Blog-ja-vu and thank you too

I need to talk with my senior pup friends for a second.  I just wrote a blog about Mommy's car accident.  When I got finished it seemed familiar.  Then I realized:  I wrote the exact same blog two weeks earlier   I have blog-ja-vu.   Has this ever happened to anyone?.    Maybe I should cut out the Foleytinis and start paying attention, start listening to Mom, start following the rules and commands - maybe it is a new day for Foley Monster where I am like Caesar says, a happy, balanced, unspoiled dog who knows they are a dog.  Maybe when other dogs see how well adjusted I am - not being spoiled rotten - they will want to be like me and be well trained and obedient too.  Maybe it will change all the dogs on the Brigade, all the blogger dogs, dogs everywhere and we will have a better world between dogs and man!

Nah!

Anyway Mom wants you to know that she is healing up fine after her car accident.  OK, she has stopped looking over my shoulder so I can tell you the truth.  She is more full of Vick than the Giants defensive line after their first quarter of football (hopefully)  Mommy is still hurting, some physically, and even more emotionally.  She doesn't want to drive, she doesn't even like to ride in a car.  Then again she rides with Daddy who is known at Cut Off Gay which I pray to the Lord means he is a bad driver.  She is still very jumpy, even in bed, as is Daddy, so Pocket and I spend most of the night bouncing around the like a cat at a flea circus.

Things are a little unsettled here.  Plus the first day of school was today.  This is the first time in 18 years she was not working on the first day of school.  She is like Bret Farve but without any money or downloaded genitalia.    She'd like to get back in the game but no one will give her a ball.  But hard times come and hard time go and hard time come and hard time go just to come again.

So like so many other on the Brigade we are going to hold on tight and ride out the bad time.  We have Pocket's birthday to celebrate:  Four years without an accident.  Four years of peeing on the floor out of pure laziness.  And when times get hard we find our little playground here and find the best friends in the world.  No hurricanes, no earthquakes, but we're still shook up, and like last week, we have our friends to help us ride out the storm and get to safety.  So thank you friends, we would be completely lost without you.

The Hurricane and Earthquake Dogs are our August 28, 2011 pups of the week



This one is for all the northeast coast lollipops and big boys who had to survive two made for TV movies:  "Holy Seismograph - The Great Northeast Earthquake" and "The Hurricane that blew New York" this week.  This includes both Me and Pocket, Hattie Mae, Smartie, Fella, Jackie Lynn, Nigel, Mollie, Pokey, Maggie, Willie Nillie and Jesse Belle and all other east coast dogs who had the earth move under their feet and then nearly blown away by a mighty wet, wild wind known as Irene.
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And let us not end our praise here.  For we must remember those who did not get shook or blown, those who could only sit and fret, those away from the storm, subject to listening to the increasingly alarming predictions of doom from our national news agency.  The messages we received of support were enough to lift us up so we could surf over the air currents and stay as safe as the birds.  Truthfully, I don't know about the other Hurricane Pups, but we did not go air surfing, we rode out the storm under the covers in our bed.  Nothing bad happens to us under the bed covers except for bodily functions.   If they are ours then we just roll out of the wet spot.  If it belongs to a fellow bed dweller than that is what the top of the covers are for.


We all got whacked by Irene at different times.  I think that Hattie, Nigel and Mollie got hit earlier in the day.  Willie Nillie and Jesse Belle later in the day, and Maggie and Pokey, along with us Yorkie sisters, late at night.  I don't know which was worse.  Being able to see the wind and the rain, the branches snapping, the water pounding; or to be in the dark, hearing the wind howl and whip around the house like a beast tied to the porch, shaking the building with every lunge.


Mollie lost electricity, television, Internet, all communication to the outside world.  And on her birthday!  What a terrible way to spend your birthday when all the rest of your friends are mad partying. Nigel's family were evacuated from their home and and stayed with a 92 year old Aunt.  They were able to return to their home after the hurricane with no ill effects from the storm.  We are still waiting to hear if they had ill effects from Hurricane 92 year old Aunt.   Hattie Mae kept her electricity and power because she is such an important dog they tripled up on the wiring to keep her going.  Not even the National Grid wants to face off against Hattie Mae.

It also spared Willie Nillie and Jesse Belle.  While neighbors around them got their street flooded and downed power lines they came through unscathed.  Then Irene turned her eye towards me and Pocket, and Pokey and Maggie.  When we went to bed it was raining  little and windy.  We woke up in the dark with the wind howling, the rain pounding, and our little hearts beating.  Daddy got up and I heard him shut the front door.  Oh, what was crazy nut job doing?


But he was just bringing in a couple of plants that blew over.  They woke up when the alarm went off at 9:00 AM but Daddy looked at the rain slamming down and the wind bending every living thing and decided to snuggle with us in bed a while longer.  At 10:30 they put on the TV to see what was happening with the storm.   The weatherman was blubbering on for a few minutes and then the power went out.  With an electric stove and electric hot water heater they both said they should have got out of bed earlier.  Blasphemy! 

But we did get up.  Daddy got his phone and I lay on the floor with him while he tossed the ball for the oblivious Pocket.   We were able to tap out a blog for our friends and check on their fates to see that everyone had survived.  A little while later the lights came back on but we did not get our cable and Internet back until 10:00 at night because a huge tree just north of our park entrance crashed down on th lines. 

I was very upset because I couldn't do pup of the week, beat this caption, or question of the week.  Mommy told me I could do them all on Monday.  But Monday is my lie in the sun after working hard on Sunday day.  Man this Hurricane wrecked my whole schedule.

This week pups of the weeks are those who have been both shaken and stirred and then many, many pups who cared and prayed for us,, and the angles at the Bridge who kept the worst of the storm away from us.

Thank you all.

TWIB Notes: This Week in Blogging

Kol's Notes has a great way for us to remember the pups we have lost

Ashley Hill Owen writes another heartbreaking story of love, loss, and redemption in her Lucky Dog Blog .

