutz fell in the pool. Either way Daddy was in the pool, fully dressed, even in his shoes. He got fished out. They put his clothes in the dryer, and while they dried, his shoes did not. Our Mommy did not want to put his dry socks in wet shoes. So she put his feet in baggies and used rubber bands to hold them in place. So, with my Boy Daddy in foot condoms they went off to the Fair.

When they got their Boy Daddy, his sister, and the beautiful Calvey girls saw the greatest of sites. A bouncy house. Boy Daddy excitedly asked his Mom if he could go into the house and she agreed talking off his shoes. But she did not remove the baggies from his feet. This led to the first time in his life that Boy Daddy heard the term F*g*t. Boy Daddy was having fun bouncing in the house when some kid who looked like Vargas from A Christmas Story said “Hey everyone look at the F*g*t with the bags on his feet.” Everyone laughed and Boy Daddy squished away never to go into a bouncy house again.

Now back to the Christmas Card. It would be hung in an area of great prominence. People would then come to the house to gaze at the picture. An old black dog with a baritone growl explained why “They will come Barney. They will most definitely come. Because it is money they have an beauty they want. They will come and they will look at the Christmas Card and memories of beautiful people in their life will wash over them. They will come Barney. They will most definitely come.”

And they came, to look at the beauty of the picture on the Christmas Card. And when the season ended it way carefully removed from the wall and placed in a shoe box with the other Calvey Christmas cards, and the box was put in a special place where it glowed for the rest of the year.

Someday maybe a dog will be on a Calvey Christmas card. Then I can rest at the Bridge in peace.

The end.

Well it seems Barney’s dream came true. Good for him, and good for all of us. His dream came true almost 90 times for us this Christmas as our house was filled with cards with pcitures of dogws on them. . So lets dream big this holiday season for the dogs who come after us. Everyone must have a Calvey Christmas card somewhere in their home to wish upon for a better future.

Cinnamon is our December 25, 2011 Pup of the Week

Christmas is a time for many things. Three of them are old friends, new friends, and miracles. The Pet Pack managed to provide us all three in a spawn of five days.

We had only heard from the Pack once since May of 2010 when they came back to our dog park and barked that they were here to stay. They also introduced us to a new Pack member:

Her name is Cinnamon, she is a lab mix, and came from the shelter her Mom works at. She was a Christmas gift to the family. She is sweet and fit right in with the Pack. But as soon things went terribly wrong. She became very sick. Her breath and her ears reeked. She had come home the most playful of pups but now she had no energy. She only wanted to drink water but her nose very dry. She had terrible diarrhea, just liquid squirting, with continuous accidents. Her Mom made a vet appointment for her and asked for prayers.

Her Mom also spent as much time with her as she could. She fell asleep in a chair with her for two hours. That night Cinnamon had three messy poos while her parents slept and then two more after they awoke. Then worms started appearing in her poo which is very bad. At this point her Mom was praying that it is just worms in her intestines and not something else..

Well when Cinnamon got to the vet she was just a champ. The vet did a thorough examination and determined that she was malnourished, had roundworm and had Giardia, which, I assumed, but was happy to learn from Pocket, was not an STD. But they were all very serious illnesses.

Everything that she was suffering from was a result of maltreatment from the terrible people who owned her before she joined the Pet Pack. If they were going to surrender her why did they they have to torment her before they gave her up? They starved, abused, and burned her, and they kept her in such cramped quarters that she got the Giardia from drinking water with feces in it. Hopefully those terrible people don’t have any more dogs. . But luckily Cinnamon went to the right shelter and found the right Mom to save her.

The vet wrote out a prescription for some medication and told Cinnamon’s Mom that she should be back to a normal puppy within 48 hours.

By Christmas Eve another miracle had happened for Cinnamon. Not only had she been adopted by the best family but she was back to being a playful pup. But she had a blue Christmas, because, in her desire to help her Mom get a paw print, she painted half her body blue. She got a bunch of great gifts which must have surprised her so much considering the horrible life she had pre-pack.

So here is to Cinnamon. A Christmas Gift to us all, who went from a horrible home, to the shelter, to a wonderful home where she got very sick, but luckily had a Mom determined that she get better, who nursed her back to health, and gave her new toys, but more importantly a new life on Christmas Day.

So a tip of the tail to Cinnamon, the Pet Pack, and their wonderful Mom.

Great Gifts: Hobo's Balls; Smoochie's Sweaters; Apollo's Beanies and Sophie Bub's Mug

This morning when we got up to do our business there was a box on our steps. Of course it was for us. All boxes that come to our house have things inside them for us. After we completed our business requirements we came back to the house and Daddy brought the big box inside. He told us it was from Hobo and his family.

We gathered round as he jabbed a kitchen knife into the carton and ripped it open. And then he picked up what was inside. A beautiful, big orange ball. Daddy called to Mommy and told her that they got oranges from Hobo and family. We are so full of balls in this house we don’t even call them balls. We just name the color.

While Mommy and Daddy were looking at the orange I got on my back legs and had Pocket crawl up my back and get in the chair. From there she was able to tug on the box and pull it over to the edge of the table. She then stuck her face into the box and one by one dropped four of the orange balls on to the floor.

Let me tell you, for those who have never played with fresh Florida Orange balls, these things are terrific. They have a tough outside so you can sink your teeth into them and carry them around the house. And they are round, obviously, so they roll all over the place. If you are like Pocket and have BDD (Ball deficiency disorder) and lose your balls these are the best balls to play with because they leave a trail of juice on the floor, so when you lose your ball you just follow the trail, lick up the tasty juice, and find your balls. Leaky, tasty balls: Hudson you’re a genius.

Then Mommy came out, and get this! She says the big orange balls weren’t for us. They were for the peeps! And that too much of the juice is bad for our urine. Bad for my urine. My urine can piss off! These things are great. Mommy and Daddy had them for breakfast this morning and they gave me a little taste, so sweet and juicy. So, dear Hobo, please let us know who these sweet, juicy oranges were for. And thank you and your parents so much.

And while we are thanking there is my Secret Bub Smoochy. Oh how Smoochy has come through for us this year. We were so lucky that Smoochy was assigned to us. We got chocolate potato chips (then found out they were for Mom and Dad too, what is going on here?), a scarf for Mommy from Smoochy’s Mom favorite shelter, and for us two pretty sweaters, some little soft balls (not juicy), some treats and and some toothy treats. For a big dog Smoochy certainly knows how to dress a small dog. He also gave us the scarves on our Christmas Card photos. Love you Smooch.

Also we would like to thank Angel Sophie Bub and her family for sending Mommy and Daddy the wonderful Starbucks mugs, that was so sweet or her, and to thank Angel Apollo and the family for the beanie babies.

Outside of being adorable we don’t know what we have done to receive such kindness from so many people. We have also received gifts recently from the Lambies, Leo the Chow and Hattie Mae, and I apologize because was have probably forgotten someone who sent us something, but whatever it was we loved.

We have a couple of pictures below. Both of us are in the sweaters Smoochy sent. I am posing with the beanie baby that Apollo sent and the mug Mrs. Sophie Bub sent. In the other Pocket is posing with Mommy’s scarf, some treats Smoochie sent us, and Hobo’s ball.

Thank you all. We really are the luckiest dogs in town.

