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.