When you are done with that blog continue on to her blog about a dog named Lucky. And if you like to contribute to the Lucky Dog Rescue click here.

Carny Dog shows us what happens when dogs laugh.

After lots of searching on the streets of Brazil the Dogs of Brazil blog reports the finding a the missing little white dog.

Life With dogs gives you tips on what to do if your are confronted by predators while walking.  It does not include my first choice, run like hell.

Minnie and Mack tell how they survived the great quake of 2011.

The No Dog About It blog recounts a dog parents worse nightmare.

Life With Dogs reports about the fate of Hawkeye, the military dog who became a You Tube star when he would not leave the side of his master's coffin.

Having had PTSD become a huge factor in our lives, and seeing how dogs can help, this blog from Mutterings and Things hit home for us.

Another meeting with the Ning Weasels does not go as planned

Last month Pocket and I got a strange tree mail.  We both sniffed it for about ten minutes before we could decipher it.  The message was from the Ning Weasels who wanted their money.

This was not a problem.  Last year the Brigade raised so much money we had a nest egg.  It's very important to understand the concept of the nest egg.  I had it hidden in Pocket's Triangular Kitty Condo.  Just before Christmas I went to check the nest egg and it wasn't there.  I asked Pocket what happened and she said she lost it.  I was livid. I wanted her to admit she lost it.   Say it! Say it! Say "I lost the nest-egg." Go on, say it!  Then Pocket looked behind the sofa and found it.  I took it and kept it in the Leopard Vagina Condo (which is bigger on the inside then the outside.)  I had no trouble finding the nest egg.  It was in a safe behind the Van Gogh.

Pocket and I downloaded ourselves to the seedy part of town where the Ning Weasels hang out.  "Hey pretty thing nice tail," a beaver lying near a dumpster whistled.

"Watch your mouth and keep you eyes off my tail!" I barked.

"Not looking at your tail," the beaver hissed.

"Oh thank you!" Pocket said walking towards the beaver.  "I try to keep it clean, and I lick it all the time so it looks fluffy."  I nipped her in the ear and told her not to fraternize with the vermin. 

(Heavens, her tail is cropped and mine isn't.  My tan and brown hair mixes together like a beautiful bouquet.  I have a wonderful tail.  Beavers know nothing about tails.)

I pushed Pocket into the Weasels hideout.  They were playing pool, others dealing cards, one was playing Tom Waits on the piano.  The air was filled with cigarillo smoke.  The head weasel motioned for me to come to his table.

We sat down.  Behind him two of the thickest weasels stood with their sharp paws folded in front of them.  "You bringa the money?" the Weasel asked.

I put the nest egg on the table.  He slowly counted it.  "It's short," he said.

"Short?" I asked.  "This is the same amount we paid last year."

"We went upa on the payments, we need a more of your a money."

"What do you need more money for?" I asked.

"It's a because of all the new features we added," one of the thick weasels behind the main weasel said.

"What new features?"

"If you go to our Main Page you can see how to upload pictures from you phonea right to your site.  And we got that little box that you can say whatch'a doing and if you fill that out and got a Twitter Account it shows up there.  Itsa nice feature."

"Oh that does sound nice," Pocket said before I nipped her.

"Look, we don't need none of that stuff, and we're a private group so we don't want to be linked up with Twitter and Facebook so why don't we just go back to out original settings and pay the original price."

"It no work that way you pay what we say you pay."

"Can I ask you a question?" Pocket, who was the last dog in the world I wanted to ask a question, asked.  "Why do you all talk with Italian accents?"

"We watch the American TV and all the tough guys they talk the Italian."

"So you're not Italian?"

"No actually we are French, but no one gets scared when you talk French.  Listen:  We would like some more money from you, while you think it over can we give you some bread and a glass of wine?"

"You're right," Pocket said.  "You're much better going with Italian."

The Weasel nodded and told us we had to take $50.00 more out of our nest egg.  I sent Pocket to get it while I waited with the weasels.  I knew I could handle myself with the weasels if things got violent and I knew Pocket would pee on all their Weasel Scooters.

While waiting I played cribbage with the weasels.  A penny a point.  After several hands I stopped trying to convince them that an eight and nine did not equal fifteen and neither did a Jack and a four and hoped Pocket would bring extra to cover my losses.

She returned with the extra $50.00, the weasel counted it, smiled, and said the Brigade was paid for another year.  I asked him if the amount would change next year.

"It'sa always gonna go up.  That's the price of doing  business, dog," he said.

Pocket and I got up and left, ignoring the cat calls about our tails.  Damn cats. 

So I know we said that we were paid up for three years, but we only have $80.00 left in the nest egg and we cannot lose the nest egg.  So come next spring we might be asking for donations again for the weasels.  As always, we find a way to sponsor those who can't pay, and it still should be $5.00,

And you all will be amazed to see how a Brigade can make a nest egg grow.

Sierra is our August 21, 2011 pup of the week

While us pups are the most wonderful beings the good Lord ever blessed upon this Earth we do have our bad qualities (although we are never supposed to mention them.)  The wost one is that we are selfish.  Like a little slope nosed who has first learned to speak what we want is "Mommy!"  Last week we celebrated Pokey and Maggie for giving up time with their Mom while she does transports.  I know I hate when my Mommy is away.  I fall asleep, I wake up, I don't know if she is coming home or not, it's terrible. 

But you know what is worse than not knowing when Mommy is coming home?  When she comes homes with another dog.  That means sharing and we weren't built for sharing.  The thing about new dogs is they walk in the door and they automatically think everything belongs to them.  This is a big difference between us and humans.  When a human enters your house he doesn't pick up your toys, put them in his mouth, walk around the house, and squeak, squeak, squeak.  But dogs!  They just walk right in and everything belongs to them no matter how long it has belonged to you.  New dogs upset everything.  Your entire schedule is ruined.