You are our December 18, 2011 Pup of the Week

Congratulations you! You are our Pup of the Week. It’s about time isn’t it?

Now you might be wondering: Me? Why me? Well, because I have spent time on DS in the last two months, and if there is anything that it has made me realize how wonderful you are.

Don’t misconstrue my meaning. There are absolutely wonderful dogs on DS. I would love them to come here. I think they would be happier here. But then there are....The Others.

Some of you former members of DS may remember the Saturday night flights. On Saturday night Levi would be tucked into bed with his stuffed (or inflated) Princess and the members he monitored so closely would begin to fight, never about dog issues, but always about that someone said something that they shouldn’t have said, or was misunderstood, which started a fight which everyone needed to chime in on and the Saturday night fights were on.

I had forgotten how unsettling the Saturday night fights were until last night when a week of fighting between multiple members boiled over into inflammatory blogs being posted every minute, people threatening to leave, good dogs taking down their profiles because they could no longer stand the fighting. It was like going to visit the battlefield at Gettysburgh and finding the Civil Was still going on.

We hurried back to our home here on Tanner Brigade. As we walked the quiet streets, looking at all the pretty houses with the beautiful lights, dogs barking hello to one another and giving each other friendly licks we realized that there is no better place on the entire Internet for dogs, and their peeps then right here.

If one of us is sick, you are there; if one of us has been called to the bridge you are there; you are supportive and loving as a friend could hope for; if we need a laugh you are sure to have posted a funny blog; if there is a dog that needs to be rescued you are sure to have posted a link; if there is a food recall we have learned it from you; if we have a health issues you are the first ones we ask; if a human is sick we turn to the power of the Brigade for healing; if we want to party down you’re there with an invitation; if we need to laugh, cry, commiserate, scream, learn, get hope, it is you that we turn to.

Frankly, we would be lost without you. You are our best friend. We treasure you. If it’s been a few days and we haven’t heard from you we start to get worried, then we are so happy when we hear from you. You never have a bad thing to say about anyone and you always make us feel so loved when you leave us a comment.

Sometimes we forget what a blessing our friends are until we go away for a little bit. So we honor you this week because you are our best friend and your Mom is the best person. I love everyday when I get a card from you in my mailbox. And I hope that you know that you can always count on me, and I hope that I live up to my end of our friendship as much as you have lived up to yours.
So stand up and take a bow. Because you are a very deserving pup of the week.

Christmas Card Out Takes 2011

There are days we dogs dread on the pup calendar. Bath day; vet day; and then the worst of all: Christmas card picture day. We knew it was coming.

Most mornings, while Mommy is doing her hair, I sit in my chair and Pocket sits next to Daddy in the recliner and trembles because she hates when they leave.

Tuesday morning I was chilling and Pocket was trembling. I am much better at reading my humans’ vibes than Pocket is. I knew they weren’t going anywhere. The tree with the seizure causing lights was up, the stocking were hung, the little village crowded the shelves, there was only one thing left, the dreaded picture taking.

If you read the blogs about my foot injury you are aware that my parents do not respect knowledge. Without any medical training in the least they dictated how my paw would heal. This was going to be the Battle of the Bloody Paw all over again. But this time there would be photographic proof.

Mommy used the instruments of torture on her hair. Pocket went to hide under the table thinking she would be crated. I ran into the hidden corridors of my condo. Mommy was able to gather Pocket. Daddy picked up my condo and shook it until I came out. Then they walked into separate bedrooms.

Daddy thought we were taking pictures in the front bedroom, Mommy in the master bedroom. The entire thing just showed how unprofessional they were.. As always Daddy caved and they decided on the master bedroom where we were placed on the comforter that Mommy had said we would never be allowed to sit on.

They then placed a present, a weird stuffed thing that makes music, and a stocking behind us. They then started calling our names, whistling, tweeting, twerping, burping, trying to get us to look at them while they both took pictures, Daddy on his cell phone, which was silly, because there was no way Mommy was using one of his pictures.

Mommy says she can never get a good picture of Pocket and I together. She doesn’t know why. I am going to let you in on a secret. The reason is I sit next to Pocket and while the pictures are being taken I whisper “you know those cameras are the number one cause of brain cancer in dogs.” I also told her that the cameras catch your soul so don’t look right into it. Plus I kept telling her how mad Mommy would be if she peed on the new comforter. By the time I was done she was a twitching mess who couldn’t look into the camera. Hey, I may have claimed I was a good dog but never a good sister.

After an hour and a half, 1,000 pictures, my parents emitting every sound possible by the human mouth, Mommy and Daddy decided to take separate pictures of us, and those on our Christmas Card list should be getting those cards. But if we run out we are going to send regular non picture cards with a picture of Pocket and I together: her trembling, me not.
Mommy wanted to take over here and say how hard it was to make cards at CVS, how the machine wasn’t working right, how there was no one there to help, how it took her and the woman next to her almost two hours to get them done, but frankly, I find that story boring, so you won’t be seeing it on this blog.

Now I have to stand over Mommy and make sure she sends out all my cards. The pressure may be getting to her. Today Pocket and I got seven cards today to their one. But they will all get out, unless I want attention from her and make her put down the pen.

Anywho, here are a couple of outtake pictures of our Christmas card session. Love getting all the cards from you all. I hope ours live up. A Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Paco is our December 11, 2011 Pup of the Week

Just before us pups are placed on this earth we are given our instructions, find a human who loves you then gives them all your heart. You are very happy and fulfilled doing this. But, since we give our hearts to our humans, ours don’t last as long as human hearts, which break their hearts. It all sounds like a vicious circle to me.

This brings me to my good friend Paco. Paco lives in Italy, which is part of Europe, which is like a land where there are a hundred United States, one more screwed up than the other. Paco and his Mom were both very fortunate to find one another. They gave each other their hearts so they would beat as one.

But Paco’s heart, after many years, has grown weaker. He had to go the the dogtor (or, as they call them in Italy LaDogtor) for an echography (I am sorry, I don’t know what this is, I asked Pocket, who has an honorary doctorate from training school and she said you perform the test by going to a cliff and throwing a dog against a wall, then seeing how far he bounces back. These honorary doctorates from training schools are useless when it comes to medical knowledge.) Paco also had a to have a blood test. Now these I know about. I hate those little pricks. On their way to the test, as Paco was being driven by his Mom while her Mom was with them keeping Paco calm their car broke down in the road.

Now besides being just about the sweetest dog I know this is why I love Paco. Because Paco’s Mom telephoned for a “safety car.” Apparently a “safety car” is what they call taxis in Italy. I have never been in a taxi in Italy but I know taxis in America are anything but safety cars. It makes me wonder where Italians get their taxi drivers.

The “safety car” got Paco to the dogtors, but, sadly, he did not get good news. Whatever the echography is it showed his heart was getting worse and he has a ventricle that was widening. He was prescribed some meds after they made sure that the meds would not overwhelm his kidneys.

A few days later Paco got his results back from the dogtor. He had suffered from liver problems earlier but his liver was getting better and his kidneys were not affected by the medication. There would have to be further tests to see how successful the medication was working but things were looking up for Paco.