This week our pup of the week, our wonderful friend Sierra, let a new dogs in her house, or, at least, did not get too upset when one was thrust upon her.  And this one that was thrust for the most special reasons.  This dog, who we will refer to as Tiger, because that's his name, was on death row for the crime of having no one to love.  But Sierra's Mom, who is a warrior for all us pups, saw Tiger and she could not resist but give him a chance at life, and either a temporary, or permanent home.  While Sierra was not thrilled, having yet to get over the appearance of her brother the Blob two years earlier, she could not let this poor pup die to protect her toys. 

Then something just awful and scary happened.  The shelter where Tiger was being kept could not find him.  They were afraid there was a problem in the paperwork and Tiger had been sent to the Bridge.  But they found Tiger safe and sound.  You can't blame the people at the Shelter.  There were just so many poor dogs there.

The only other test was to make sure that Tiger could co-exist with Sierra, which is as simple as an ice cream sandwich, and Nase, which is like trying to get along with an inflatable Pocket.  At first Tiger reacted badly but the people at the shelter said he had cage rage from being locked in the cage so long.  This is not to be confused with age in the cage which was a really bad wrestling match between Roddy Piper and Hulk Hogan about ten years ago. 

It didn't look like Tiger was going to mix with Sierra and Nase at all  but when he was let out of the cage he was a different dog.  There weren't any high five and  welcoming hugs but everyone proved that they could co-exist under the same roof as long as is needed.

So tonight q furry little face sits in a house, smiling, instead of lying lifeless, because Aunt Vicki saw him and took a chance on him.  As did Sierra, and Nase too.  It is wonderful that people take in homeless dogs like this.  It is too bad they can't do it with human people, but dogs rarely slip out during the night with your liquor and anti-depression medication.

We have named Sierra our Pup of the Week for August 21, because for the second time in two years she has had to learn to share her home and her Mom with a new dog and that is never easy.  And Aunt Vicki you are certainly our Mom of the week, and you will be nominated for Mom of the Year, Decade and Century.  Nase, you are like Pocket, as long as you get your love, your food, and your walks Mommy could bring Qaddafi into the house and you wouldn't mind.  And Tiger, I sure hope you are a good boy and you fit in perfectly, and if you find a new forever home then bless you on your way, and if you stay where you are welcome to The Brigade.

And some day, if you stay with us, you will be our Pup of the Week.  But for August 21 the Pup of the Week is your new sister Sierra.

August, 16, 2011 TWIB notes. This Week in Blogging

The Dog Carny Blog knows what dogs whisper to one another when they get close.  Boy does it set off fireworks. 

Speaking of fireworks you can visit our friend Joyce's Boston Chomper blog.  Joyce is Mommy's nephew's wife.  There are pictures of Mommy's nephew Andrews with Joyce and one of them and Mommy's niece Amanda.  This isn't the July 4th cookout that Mommy and Daddy went to, it's another one that I told Joyce not to invite them to.

The Dogs of Brazil continue trying to raise funds to keep their no killer shelter and clinic going for the many street dogs of their country.

Pet Pardons has reached it's 10,000 pet posting this week.  Read about it at the Lucky Dog Rescue blog.  Stop in and thank Ashley and her partner Chris Hoar (no, I didn't make it up, but Mommy married a guy named Gay years before Gay marriage was legal in Massachusetts so who am I to talk) for their great work and remember to advocate for these poor pups on death row.

Our friend Aunt Jodi was challenged to write a blog containing links to her best blogs and she did it in Kol's Notes Blog.  I love her for doing it.  Then she challenged me to do it.  Now I hate her.

Please keep your eyes open for the Possum Gang.  Pictures of them can be found on the Talking Dog Blog.

Gardening with Wyatt took us to the Portland Flower Gardens.

Today is Kol's first Tasty Tuesday blog hop and Tucker Tells All informs us of his favorite treats.

Aunt Wendy and the Labbies Save the Day

This morning Mommy went out for a Doctor's appointment and to run some errands and we were left home with Daddy.  She had been gone for awhile when his phone rang. We could just barely hear her nervous voice on the other end.  Daddy stood suddenly, the lap top falling to the floor, scooped us girls up, slipped Pocket into her crate, put me in the bedroom and hurried out the door.

We were both very concerned.  We heard Daddy's car come back a half hour later.  Two doors shut so we were hoping she was with him.  When we got out of the bedroom we found she was.  But she was smelling like fear, and sadness, and frustration. 

While crossing a  busy intersection on a curvy street in the pouring rain Mommy got broadsided by a pick up truck that crushed one of the loves of her life, her silver Honda.  She got checked out by the paramedics, and the police, and they were all very nice to her.  One of the neighbors got a seat for her to sit in.  Daddy got there and saw that her silver Honda baby was in very bad shape.  We are hoping it's all right but it didn't look good.

So Mommy was very depressed, angry, and frustrated.  Daddy had to run an errand for his Daddy and he stopped by the mailboxes on the way home.  Inside was a package addressed to us from Aunt Wendy, and the Labbies for no other reasons except that they are the sweetest dogs and she is the sweetest woman in the whole world.  It was like they knew Mommy was suffering and went all the way across the US to put something in her mailbox to make her smile.  Which it did.  Here is what they sent.

And here is Pocket modeling her new shirt

We can't express to Aunt Wendy and the Labbies how much their random act of kindness meant to us on this dark day.  When tears were in our eyes your wiped them off.  We have all made bad decisions in our lives but one of the best was partnering with the Moms and Pups in this Brigade.  No matter how low we get one of our Brigade members reaches down and pulls us up. 

Thank you so much Wendy and the Labbies, you will never know how much you mean to us.  Even if, somehow, in Friends With Words, every word she plays has a V in it. 
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Pokey and Maggie are our August 14, 2011 pups of the week

Not only have we forgiven Pokey and Maggie for their jaunt through the busy streets of their home town but we are naming them our August 14, 2011 Pups of the Week.

They are two wonderful dogs, great friends, the stories of their treks to their forever home is as riveting as any we have heard.  But this week we are celebrating them for their selfishness.  Many nights they have to give up their wonderful Mom, Aunt Laura, while she transports rescued dogs to their forever homes.  There is no greater gift a dog can give to his fellow dogs then sacrificing time with their Moms so rescued dogs living lives of misery can get help reaching the humans whose lives they will fill with love and devotion. 

We have also named Pokey and Maggie because I know they will have no problem with this condition:  They have to share this week's award with all the other dogs who have sacrificed time with their parents so rescue dogs can be transported on the Greyhound Railroad.  I apologize to those pups who do this and we have not named.  I put Pocket in charge of record keeping so we know what all our pups are doing.  But she was playing ball with Daddy, ran into our filing cabinet, and the records scattered everywhere.  So, for all you pups who let your parents do transports, make sure you mention it in the comments so you can get the recognition too.

Mommy and Daddy want to do transports but Mommy does not like driving a long way on her own and Daddy's nervous condition makes long car trips a dangerous endeavour.  These poor pups have gone through enough.  They don't need to be transported to their new home by a wild man screaming after being cut off on  '95 by a guy named Vinnie from Jersey in a Volvo (it is always a guy named Vinnie from Jersey in a Volvo.)  The poor pups would be breathing heavily on the back window, fogging up the window, and writing "take us back to the puppy mill" with their paws on the condensation.

Pokey and Maggie's Mom lives in one of the busiest traffic areas in the country.  As soon as she turns out of her driveway she is taking her life in her own hands, until she gets into the Northern New England states, as she is surrounded by busy highways.  People don't give way to ambulances never mind a hard worker on the Greyhound Railroad.

I think Pokey and Maggie must worry a lot about their Mom while she is gone, as do other dogs who have their parents give so much for our  brothers and sisters.  If your parents are going to make one of these rescue runs can you please post it either in the forum, blog, or the message page so the Brigade can pray for them.

If you are more the stay at home type, like Mommy and Daddy until they can get his head screwed on tight, there are still ways you can help in the rescue efforts.  One of our favorite on  line organizations is Pet Pardons administered by Ashley Hill Owen and Steve Hoar.  That's his name, not a Foleyisim.  Pet Pardons posts on Facebook and Twitter pups who are on death row at their shelters.  What they ask is that, if you can't save a pup, you can advocate for the, by putting it on your Facebook or Twitter page or put a link on TB.   The more people see it the more likely there is that a shelter or a single person will save the pup.

It does are heart god to see that while we devote so much of our Internet space to silly little stories to make people smile others are using it to help keep dogs off of death row and find them homes.  And it means so much to see Muggles like Pokey's and Maggie's Mom who helps organize and transport these pups, and others who foster them until they are ready to go to their forever homes.

So a tip of our tail to our Pups of the Week, Pokey and Maggie, their wonderful Mom, Aunt Laura, and for all the wonderful Muggles who help us pups find the loving home we need to be guardian angels for our forever parents. All involved are our Pups and Slope Noses of the Week.

I need advice on my Daddy's burning Hot Pocket

You humans are so interested in our Vicks (poo, crap, dropping, remains, however you choose to term them).  Every time ours are a little loose, or irregular, the slope noses e-mail, text, call their friends to discuss what is going on with poo.  Inevitably we are fed some bland rice, chicken boiled until the juices are sucked out of it, bland yogurt,  and, if we’re lucky, something tasty like pumpkin.

But what should we do when our Daddies have bad poo?.  What should we feed them?  How do we get them back to producing golden nuggets?  

Every story about our Vick begins with:  “You wouldn’t believe what (insert dog’s name here) ate yesterday.  Well you won’t believe what Daddy ate yesterday.

Let me set the scene:  Yesterday Mommy and Daddy drove down the Cape to see my Yorkie friend Lulu and the Therapist.  (New on NBC this fall:  It’s Lulu and the Therapist.  She’s a seven pound Yorkie rescue.  Her partner is a licensed therapist.  Together they travel the country solving crime and helping sad people  It’s Lulu and the Therapist new this fall on NBC - Never Beating Cable.)   After pouring their hearts out to Lulu and the Therapist the Therapist gave them human advice.  Lulu gave them her Yorkie advice.  Lie in a sunny spot.  Sniff every flower.  Always sit in a comfortable spot. Now which advice do you think my silly slope noses followed?  The humans of course.  If only they could try it our way just for a day how simpler their lives would be.

They then went to Paul’s Pizza where Daddy ate the thing you won’t believe he ate.  He ate a Pepperocino pizza.  This is a pizza with, what he thought was a sweet pepper topping.  Wrong!  It was a hotter than Hattie’s pepper.  But Daddy believe you eat what you ordered, so he did, pouring down several Pepsi's and sucking ice as he did.

They drove home, he mowed the lawn, we had thunder boomers, Mommy fell asleep, Daddy began making her a snack before waking her up.  Then he stopped and he made a face and bent slightly.  It was a cross between Kramer in the circus episode of Seinfeld where he passed the kidney stone and an ostrich, unaware that is is with child, going into labor.

He hurried into the bathroom.  He was making noises that would have made me call 911 if I had oppossable thumbs (but the smell was terrific.)  He then came out, bent over, walking slowly.  He finished making Mommy’s snack and her tea, brought it over to her, woke her and told her “the peppers are passing through me undigested.”

Mommy told him that it was good he was passing them but he told her no, it wasn’t good, because they were as hot coming out as they were going in.  My little sister looked up confused and Daddy told her “they come out hot, Pocket.”  Hot Pocket!  Mommy and I had a laugh at that.