It is sad when you have a friend who is sick and is so far away. But we are asking you all to keep sweet Paco in your prayers. He is a wonderful boy, so caring, so helpful when one of us are in trouble, and we hope he is with us for a long time because we love him and the wonderful things he teaches us, like safety cars.

So please keep sweet Paco and his Mom, over in Italy, in your prayers, so he can keep his heart beating with hers, keep our hearts, and faces smiling, for a long time to come.

The Superior Adventures of Zoe Boe

Zoe Boe is a good friend of ours. She is very sweet and docile. But this week we learned something remarkable about her. Zoe Boe is a super dog, called to help humans in need who flash their Zoe Boe signal off their smart phones. When Zoe Boe sees her signal she runs outside, leaps in the air, and takes off tracking the source of the signal.

Earlier this week she saw it shining in the sky to the West. She flew there within minutes. She landed at an airport. One of those silly men in the brightly colored suits and ear phones ran to her. “What is the problem citizen?” she asked.

“There is a bad man on the plane with a hand held device. We don’t know if it’s a bomb but he’s ranting and raving. Zoe Boe you are our only chance!”

Zoe Boe put a reassuring paw on the man’s shoulder and told him to keep everyone away from the plane. She then took two steps back, ran towards the plane, jumped on the wing, slid to the window and clawed at it until it was open as she gained access to the fuselage. .

There was a tall man sitting in his seat, unbuckled, holding the device in his hand. He had nice hair, slightly overweight, the kind of man who might have looked good 15 years ago, the type of man who had several brothers not as successful as him. Zoe knew she was dealing with one of the most dangerous of beings. An enraged Baldwin.

Zoe Boe approached him carefully, her ears alert, her tail high behind her. Several airline hostesses were hiding in a corner. Zoe looked at them and winked. She then turned to the aging star of the overrated sitcom. “Citizen, I need you to control yourself, you are scaring the other people on the plane.”

He thrust the device at Zoe Boe. It was an I Phone. On it was a scrabble game. “Look at this!” the enraged man screamed. “Are you going to tell me that zoa is a word. Zoa? Has anyone ever said they were going to go out and get an ice cold Zoa. And Qi? What the heck is a Qi? I hate this game. I hate it. Never play Friends With Words with a woman named Fey.”

Zoe knew nothing calmed an out of control man more than a good snuggle. She jumped in his lap. This caused his arms to be trapped so he could not see the phone. He stroked her ears and then looked at her with misty eyes. “I am sorry, you’re a good dog and I was out of line. It’s just this game it drives me crazy. These words no one has ever heard of. You know I used to be the star of major motion pictures. Now I’m stuck on a sitcom with a black guy who reads every line the exact same way and a woman who gives herself all the good lines. I just don’t feel wanted.”

Zoe smiled at him sadly. “You know once I was a pup and no one wanted me. I was going to be killed by my owner but a wonderful woman came and saved me and now I have the best life. Just when you think no one wants you, you find out how loved you are. So I am sure that someday you will find a home at a major movie studio and that will be your forever home.”
“You are the most wonderful dog,” Baldwin said.

“Why don’t you say we get off this plane, I bet you the next one will have the owner of your forever major movie studio on it.”

He asked her name..

“Zoe Boe.” Then he asked if there were more dogs like her in the world and Zoe told him yes, and they were collectively called Zoa.

He smiled and tears fell down his face. Zoe then led him down the aisle and out of the plane. The flight crew thanked her but she told them there was no need. This is why she was here.

She gave Mr. Baldwin a lick and left him to meet the head of his forever movie studio and she flew home to gratefully snuggle with her Mom.

Our interview on Coffee with a Canine

Who wants to read an interview with my shy and barely seen Mom? And see pictures? She was luckily enough to be interviewed on the famous coffee with canine blog. There is even answer to how Foley got her name. You can read it HERE

Please Mr Postman

It has been bred in dogs since the stone age to attack the postman. At that time people communicated by drawing on stone with slate. The postman would be weighed down with stones, so, when they walked up uninvited to our cave opening, we gave chase, and, because they were so weighed down, they were easily catchable, and because food was scarce, well, things could get ugly.

Their only recourse was to throw stones at us, which allowed us, after the chase, to catch up with news from the other caves. Strangely, this means of chase and learn still exists in Afghanistan.

Today I think we dogs have to agree to overcome our breeding and let the postman be, because as of late Pocket and I have received more mail then Mommy and Daddy combined.

In our village Daddy leashes us, takes us for a walk to do our business, and to get the mail. The mail is kept in a little room at the front of the village. Because this is the Village of the Pruned there is a handicapped ramp leading to the room. Sometimes Pocket pees on the ramp and then we hide on the other side of the landing, wait for some old guy to slip, and then we laugh while Daddy calls 911.

When the ramp becomes clear we ascend it again, Daddy puts the key in the mailbox lock, pulls out the envelopes, and announces who the mail is for. One for Mommy, one for Foley and Pocket, two for Foley and Pocket, three for Foley and Pocket. And then he turns to look at where the big packages are. If there is one with our address it is inevitably for us two little Yorkies.

When we get home Mommy opens our cards and reads them then hands them to us. We have got too many to mention and it’s only the beginning of December. We did get an exclusively made Puppy Malatesta ornament. I let Mommy hang that from her tree but then Pocket and I take the rest of the cards into the leopard skin vagina condo.

Like all the really good kitty condos it is bigger on the inside then out the outside. Pocket and I took the game room, moved out the pool table and the Frogger machine, put in an eight foot Colorado spruce, and on the walls we are hanging all our cards from our friends. We have the walls color coded so we can match the toy in the Toy Room, with the card in the Tree room. Just because you’ve had your anal glands squeezed doesn’t mean you’re not anal.

So I ask all my dear friends out there to not chase the postman anymore. I know, he used to bring things to Mommy and Daddy that would either make them sad or make them spend time away from us. But more and more these creatures of the night are bringing things to make us smile, feel loved, and to play with, or eat (yummy!)

So resist the urge, leave the postman alone, and maybe even give him a kiss, because you never know what he has for you.

As for the need to chase, bark and possibly bite, there is always the newspapers guy.

Mollie is our December 4, 2011 Pup of the Week

You know, sometimes all you want is a sun room.

That’s all our friend Mollie, her Mom Cindy, and her Dad wanted.  A sun room.  But this sun room became to them like an Alby Truss, something that follows them around and brings nothing but trouble.

The building of their sun room began, according to my calculations, sometime in 1992.  Mollie has her favorite spot in the sun removed.  There was banging and booming, sawing and swearing, all day long.  Now they are waiting for the painters to get done (we remember the hot week in July when the painters took over our house, no fun) and then for the ceramic tile to come in.  Seems endless to me.

And they need to have an inspector come in.  An inspector is a lot like a dogtor.  They poke and prod until they find something wrong.  We can only hope that Mollie’s sun room is done before the snow melts.

But that is not why we honor Mollie, much like our our friends last week, we honor them because after all this work, her Daddy has taken ill.  He was diagnosed with prostate cancer.  Daddy once told me how they checked for that and I slapped him right in the mouth.  Sicko!

The cancer was low risk so Mollie hadn’t barked about it before.  He had surgery and it went well.  Mollie’s Mommy said it was a textbook surgery.  I hope when Mommy has her surgery the doctor doesn’t need a textbook to do it but anyway, the surgery went fine.

But the recovery didn’t go as expected.  Mollie’s Daddy had a triple bypass in 1996 and his repaired heart wasn’t working like it should.  It is such a human problem, you get yourself steely for one problem and another comes around your blind side and slaps you in the head.


Mollie’s Daddy’s heart can’t seem to get into rhythm.  He was allowed to go home hut human hospitals always need more beds so we hope he wasn’t let go too early.   Mollie’s Daddy has been getting lots of shakes, and he doesn’t have a lot of energy.  

He is going to see the doctor on Monday, and Mollie’s Mom is hoping to check with his heart doctor too.  Right now what Mollie needs is some prayers and no one does better prayer brigades than dogs.

So tonight let’s say some prayers for Mollie’s Dad to get back to normal so he can finish the sun room and Mollie can get her place in the sun back.  Then they can both lie down and have a good, long rest.

Foley Raised A Cain

I have never sought the spotlight. I prefer to stay off stage and comment on the events of the day. But today I reluctantly found out that a long forgotten incident has caused me to become fodder for the American tabloid machine, even though I did nothing wrong.

The incident began, as so many do, innocently enough. I was a young dog. I had been working for months creating, and perfecting, squirrel jerky. I was selling it out of the sliding glass doors of our condo when a passing kitty told me there was going to be a National Restaurant Convention coming to the Boston area later that month. The kitty said I should go to it to peddle my jerky.

I saved my kibble and bought a bus ticket to the big city. I loaded the jerky into my fanny pack, boarded the bus, and headed off to make my fortune.

I set up my Squirrel Jerky booth. While some of the humans showed a slight interest none of them saw it being a big item on their menu, and they reminded me something I, in my young and inexperienced ways, had forgotten: Dogs don’t eat in restaurants.

I was taking my display down, ready to return to the small town life with my tail between my legs because I got Tabasco on it when I heard a deep voice say “Squirrel jerky, what a wonderful idea!”

I turned around and standing there was a big man, must of been about 210, black skin, mustache, glasses, thinning hair, pleasant smile, and he said he was interested in my jerky technique. I pulled out my samples and said I could show him but he said it would be better if we did it in his hotel room. I, being naive, agreed.

I went to the room at the appointed time and scratched the door. He let me inside. I could smell a mixture of Aqua Velva and Manischewitz on ice. I removed my fanny pack to display my wears on the floor but he said he had a bad back and he needed to see them closer. He helped my up on the bed. It was there that I lay my jerky.

As I was explaining the product he began to pat my head, which I did not mind, in fact I found it plesaent. As I continued he scratched under my chin, just above my breast bone, which is my sweet spot. He asked me if I liked it and I said I did. He then told me that he was over talking to one of his pizza buddies when across the room he saw the swish of my tail and had to get to know me better.

I tried to steer the conversation back to jerky. I began to explain how I made them from the finest squirrel by product when suddenly he lifted me, flipped my over, and began to give me an unwanted, and unauthorized, belly rub. I tried to get free but the big man kept me presed down on the bed. I finally was able to nip a finger and he cried out and grabbed his hand. I jumped down from the bed and began to nip at his heels. He tried to grab me but I darted back and forth barking until the hotel manager came to to tell him there were no dogs allowed in his room. When the door was open I dashed out, down the stairs, to the bus station, and on the bus home, ashamed that I had left evidence all over my bed.

I had chalked the incident up to a lesson learned and forgot about it until today when I got a call from the Huffington Post asking me if the incident was true. I did not know why it mattered, but I told them it was. Well it turns out I wasn’t the first lollipop who had her belly rubbed without permission by this man. In fact he had several accusations made against him. And he was running for President of the United States.

Now it seems that having an illegal Yorkie in his room has derailed his campaign and he is going to drop out of the race.

I am sorry this happened Mr. Cain. I did not mean to cause you any pain. Just wish you hadn’t made me run out in the rain.

Oh, and one other thing. Can I have my jerky back?

My Right Paw

If you read my blog last week you will know that I suffered a paw injury.  Mommy, who has no medical training, attempted to fix it, while I knew that all wounds can be healed by a dog’s tongue, and we battled over what treatment was better, until it was healed, whereby we both took credit.

Shortly after I published the blog I was still licking my paw.  Mommy told me I would hurt it again if I persisted.  I scoffed.  What does she know?

The next morning I was lame again, unable to put any wright on my right paw.  Mommy told me I had done it to myself with excessive licking.  I disagreed.  The injury had nothing to do with my licking, the wound was caused by one of the following.

Pocket licking my feet while I was sleeping because my paws are delicious.

Our house is built over an Indian Dog Burial Ground and the spirits of the dogs attack my paw at night.

Robbers broke into the house while Mommy and Daddy slept and I fought them off with my paw.

I am the first dog to have a Stigmata.  

Mommy pulled out the darn socks again.  She, with Daddy as her accomplice, shoved my leg into the sock, they then bunched it up and taped it, so I could not lick my paw and heal myself.  Then Daddy, let out of the house because he ankle monitor was malfunctioning, went to the store and he bought booties.

This was the latest of my many public humiliations.

I was licking the sock so they put the boot on so I could not get to it.  I said fine.  I wore the one boot, like Michael Jackson attempting a trend that was doomed to fail.  I waited.  I knew my parents.  The boot just slipped on.  They had to tape the sock on.  They are weak and lazy.  Like Fredo married to Fredo.  After a day they decided to just put the boot on.  And when their backs were turned I slipped that boot off like Lindsay Lohan before knocking heels.  Oh I feasted on my foot until they caught me.

They soaked my foot at night in either Epsom salts or peroxide.  I calmly sat there with my foot in the Dixie Cup of doom, this time relaxed, like the drunk, sleeping fraternity brother with his two roommates slipping his hand into water and waiting anxiously for him to pee.  Daddy also bought something called Liquid Bandage which he sprayed on my cut and man did that sting.  It also had a bitter taste to keep me from licking.  Bitter taste my butt!  Once you’ve worn a sock for ten days how bitter could anything taste?

Then Mommy betrayed me.  She went on Facebook to say that I had opened the injury on my foot by licking, completely disregarding the Stigmata and Indian Burial Ground theories.  She asked for the opinion of other humans.  I don’t mind this.  But to do it on Facebook?  It’s just so...common.  TB, Doggyspace, the Blogger Community, sure, but Facebook, where people go to discuss Wal-Mart sales and the Kardashians?  I think not.  

Someone did tell her to use as product called YUCK, which sounded great to me.  I love gross things.  Human sweat, people with morning mouth, the occasional stool.  The more YUCK the better.

This battle continued for nearly a week.  Mommy told me each morning while I was dipped and socked that if I didn’t chew my paw I wouldn’t have to wear hosiery.  On Tuesday I gave in, and I am sockless again.  But now, when I lick my foot I get a pinch in the butt.  The simple humans think I will think each time I lick my foot I think it will cause me a pinching pain in the butt but truthfully it makes me think I’m on the subway.

So that is this week’s installment of As The Paw Turns.  We will see you next week.