Daddy gingerly sat down and then Mommy and Daddy had an argument about whose fault it was Daddy ordered that pizza.  Mommy said Daddy ordered the pizza because he was an idiot.  Daddy said that Mommy knew he was an idiot when she married him so she should have stopped him.  I must tell you that was a compelling argument from Daddy.

A little while later Daddy had to go in.  (I don’t know if that is the correct terminology, I know we have to go out so I assume when humans go it is refereed to as having to go in.)    He came out walking gingerly again complaining about his hot Pocket.   

Mommy told him it would be best if he way lying down so they went to bed which is the first time he got off his ass when she asked him to in nine months.   He got in bed and it seemed better but he awoke at 3:30 which is the usual time Pocket wakes him up to go outside.  Pocket got rustled as he was getting out of bed and she looked at me and said:  “How rude!  Interrupted my sleep.”

After and endless streams of noises that sounded like a moose in a wood chipper Daddy came out of the bedroom and got back into the bed.  He kept flipping around trying to get comfortable even trying to balance himself on one butt cheek but it’s hard to sleep and balance.  Finally he fell asleep.  

He has seemed fine today, but we still need help.  What should we be feeding him?  Is there something we can give him that will firm him up and cool him down?    And is there anything we can do about the incessant whining?

If you have any experience in caring for middle aged slope noses with hot pockets and whining tendencies please let us know.  Please pray for our overheated butt hole with his overheated  butt hole.

Smoochy is our August 7, 2011 pup of the week

We have lost pups before.  We have lost them to Rainbow Bridge.  We have lost them when doors were left open and they scampered off into the wild.  But we have never lost a pup like we lost one this week.

We lost him in cyberspace.

It breaks our tiny Yorkie hearts whenever we lose a friend.  Earlier this week we got a notice that our good friend Lily was leaving the Brigade.  We immediately ran to her place and begged her not to leave.  Our surprised little friend said she had no intention of leaving.  It was another Lily.  We had another Lily in the Brigade?  Oh well.  I'm sure we will miss her.  A lot.  (Who knew?)

But on Thursday Hattie Mae, having spent a week playing a befuddled Professor Henry Huggens to her little sister Jackie's Eliza Dolittle, decided to come to the playground where she found  Smoochy's place was gone.  She barked "Smoochy, Smoochy," over and over but there was no answer, no silly black dog running towards her with his tail wagging giving her slobbering kisses.  She came around our place and told us that Smoochy was missing.  I went over to his place and there was nothing there but a blank spot.  I agreed with her this was mysterious, and, although we didn't let each other know, we were quite worried.  This was not a good sign.  Pocket put on her Pocket Dog Private Dog hat and told us she was on the case.  This wasn't a good sign either.

Hattie put out a public notice that Smoochy was missing and offered an award of a photo shoot with her for any information.  We then fanned out in the woods looking for any sign of him.  We were joined by the "real" Lily, Benjamin, Brody, Sydney and her pack, and other friends.  But there was no sign of the Smoocher.

We decided to go back to our Mom's houses where we could use our computers to get some information.  I looked up his Mom's information on the Buddy System and we began to bombard the Foret home with e-mails, phone calls, texts, and instant messages.  Sydney's Mom, who lives three hours away from Smoochy offered to drive down to her house to check on her.

Pocket Dog Private Dog had other ideas: "When I found out the Smooster was missing I knew this case was right up my alley.  Missing dogs, that's my MO.  I sniffed all  around but there wasn't a scent. He disappeared like class at Kim Kardashian's wedding.  I tracked down Legs Foley during a futile seach by the water hole.   I told her I needed her fancy typewriter skills.  I had her set up a Google alert for Smooch's town of Nelsonville Wisconson.  This way if his Mom's name or his name turned up in the news I'd be on top of it like an unneutered dog on a Westminster champion poodle.  I didn't find out anything about Smoochy or his Mom but I did find out the following:  This weekend in Nelsonville they are going to have their first annual brick festival.  Image that.  After thousands of years of bricks it took the good  people of Nelsonville to give them a festival.  Everyone is invited to bring their own brick.  In the Northeast that is known as a street fight.  There is 13.88 acres of a field for sale there so if you're Miley Cyrus and looking to build a mansion there you go.  And they are closing the post office there so good luck if you are expecting any mail from Smoochy because he can't walk across town line to mail a letter."

That night the Brigade grounds were searched again, more texts, more phone calls, all went to message on the first ring.  That night I took Mommy's Batphone with me to bed.  I checked every five minutes for updates as the power slipped away,  Finally, at 1:30 AM, we got the news that Lily had found Smoochy.  Those darn Ning Flying Monkees who work for the Ning weasels had chased him right out of cyberspace and off the Brigade. 

To make things more complicated Smoochy's Mommy got a human virus and Smoochy did, as we all would have done, stayed with her.  He did not realize his home at the Brigade had been lost and there was a frantic search going on for him.  His Mommy's cell phone was not working, the satellite dish that calls come through was overwhelmed with the excitement about the brick festival. 

Smoochy's Mom finally felt well enough to check her fruitberry.  And it was loaded with messages from our Moms.  She realized what had happened and contacted her friends by human means to tell us that the Smoocher and her were safe.  Smoochy went to the Brigade but the gate was locked and no matter how much he barked no one would let him in.  All poor Smoochy could think was that his friends had locked him out.

Then in the distance I heard barking.  I realized it was Smoochy.  I ran over to the wall and he told me he couldn't get in.  He told me that he had got ruby slippers from Hattie Mae.  But they didn't fit.  If he clicked Ruby slippers together he could get home.  I went to Hattie and told her I needed her Ruby Slipper collection.  At first she told me back off lollipop but when I told her it was for Smoochy she dug through her pile and found a pair that fit Smoochy.  I threw them over the wall.  Smoochy put them on, clicked his heels three times, and he was home.

Oh Smoochy we love you so much.  And you scared us more than you know.  But you are homes, you are safe, and you are our Pup of the Week.

The painting of the Sistine Modular Home at the Prune Park

I knew when we moved it would happen, it always does, either after a move, or after a few years when Mommy gets bored.  The painting.

Not painting like Aunt Connie.  Painting like Mr. Green Jeans.  Lots of blood, splash and tears.  Mommy trying to untwist her pretzel shaped body to reach the high spots, Daddy being as helpful as Curly on Ecstasy.   Mommy getting frustrated.  Name calling.  Daddy sobbing.  Days not fit for man nor York.

It started in the hall bathroom this year.  The prune people build houses with some kind of vinyl print on the inside walls.  Mommy hated the vinyl print.  She wanted to paint it.  The neighbors said you can't paint these walls.  But with Mommy where there is a will there's futility.

It took six hours for Mommy and Daddy to prime the little bathroom.  Since the print was put on the wall while it was being built, the print went under the molding, and no matter how hard they tried, or yelled at one another, or sobbed, they either got paint on the molding or not enough paint on the wall.

Mommy is rarely defeated but this time she knew she would have to throw in the Pocket.  Speaking of Pocket how is it possible she got covered with primer when she wasn't in the same room with the primer?  Like trouble, paint finds Pocket and sticks to her.

Daddy, who would hire someone to do everything but sleep for him if he could, got on the computer and put out a request for a painter.  One called, and came the next day.  He looked over the house, said he could use one coat of primer and two layers of paint and he'd be done in two and a half days.  I went to him, stood on my back legs, and barked he was wrong:  "Run away from this home and never look back," I begged.  But some slope noses don't listen to dogs.  The term for these people is "over budget."

On Wednesday night Mommy and Daddy began to take down all their little displays they have around the house which are special to them and too high for me to care a fig about.  Then they began to stuff the front porch with furniture.  The next morning was chaos.  A bureau was placed on my bed.  My blanket was hid in a closet.  My comfy recliners were tipped on to the new chocolate love seat we bought to replace the couch Aunt Jodi stole.  My little chair from
was put on the porch, as was the leopard vagina kitty condo (Brody's Mom just giggled and when that happens an angel dog gets her wings).  Pocket and I were running around the house upset by all this consternation and without a good place to sit.  Then the painters  arrived.

You may ask why us dogs care about what color a wall is being painted?  Aren't we color blind?  Yes, we are.  But only the color of people.  These painters were chocolate.  They were very nice to us, and we don't care about nothing else.   But you get a bunch of white people in their 70's all living together in a village in Massachusetts a chocolate man has to be snuck in like we were a stop on the underground railroad.  During the day we heard there we 60 calls made to the missing person bureau of the North Carolina state police by our neighbors.

Me, Pocket, Mommy and Daddy were all sent to the porch.  It wasn't too bad. There are lots of windows that open wide.  There is a ceiling fan.  Daddy dragged the glider outside for Mommy.  It was like camping out.  We all snuggled together.  Mommy and Daddy played games and answered e-mails on their phones.  Pocket and I barked at people going by.  Oh be joyful.  A couple of times Daddy told Mommy she should go check on the painters because all the rooms were being done different colors,
sometimes two colors in the same room, and painters are easily confused.  But she assured Daddy that she had gone over with the painter, who was named Jo Jo, several times, what colors the room should be painted and she had every confidence in him.

He came out and announced he was finished with our bedroom.  He went to check on the other bedroom then came out confused.  Which bedroom was which he asked.  When Mommy said the one they did on that day was the master bedroom he  hung his head then led us into our bedroom, which was a beautiful bright pink.  I thought it looked very nice but apparently that was supposed to be the color of our grand babies bedroom.  So the entire day had been wasted.  But that was OK.  Daddy even said we might grow to like it.

Daddy and Mommy put the whole house back together including our regrettably pink bedroom room.  It did not grow on us.  It was like sleeping inside a nuclear reactor.  It was obvious we were going to have to tell Jo Jo to get back, get back, get back in that room he painted wrong.



Now, Daddy spent more than 20 years working in the projects, and unfortunately, in our little town, most chocolate folks lived in the projects.  Daddy remembered a painter who used to come in looking for guys he hired for day work.   The guys were never up, or weren't where they were supposed to be, and Daddy would tell the man he couldn't be counting on these project guys.  The first day when Daddy met Jo Jo he didn't want to ask him if he was that guy.  He didn't want to make it look like all those guys looked the same to him.  I don't know why.  All you humans look the same to us.  You all smell different though.  But finally he asked Mr. Jo Jo and Mr. Jo Jo said it wasn't him and then Daddy and Mr. Jo Jo shared a laugh over how silly the man was trying to get help in the projects.

The next day Mr. Jo Jo brought a man to help him.  The man looked at Daddy and said "I know you, you're Ted from the projects."  Another case cracked by Pocket Dog Private Dog.

Friday on the life boat attached to the front of the house wasn't too bad.  It was not real hot and there was a breeze.  The helper from the projects was enchanted with us pups.  He told us how he trains his pups.  This is your nose.  This is your mouth.  These are your ears.  Man, with Project dogs you got to start with the basics.  He says he tells his dog "go get my shoes," and they get his shoes, "go get my paper" and they get his paper.  They are waiting for the day he says "go get my shot gun" so they can blow is butt out the living room wall and into the yard.  Get your own gun grandpa.

They got done around five and Mommy and Daddy put all the furniture back in the living room and  our no longer regrettably pink bedroom so we call could sleep in it.  We got a good nap and a little while later we climbed into our bed.  The painters would be arriving at 7:00 and so would the heat.

The furniture was broken down and covered up again.  All the wires were unhooked.  Jo Jo told us he should be done by the end of the day.  This was good news because Bailey, the Queen Mother, our 14 year old cousin ,was coming for some rest and relaxation away from the craziness that is her house with an overactive Boxer and two girls under 11.  The Queen Mother likes to sit in a chair all day and not move.  Having a bunch of painters over was not going to make her a happy Queen.