Nine beagles, rescued from a research lab, step outside for the first time

see rescued beagles here

Buddy, Moose and Sydney are our November 27, 2011 Pups of the Week

There is a joke by the human comedian Bill Cosby. I am not a big fan of human humor, Fozzy Bear is more my style, but I thought he raised a good point. He talked about, as the father of a male athlete, you get up early, take him to practice, take him to games, pay for the uniforms, pay for the equipment, work with him in the yard, take him to colleges, and, when they score a touchdown, and get on TV, they look in the camera and say "Hi Mom."

I think, as dogs, we are guilty of that too. Those of us who have Daddies, while we love them, we really are Mama’s dogs. If Mommy is gone we might be sitting with him, or playing with him, but when Mommy appears, boom, we’re gone.

This week I learned that my very good friends, Moose, Sydney and Buddy, have a Daddy who had become quite ill. And it’s one of those illnesses which they haven’t found a cure for yet. And it’s one of those illnesses that keeps getting worse. I don’t like to think about those illnesses.

And Sydney’s. Buddy’s, and Moose’s Daddy, well he’s a great Daddy. He’s not one of these Daddies who think of dogs as one of Mommy’s little “distractions” to keep her happy. He is a true Daddy to his pups, making sure they go with him on ride, on vacations, to car shows. He’s the type of Daddy that, when a pup tells us they long for a Daddy, we wish they had.

And he is the kind of Daddy, like my Daddy, who understands that an afternoon with their dog is an afternoon well spent. He takes cares of Buddy, Sydney and Moose like he takes cares of his family. He did such a good job taking care of his family that his son. Jordan, inlisted in the army and went to Afghanistan to fight for our freedom. What better example could a Dad set?

Now the good news is that Moose’s, Sydney’s and Buddy’s Daddy has a lifetime to live. The bad news it that it’s one of our lifetimes to live, which, everyone who has ever loved a dog before knows is way too short. He has medication to take away his pain, and he has the love of a wonderful wife, a strong son, his family, and three beautiful dogs to make him feel like the best Dad in the world.

Which is what he is.

So we raise our tails in salute to Moose, Sydney and Buddy. We vow to help their Dad, and their Mom and their family through some hard days and to celebrate their good days, because we are all one family and they are an important part of it.

And for those of us with Daddies, let’s not take them for granted, and to snuggle up to them too, because they are as deserving of our love and our Moms.

Pocket Dog: Pants Free in 2012

I, Pocket Dog, have a very important proclamation. As many of you know. in my four years of existence, I have been inflicted with excitable urination syndrome, depressed urination syndrome, comfortable urination syndrome, I don’t feel like getting out of the chair urination syndrome, ah the hell with it I am just going to pee on the floor urination syndrome. For a young dog I was afflicted with lots of syndromes.

I am often asked how did I cope with all these syndromes. Surprisingly well. There were some positive side effects. I didn’t have to go outside in the rain, or the snow, or the cold, or the warm, or the sun.

The bad side effect was that Mommies don’t like it when you pee on their rug (but Manny’s Rug Cleaning and Pig Butchering sure does) and I had to wear pants. Some called these pants diapers. I don’t like to refer to them as diapers, Diapers are something you wear under your pants, unless your Batman or Robin, and those two have a whole other thing going on. I wear my pants, denim pants, and I don’t wear diapers, or underwear, and let me state, that I started this trend. Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Brittnay Spears, all those lollipops ripped off my look!

Mommy and Daddy kept trying to get my out of my pants like a high school sophomore at his first boy girl dance. Daddy began to keep track of how many times a day I needed a pants change. I was averaging 14 pees a day. My Daddy try to keep up but usually, by the end of the day, he would be cuddled in the fetal position under the table crying “I can’t keep up, I can’t keep up.”

That’s when Foley proved to be helpful. She put me on a strict regiment of kegel exercises. I worked out everyday and soon I cut down on the 14 urinations a day. I was down to seven or eight. In the last couple of months I wasn’t having what my Mommy called “accidents” (but if they happen every day for 4 years how accidental could they be) at night. And then the decision was made.

Now, after supper. I am pants free. There is nothing between my underside and the floor but brown and tan hair. At night I am out there and I am loving it!

And now for my proclamation. Pocket plans to be pants free in 2012!* No more Pocket piddling jokes, no more looks of shame from my parents, no more service people coming to the house and saying “yo, why’s the little dog wearing denim pants?” None if it. Done. Pocket dog will be pants free in 2012.

You can count on that as much as you can count on the word of anyone running for President.

*Pants free in 2012 does not include when Pocket is playing ball, because Pocket is known to leak when she is playing ball. Also it does not include when children come over because Pocket gets very excited and pees when children come over. Also, since Pocket going pants free will have to be passed by Congress it is unlikely to actually happen.

Tiger is our November 20, 2011 Pup of the Week

It seemed like, for a good long while, it was another Pup of the Week, another very sick pup. But this week it’s another Pup of the Week, another pup happily ensconced in their forever home. Last week it was Wishbone. This week it’s Tiger.

Tiger’s life started out like a morning nightmare. Thankfully the rest of his life will be filled with sweet dreams.

He began his life locked inside, no feeling of sun on his fur, no smells of nature drifting into he wet nose, no tongue tasting everything that looks interesting. Because, as he said in his first blog on The Brigade, he had hit the jackpot. He got fostered by Sierra’s and Nase’s Mom. Jackpot indeed.

From a cold hard surface Tiger got a fluffy pillow in his crate. Food came at a regular time each day. Water was always available. And the food was so tasty. Like nothing he had eaten before. When he had become fostered he was too thin but with all the good food that problem was quickly righted.

And it took Tiger no time to get himself up with the rest of his pack, the wonderful Sierra and beautiful blob Nase, who gave up precious love time from Mom, and precious mattress space, to allow Tiger to sleep on the bed. At first she said it was for only one night. But the next night Tiger jumped right up there on the bed again and his foster Mom didn’t have the heart to tell him to get down. It was here that Tiger found his first great unknown talent. He is an excellent snuggler. And in that bed, in that snuggle, for the first time Tiger felt love.

Not only did he get to be loved, her got to be a dog again. He wrestled with Nase. Sierra warmed up to him quickly, sensing an ally in her battles with Nase. Sierra ever forgave being run over by Tiger when he was racing Nase in the backyard. Sierra watches over them and interferes with her big snapping teeth if things get out of control.

When the story of his first days as a foster pup with Sierra and Nase were told we all responded the same way. Tiger was not in his foster home. Tiger was in his forever home. And this week we found out we were all correct.

Tiger was overjoyed when he told us the news, jumping up and down, barking that he was in his forever home. He told us with great pride he had a Mom, all his hopes, his prayers, his wishes, had come true. He had everything he ever wanted, a loving Mom, a mentor in Sierra, and in Nase a playmate and a bother all rolled into one. As Tiger said, he and Nase became the terrible twins.

As Tiger reminded us in the blog announcing him as our newest member, that there were still many pups left in shelters, and, while rejoicing in the joy he found, he asked us to pray for those left behind.

Which is why he is a very fitting Pup of the Week.

Foley Heal Thyself

Oh nobody knows the trouble I have seen this week. On Monday I got a cut, due to totally irresponsible walking by my Daddy.