Let me tell you pups, it was hotter than Kansas on the porch.  I panted more than a transvestite at a Lady Gaga show.  Halfway through the day Jo Jo told us he was going to have to come back on Monday.  He didn't work on Sunday because he went to church on Sunday and he needed to pray for delivery from the evil on this horrible modular home.

When they left we were told they could put the living room and bedroom back together and Daddy started to quickly move the furniture in.  Now let me ask you something.  After 17 years of marriage shouldn't you know that every single piece of furniture moved back into place needed to be wiped down, Windexed. buffed and polished?  So he would bring in a piece of furniture, and Mommy would clean it, which is absolutely the right thing to do, any sensible person could see that.  Then Daddy would bring in the next piece of furniture and stand there holding it while Mommy perfected the last piece of furniture, which, again, is only proper.  And, since everything was piled into the middle of the room, what better time to use the Murphy Oil Soap on the hardwood floors, so down on your knees Daddy.  Mommy cleaned, scraped, buffed, and blow torched every speck of paint that landed on the floor until she had ruined her body for all other men.  Daddy kept reminding Mommy that they had to get done by 7:00 because he had told the Queen Mother's Mommy not to bring the Queen Mother over until 7:00.  She brought her at 6:30.  After the Queen Mother's entourage left Mommy and Daddy finished cleaning the house, Pocket barked at the Queen Mother non stop, the Queen Mother ignored her.  We went to bed before 10:00 which is unheard of in these here parts and looked forward to having a snuggle Sunday except Daddy mentioned something about going to church to pray for delivery from
the evil of this horrible modular home.

Snuggle Sunday started out fine, until Mommy tried to put the cinnamon buns into the oven and the door fell off.  It seems the guy from the projects tried to move the stove by using the door, snapped the hinges, shrugged his shoulders and said "this is white folks business."  So we had to rely on Daddy to put the door back on which is like saying we had to rely on Charlie Sheen to drive us cross country.  After three and a half hours of yelling, swearing, loud house shaking, hinge snapping,whining, crying, finger pinching, thumbs bashing, hernia rupturing fun, the stove door was on, and half our snuggle day was gone (Pocket Dog Private Dog Interlude:  "I saw the old timer was having trouble getting the Franklin door to close.  I got Legs Foley to do an Internet search.  My suggestion was to use my roscoe to plug some holes in the old coal burner.  But sure enough Legs punched some keys on her fancy typewriter and found instructions on how to put the door back on.  I tipped my tail, not looking for pay, Pocket Dog Private Dog don't work on the Sabbath, and eased my way over to the Queen Mother for a screening of the flick Arsenic and Old Lace.")

Daddy had thought that on Monday, since the bedroom was done, we could stay there for the day, in bed, with the air conditioner turned on high.  But Mommy found places for them to paint in the bed room so, after setting up the rooms again, we went to the porch, where the mercury was near the top of the thermometer.  Daddy dragged the recliner out this time so me, Mommy, Pocket Dog Private Dog, and the Queen Mother could all lay there in a sweaty ball.  The heat put us asleep.  Daddy too.  He napped on the floor.  When Mommy and I woke up we saw Pocket sleeping next to us, and the Queen Mother on the floor.  We were hot, thirsty, hungry, desperate. It became obvious we would have to eat one another to survive.  I suggested we kill Pocket but Mommy said she was too bony.  The Queen Mother was a little chunky but Daddy had some good meat on him.  We decided to kill both the Queen Mother and Daddy but then the Queen  Mother awoke, went to drink the last of our precocious water, spilled it,and awoke Daddy as it went down his back.  Our plan foiled, we boiled on our life boat attached to the house.

Finally Jo Jo came out and thank the Heavenly dogs he said he was done.  We were delighted.  But Mommy had to investigate the house before we got out of the life boat.  She reemerged from the house and said Get back!  Get Back!  Get back and paint that wall Jo Jo.  So we kept waiting.  I lay on my side, on the floor because it was cooler.  At one point I saw a perfectly painted house, but alas, it was a mirage.  Finally they came back out.  They were done.  Mommy went back to cleaning, and Daddy to holding furniture while she did, but they didn't work for long, the exhaustion monster had caught up with them.

So our house is now painted.  No more men coming in and out.  And no more trapped in our life boat.  A little while ago the Queen Mother's Mommy picked her up and returned her home.  She was warm and snugly and even though she took up too much room on the bed and Mommy's lap.  So here are some picture of our rooms.  I hope you like it.  If not let Mommy know so she can yell at Jo-Jo "Get Back!"

Another addition of Ask Aunt Foley

Dear Aunt Foley,
I think I have a serious problem and would like your advice.  See, I love people.  Any people.  Anyone that comes to my kennel, I love them.  I like to kiss them, snuggle them, sit in their laps, lay my head on their chests, and play with them.  I love for them to rub my belly.  I will even get into bed with them to do all of these things.  I especially love it if the people will make me run down the street, chasing a ball.  And, of all the people that I do these things with, I love men people best.  I wanted to go home with the latest man person that came by.  He now thinks I belong to him, but his wife says no, and my kennel keeper says no.  I'm thinking of running away from my kennel.  One of my rain-loving furiends has offered her home with a new ball and plenty of ice cream.  I have East Coast furiends that like to run away from their kennel and walk the streets, free as jaybirds, too.  The man person that I fell in love with lately is named John.  Does all of this make me a chocolate ho-ho?  Are my furiends ho-ho's too, even if they're not chocolate?  Does my kennel keeper own me like a slave or is she a pump?  My life here is good, she takes care of all of my needs and throws the ball for me......sometimes.  Do you know the name of Tiger's rehab facility?  Or maybe the Weiner hospital?  Do they take tennis balls in payment for treatment?  By the way, I'm a boy.

Please help me!

A Chocolate Fan of yours and baseball (even if my team is in bankruptcy)

Dear Chocolate Fan:

I often get asked questions like this and I study each one carefully and you arrive at the same wise advice:  Are you frakking crazy?  Not about loving people.  I love attention from people.  The stranger the better.  (Both the people and the attention.)  Often on my walks I steer Daddy Slope Nose toward another walker so I can get attention like you do.  And when we have a visitor I sit and growl at them until I get scratched just below the throat.  If they scratch somewhere else I continue growling until they scratch just below my throat.  I have bonded with many Old Spotted Slope Noses since I have moved to the place where the people smell like prunes, but take my advice, the grass only seems greener on the other side of the fence, usually because the nitrogen in our pee makes the grass burn.  You have a pool, you have a loving family and siblings.  Never leave your home no matter how much a neighbor entices you with his fuzzy balls.   You could use the threat of leaving to get more ice cream but don't push the issue.  You don't want to lost the home you have now.  You are not a chocolate ho-ho, you are a lab and it is in your DNA to want to roam, but don't act on it.  You got it good kid.  Don't mess it up.  Your friends on the east coast who walk the streets, well here on the east coast, a dog who walks the street for more than five minutes becomes a drug mule.  So you don't want to become  chocolate lab Lindsay Lohan do you?  The streets are no place for an innocent chocolate lab like you.  You are not a slave, you just need to gain the upper hand.  Learn how to float on your back in the pool.  Your Mommy will be so happy when she finds you were just floating she will shower you with love.  I think you meant to ask me if you're Mommy is a pimp and she certainly is not.  You did write is she a pump?  Yes.  And you don't need re-hab you're just going through some growing pains.  Come winter you will realize you are where you belong.  And never give tennis balls as payments.

Dear Aunt Foley

We were in our back yard earlier in the summer when we noticed that the side gate was open.  Well we strolled right through it and then we were out on the wild streets of the North Shore section of Massachusetts.  We were roaming together, marking every lawn,barking up a storm, showing who the boss of the neighborhood is, when we ran into our pet walker friend and she brought us back home.  Mom was not very happy that we were had left.  A few days later while doing a rescue run she forgot to feed us.  Is an open gate an invitation to go visit the neighbors?  And did Mom have some sort of psychological break where she didn't forget to feed us but was punishing us with her subconscious?

The Pokester and the Magster

Dear Pokestar and Magster:

I read about your adventure when you left home, and, as I told you then, I do not approve of your actions at all.  Just because you come to the edge of a cliff doesn't mean you have to jump.  There is no better person at taking care of you and loving you than your Mom.  The next time you get confronted by an open gate one of you sit in the middle of it and the other go to the door and bark.  When Mommy comes to the door both look at the gate and then back at her to let her know someone left the gate open.  She will be so happy that you're good dogs she'll give you special treats.  As for you second question I don't think she subconsciously did not feed you.  I think she said screw the little bastards for taking off on me and left you hungry on purpose. 

Dear Aunt Foley:

I was licking my paws next to my new brother brother when I noticed his feet are webbed.  What the Blue Dog is going on with his feet?  Is he a duck dog?  And we are baby sitting another dog.  We just got Nikki, we just Bo, there is a lot of confusion here.  Shouldn't we have a say in who is coming to live here and are we being subjected to experimental dogs?

Sad confused Sandy

Dear Sad and Confused:

Thank you for bringing up a very important point.  The humans started out trying to mix all of us with poodles.  There is nothing wrong with poodles.  One of my best friends, Blazer, is a poodle.  But I don't know why every dog breed needs to have poodle in the name.  Great Daoddle.  Siberian Puskey.  Pooman Shepard.  And now they are trying to cross us with other life forms.  Obviously Nikki is some kind of dog duck combination.  A Poodle Duck or Puck.  A Shih Tzu Duck or Shuck.  A French Poodle Duck or a Fu....well you understand.  First it is important to remember that Nikki did not ask to become some dog duck hybrid.  It also may explain why he has so often been covered in horse poo.  Your Mom is mistaken.  He does not roll in it.  He tries to fly over the stables and comes crashing down into the poo.  We must stop humans from cross breeding.  As for their own kind what they do behind the barn is their business.  We are going to be babysitting our older cousin Bailey this week.  We don't mind babysitting.  We call her the Queen mother.  She just sits on the couch on pillows and looks down on us.  She isn't any real work.  We have to wait to pee (well I do, Pocket holds pee for no man) because Bailey is 14 and doesn't hold well first thing in the morning.  Also her parents think she is blind and deaf but she does play a mean pinball.  So yes we should have a say in who we babysit but it's like a foster dog, just another dog that needs a home for awhile, except this one's butt smells familiar.

Dear Aunt Foley:

My Mommy keeps leaving me to go to California to watch a TV show called The Talk.  Why does she have to keep going to see in person what she can see on TV?  And why can't I go?

Sexy Shadow

Dear Sexy Shadow

Your Mommy loves you as much as any Mom loves a pup but sometimes Moms need a day or two away, not from you, but from everyone.  Also she goes to see The Talk because she can't get tickets to the View.

Why the hell is it so freaking hot outside?

Sweating Sydney

Dear Sweating Sydney:

Well the Earth revolves around the sun and our country is closer to the sun right now.  This makes more day light and makes the heat rise.  Also the closer you live to the middle of the Earth, like Florida or Arizona, it is hotter.  So it is all very scientific.  Oh and also the humans are completely killing the planet but we'll be at the Bridge a long time before the Earth explodes.

Dear Aunt Foley:

What the hell happened to our couch?

Playful Pocket

Dear Playful Pocket:

Aunt Jodi took our couch.  I don't know why.  Maybe Koli and Felix needed a new couch.  They have done a lot for us with food and poo and treats so if they want a couch they can have it.  I would have liked to have been asked first but that's OK.  We have a nice new chocolate love seat (not real chocolate, but the same color) that is super comfy so it all worked out well for everyone.  I would love to get a picture of Koli and Feli on our couch.