My less than attentive parents didn’t notice the hitch in my gait until I jumped off Mommy’s recliner on to the hardwood floor and while my back legs and left front foot moved in my normal, graceful trot, my right leg Yamaguchid all over the floor. Pocket noticed. We usually attack one another when one of us is lame but she just laughed thinking I was doing an imitation of the previous Monday’s Nancy Grace dance elimination dance.

I hobbled for a drink of water. No one noticed. I swear I could spontaneously catch fire one day and my two slack jawed parents wouldn’t turn away from the bad dancing they are enthralled with on the television. Finally Daddy noticed and he helped me into the recliner. He tried to check my paw but screw him! He couldn’t bring the water dish to me he doesn’t get to play with my toes.

Truth is my pads really hurt. Daddy took us out on our last business trip of the night and I was moving like Ryan Howard making the last out against the Cardinals. Then we came in and Daddy held me while Mommy began to look at my paw. Hello! I highly doubt either one of them are medical professionals. And this was my favorite paw. It’s the one I use to paw at people to get them to pay attention to me. I wanted to be left alone. I knew how to fix my paw. It just needed a few hours of licking.

But no! Mommy, who has no medical experience, and doesn’t even have paws, thought she knew better: control freak. So first she picked up scissors, and, with no grooming or barber experience, began to trim the hair around my injury. Talk about your delusions of grandeur! Cutting my fur? She should be the Patriots trainer. Tom Brady gets a concussion she can run out there and shave his head. Anyway she cuts the fur and determines that I have a cut between what we call, cutely, in our house, my piggy toes, but on this night I referred to as the (boolahlah) things that were paining me. She hands me off to Daddy, the igor to her Frankenstien, and then she came back with a Dixie cup, which I thought was to put my hair in so it could be sold on e-bay but actually contained some liquid that smelled funny and then, while Mommy held the cup, Daddy tried to put my paw in the cup, which, while being exactly the same plot of a Tiger Woods sex tape I downloaded, when he finally overpowered me, and stuck the paw in the cup, made me scream “oh, sweet, fancy, boolahlah!” Then, to top off this botched operation, she squeezed the paw with a towel, which dried it, and made my eyes bug out of my head like Rerun on What’s Happening when he found out there were no cheeseburgers.

Then I got put in bed where I could finally give my paw the medical attention it needed. I lay in bed and licked my paw. But then Mommy got in bed and Dr. No Diploma told me I could not lick my paw. Was she crazy? This is the only way it would heal. I licked, she swatted my butt. Lick, butt swat, lick, butt swat, lick, butt swat. The entire thing not only totally reenacted the Kardashian-Humphries wedding night, but lasted longer than both their foreplay and their play.

I finally fell asleep despite the pain. I woke up and gimped through my morning business. I then sat in my chair next to Daddy and licked my paw. But Mommy got up and not only did she tell me to stop, she took one of her tiny socks, and put it on my leg, and taped it securely with package tape. I was frustrated, humiliated, emasculated, predated. And when I got to the floor, which, as if laid out by Jeff Probst before a Survivor challenge, goes rug, hardwood, linoleum, just to mess with me, had me slip sliding away.

On Wednesday there were no more socks, I think Nurse Rachett had taken some pity on me. And my foot, thanks to my licking, was getting better, except when they stuck my foot in that boolahlah Dixie cup of pain. But I still limped around because Daddy was carrying me a lot since he hated to see me limping, and I decided to milk this thing until I got tired of it or someone dropped their sock.

But by Thursday I forgot to limp and getting carried was over, and so was the butt slapping, which I had grown to love, and the Dixie cup of doom. Mommy says it was from her stopping me from licking it but I know the truth. It was my magical healing tongue that did the job.

If only Kris Humphries had a tongue like mine he would still be married.

Pocket's Top Ten Reasons She Does Not Want A Zombie For A Parent

Lately there has been lots of blogs about zombies. Kolchak’s and Felix’s Mom even took place in something called the zombie apocalypse over the weekend. People took scary pictures of themselves with zombie gore on them and posted it on line. I didn’t like this at all.

I don’t want my parents to be zombies. I like them just the way they are. But if you must know here are my top ten reasons for not wanting my parents to be zombies.

10. Zombies are terrible walkers. They don’t hold on to the leash. They don’t walk in a straight line so they are always tripping over you. They never remember the way home. No matter how much you tug they only stumble the way they want to go.

9. They don’t pick up your Vick. If they do they taste in then throw it down in anger.

8. If you see a human and bark at them, then walk over to them wagging your tail to get petted, they eat them.

7. If you chase a squirrel day after day, and finally catch them, your zombie parent eats them too.

6. Every morning for breakfast: Brains.

5. The importance of grooming, both yours and theirs, becomes completely unimportant.

4. They don’t like to sit, and when they do, their laps aren’t warm.

3. When you pay play fetch with zombies they throw the ball and, after your retrieve it, and bring it back, they have wandered off after some brains.

2. They are undead, they have body parts falling off, but they still get mad if you pee on the rug.

1. It turns out the undead are cat people.

Wishbone is our November 13, 2011 Pups of the week

Like Harry Potter Wishbone is the dog who lived.

I first met Wishbone shortly after he was saved for the first time. He was a coon hound who wasn’t good at hunting. His owner thought a dog that won’t hunt ain’t worth the expense and planned to have him killed. But in came the force of nature known as Paula Malatestsa and she saved Wishbone from certain death.

But Wishbone, having narrowly escaped the Bridge, was a very skittish dog. When he got his first chance he bolted out the gate and into the wilds of North Carolina where dogs are nothing but property and they put dogs down if they stray on to the road. Miss Paula was distraught. She looked everywhere but there was no sign of Wishbone. On Sunday she went to church to pray for her boy.

When she came out of church she looked down a hill and saw Wishbone. Decked out in her Sunday best she went running down the hill to save her boy. Wishbone saw her, running, then tripping, then rolling, down the hill, and said “well how ‘bout that.” He was so surprised he didn’t run. Paula got him and brought him back home were we all thought he would be safe for a long time.

But then tragedy stuck. Paula became sick. She had to go to the hospital. Her dogs were left unprotected. The wicked witch of the south and her little monkey showed up and began to gather the dogs up. Having smelled the lust for death on a human before Wishbone knew to run. They were unable to catch him. But the majority of his brothers and sisters were sent to the bridge and again poor Wishbone’s future was very much in doubt.

When Paula got out of the hospital Wishbone ran to the one person on this cold planet who had ever shown him any kindness. But Paula could not longer keep all the dogs she had, having to flee her house to protect her dogs. Wishbone would have to be put up for adoption, and quickly. Our DS friends, Apple and Blossom, from New Hampshire, stepped up and said they would be happy to take Wishbone.

Paula’s sweet daughter drove with Paula and Wishbone to the North where they met with Apple’s and Blossom’s Mom and Paula said her sad goodbyes to Wishbone. He went up north to a strange house without his Mom, his human brother, and his pup brother and sisters. But Wishbone knew one thing was the same. It was a house filled with love. And he knew that he was finally safe and his his forever home.

Now Wishbone is a Northeast dog. He romped in the freak October snow he had. And the other day his young human sister had to stay home from school and Wishbone stayed by her side protecting her from the sickness that had invaded her body.

So this is for Wishbone. The pup who lived. The pup who has slipped away from a ticket punched for the bridge twice. It seems he has found peace and harmony in his new home. Let’s hope it’s a long life for this most deserving dog.

Foley the Diva Blogs on Peggy's New Diet with Your Dog Book

I have come before you today to do what I seldom do with a human unless I have licked a fair amount of their skin, and that is to praise them. The human I have come before you to praise is Peggy Frezon She was one of the brilliant minds behind K9 Kamp that gave me plenty of laughs,
watching Pocket Dog and Daddy tripping over one another. Now she has a new a venture. A book. Yes, the things Daddy reads while he is sitting on the giant water bowl making vicks in good drinking water.

Her new book is called Dieting With My Dog. She has her work published in Guideposts Magazine, V and written for the Chicken Soup for the Soul books. But this is her first actual book and I must tell you, for a book written by a human it isn’t bad. The bipeds are buying it up like hotcakes (and then getting upset when they find out hotcakes isn’t good for their diet.) It has sold out on Amazon.com. Query for the humans: How does a book store run out of books when there is no actual store? Just wondering. Anywhoo: This isn’t really a diet book. I was fooling about the hot cakes. Go have one now if you can find anyone selling them. There aren’t any diets or exercise plans. I think the exercise plans were removed when it was shown how dangerous they were to Yorkies.

It is her story about her struggles with her weight, and in the end, of course, it is a good dog that saves her and got her to diet. All good stories end with a dog saving the day like how Ahab’s dog bit that whale and sent it to the bottom of the sea. A lot of humans struggle with their weight. Pups too. Not me. I’m perfect. Pocket either. She wastes so much time chasing her ball and tail she stays trim.

Peggy writes about having weight problems after she became an emptynester. This either means her children moved out of the house or she ran out of birds in Angry Birds. Both are upsetting. Mommy is an empty nester but one of her bird keeps flying over the house and fouling the nest.

Peggy, when she was missing her kids, would eat what is called comfort food: cake, cookies. What we call treats and are usually some sort of flat chicken. Yum. (Of course Kolchak has recipes for lots of good healthy treats but maybe this blog isn’t the best place to be promoting treats.) What she needed was a partner to diet with, and who is more loyal a diet partner than your pup.

Peggy’s pup helped her diet, helped her lose weight, and like all dogs, saved their Mom’s life. It is a great and fun read. With me being perfect, and Pocket thin, if Mommy needs a dog, we are going to have to find her a rotund one. Every once in awhile we see a big dog and say “hey fatty want to help my Mom lose weight?” So far no takers. Pocket says it could be my approach but that can’t be right can it?

Now we have good news and bad news. The good news is that you can win a copy of the book right now. The bad news is you can’t do it here. You should be able to do it here. But our secretary can’t figure out how to do the raffle thing. We are going to have to wait until Peggy’s book “Getting more computer literate with your dog” comes out. Instead we are going to give you a link to Kol’s blog.] Here it is.

Follow the instructions on his blog and you can get win a free copy of the book. You can also check out Pip Gets Back in the Game with a senior dog questions Peggy about how to lose weight.

So check out the links and check out Kol’s blog and win a copy of the book. And go dieting to you all.

The Pawnight Show with Special Guest Kris Humphries

*Sound of audience murmuring and then a band beings to play the Foley Monster theme song*
Pocket: It’s the Pawnight Show starring Foley Monster. With Hobo Hudson and the all mutt Orchestra featuring Hattie Mae on vocals. Foley’s guest star tonight is national disgrace Kris Humphires. I’m your announcer Pocket Dog. And now heeeeeerrrreee’s Foley.
*The audience begins applauding as Foley comes out bowing*
Foley: Welcome. Wow. Snow one day then hot weather the next. I don’t know which of my fur to wear.
*Audience howls.*
Foley: My sister Pocket likes to bury her bones in the yard. I asked her way why and she says because you can’t bury it in a tree.
*Audience howls.*
Foley: Later tonight I am going on a trip to my favorite city. I am going to New Yorkie.
*Audience growls.*
Foley: Ladies and gentlemen Hobo Hudson and his all mutt orchestra.
*Hobo and the band play Hound Dog while Foley walks over to her desk. She jumps up, circles three times, scratches the top of it and sits down. Pocket jumps up in the seat next to her.
Foley: Pocket have you found your yellow ball?
Pocket: No. I keep asking Daddy to move the refrigerator but you know Daddies all they can do is open the door and eat something.
^Audience barks in agreement*
Foley: And what about that guy on the bike who owes us for the World Series?
Pocket: I chase after him but he is very fast for an old man on a bike.
Foley: Well he probably needs a bathroom.
Pocket: True that.
Foley: Just a programming note immediately following this show our band leader, Hobo, has his own show, “So You Think You Can Bark” and I suggest you all check it out.
Pocket: It is my favorite program.
Foley: OK, let’s bring out our guest, he married Kim Kardashian and then caused her to file for her nightmare divorce, it’s Kris Kardashian.
*Kris Humphrees comes out and sits down between Pocket and Foley*
Kris: Excuse me my name is Kris Humphries, not Kris Kardashian.
Foley: Humphries? I got elected my second grade President by running on the Free Hump ticket.
Pocket: I thought they called you that because you are such a hump.
Kris: No, it’s my last name.
Foley: Tell me Kris, as dogs, there are few things we enjoy more than a big ass. That Kim, she has a pretty big ass. Did you ever stick your nose up there and get a good smell.?
Kris: No, that’s disgusting.
Pocket: I don’t think this guy even got to second base with her.
Foley: Well, that’s disappointing because I think lots of dogs would like to get a nose on that.
For us little dogs we can’t really get high enough to get up in there. The most we can hope for is for some old lady to fall down and then we can jump on top of her.
Pocket: Which reminds me we are still collecting for our charity, step stools for small sniffing dogs. Just because we’re small doesn’t mean our freedom to sniff should be curtailed.
Foley: You and Kris have come under criticism because you were only married for 87 days but that’s like a year and a half in dog marriages.
Pocket: And that’s a long time to be married to that bitch.
Kris: I never thought of it like that. I should think more like a dog.
Pocket: I think marrying Kim Kardashian shows you think like a dog just fine.
Foley: Do you own a dog?
Kris: No I do not.
Foley: Why don’t you own a dog? Everyone should own a dog. What have you got against dogs?
Kris: Nothing. I just travel a lot. Don’t have a lot of time to spend with a dog.
Foley: Well we have pictures of you and Chloe Kardashian so that argument doesn’t hold water. And you aren’t working now are you?
Kris: No we are locked out.
Foley: Oh I hate when they lock us out. We can’t get out of the yard, can’t get to squirrels. Have you tried digging under the fence?
Kris: We have tried everything. I don’t know why these owners won’t pay us tens millions of dollars to play basketball and try when we feel like it.
Foley: Now it says here that you have parents who are not of the same breed. Now I may be a full bred Yorkie but I don’t have any problem with someone of a mix bred. Is that why you were returned by Kim. Because she thought you were a mutt.
Pocket: Oh that is terrible. You know when we get someone to take in a mixed breed and they return them we have such a tough time getting them adopted again.
Kris: I don’t need to be adopted I am a grown man.
Foley: Oh Kris, you have been locked out of one home, you were returned after being adopted in less than three months. You are unadoptable.
Pocket: You know what happens when you’re unadoptable?.
Foley: We might find a no kill shelter.
Pocket: But he’s a big, dumb, clumsy mutt who was returned from his last foster home. Plus, looking at the floor, he seems to have a drool problem.
Kris: Dude, I don’t have a drooling problem.
Foley: What we need to do is get a big, dumb, mutt rescue. I know, we will post him on Backup Power Forward Pardons. Please people go to Backup Power Forward Pardons and please adopt Kris Humphries. He has only 24 hours to live.
Kris: 24 hours! What is gong on here!
Pocket: Don’t worry. I’m sure you need a home. Christina Argulera might need a Backup Power Forward.
Foley: Ant that’s our show for tonight. And please. Save Kris Humphries!

Clementine and the Girls are our November 6, 2011 Pups of the Week

How is it possible we have been doing this as long as we have and Clementine and the Girls have never been our Pups of the Week? (Unless theu have been, I asked Pocket to check our records this morning but she spent all morning chasing balls). We better be right. After last week when we named the wrong pup Pup of the Week Mommy told us no more Saturday night Foletinis if we made another Pup of the Week mistake and we can’t live wtthout our Saturday night Foleytinis.

So today we honor Clementine and the Girls, hosts of the fine show So You Think You Can Bark. Wait! I have been handled a note from Pocket Dog. Oh man, we are so going to lose our Foleytini Saturday nights. Clemetine and the Girls do not host that show. They are, though, very worthy pup of the week candidates.

There are three main reasons that we have named Clementine and the Girls our pups of the week. First is that they do a wonderful job updating us on our friends Saffron and Sage. Since Saffron and Sage’s Mom went to the Bridge to wait for them we have lost contact with our buddies but thanks to Clementine’s family we are informed whenever either Saffron or Sage need prayers. Clementine and the girls know we love our friends and never want to lose contact with them.

The second reason is that they are becoming very important business dogs. They have their own Facebook page now. It’s for their Mom’s grooming shop but the real drawer is the Girls .

Looking at theb beautiful pups they are who wouldn’t travel all day just to pampered by such a talented groomer? Please feel free to like the page by visiting the Facebook page HERE.

The third reason is the incredible job these girls do posing. Don’t get us wrong, we have some great individual posers in our group. But I can’t post with Pocket for the birds. But Clemintine and the Girls pose like they are alone.

We have sprinkled their beautiful pictures through out this blog. There is the leader of the pack Clementine, aka Clemee, she is chocolate and tan. Her half sister is Clancey Jane. She is a black and white tri colored dog. Clairee Kayte is a small black velvet dog. Lainey Bug is the only non Cocker Spanial in the family although she think she’s a Spanial. She is really a Shih Tzu.
Lettie Anne is the youngest member of the family while Clover White is the newest members, a silver buff.

This has been a good week for us, no sick doggies, no one going to the Bridge, no one running away, no one in need of prayers. So during this beautiful well let’s celebrate these beautiful dogs. It is wonderful to be able to celebrate all that is beautiful, calm, and loving in dogs. And that is why we celebrate Clementine and the Girls as our Pups of the week.

Pocket Dog Dog Detective: The Case of the Yellow Ball

I have quite the set of balls. I have friends send me balls, Mom buys me balls, there were balls here when I got here.

I play with my balls. All sorts of different ones. But I usually have one ball that I play with above all others. I call it my yellow ball. Because it is yellow. And mine.

Last week Daddy was sitting in the glider. Grampy was over, he was sitting in the recliner. Mommy was in the kitchen talkin’ ‘bout the government. I brought my favorite yellow ball over to Daddy and dropped it at his feet.

He threw the ball while talking with Grampy. I kept running it down and bringing it back. Over and over. Then Daddy threw it. It skipped down the hall and I lost track of it. I came to the closed front bedroom door. The ball wasn’t there. I walked into the adjacent laundry room. You know what? No ball there. I went into the front bathroom. No ball there. Then I frantically looked around the kitchen. Still I was ball less. Completely without ball.

Mommy and Daddy looked for it but they couldn’t find it either. Daddy then pulled all my balls out of my pet bed and he laid them all on the floor. I walked over and sniffed my freshly lain balls. I picked both the green one and the red one to play with. But I still wondered what happened to my yellow ball.

I knew what I must do. I entered my pink, triangular kitty condo and went through my trunk. I found my houndstooth cap. It was time to unleash on the case the world famous detective Pocket Dog Private Dog. (Note” When I wear my cap I undergo a slight personality change, barely noticable, but the rest of the blog will be written by Pocket Dog Private Dog.)

A missing ball case. If I had a kibble for each of these I came across my bowl would be over flowing with kibble. I called my girl Friday Foley. She walked in, legs all the way up to her hips. When she wagged her tail men would weep. I asked her what she remember about the yellow ball.

“Daddy threw it down the hall, you somehow lost it on a one floor home with only seven rooms, and you’re trying to blame somebody else.”

Foley had a smart mouth on her but she got away with it with the wiggle in her walk. But I also couldn’t trust her. And she was in the room when the ball disappeared. I couldn’t eliminate my girl Friday Foley from being a suspect.

I walked over to Mommy’s recliner, jumped up on it, and climbed up on her chest. I stared into her brown eyes. “From what I’ve been told you were the last person who saw the yellow ball. It skipped by you in the kitchen before it disappeared. What do you remember from that day and did you have any contact with the ball?”

“I don’t know what happened to your ball, I don’t care what happened to your ball, and you need to get off my chest now.” I sensed I was close to breaking her, but sometimes you have to know when back off, which I did, snuggling next to her.

At night, in bed, after Foley was done licking Daddy, and he was lying reading, I hopped on his chest and looked down at him. Perhaps he had aimed the ball for a secret hole, or palmed to ball, or had snuck another dog in the house who ran off with the ball. I stared down at him as he answered my queries but he claimed her knew nothing, and if there is one thing I could attest to with my Daddy it’s that he knows nothing.

I turned around and sat on his face. I did my best thinking sitting on his face. There was only one suspect left. Grampy. This could be payback for stealing the Cardinals cap. (We haven’t collected from that old man on the bike yet. Every time he sees us he rides faster and rings his bell louder.) And Grampy would be over the next day. I knew if I kept the pressure on the old man I could break him, or, if he tripped him, I could break his hip.

When he was at our house on Tuesday I jumped on the recliner and gave him my best tough detective look. I asked him if he knew where my yellow ball was. He answered “What?” I told him it was no use trying to play Charlie McCarthy and dummy up, he better tell the truth. I knew I had shaken him up because he said “What?”

I had him cornered now. I jumped on to his chest. He gasped. Usually I don’t like to get physical with a subject because I’m five pounds but hey it was working. “Tell me where my yellow ball is?” I demanded.

Before I could crack the case Mommy told me to get down. And that’s when I figured it out. They were all in it. It was a conspiracy, bigger than any of them. This went up to the highest levels of government. Everyone had joined together in a conspiracy to make me look bad and I swore I would devote the rest of my life to breaking either Mommy, Daddy, Foley, or Grampy and then I will bring them all down and victory shall be mine!

Either that or it’s behind the hutch. But after I ruin ever member of my family I’ll check the hutch. Pocket Dog Dog Detective never loses a case.

Although sometimes I lose my ball.