The Ruby Rose and the Big Little Angels 3 Blog

I have had so many prayers to deal with lately.  Not that I am complaining.  It is a honor to be the one to convey my friends’ prayers to the Big Guy.  But I am getting confused. .  I have prayers and notes scattered everywhere. I was trying to get them sorted when I noticed Shakira looking over me.  “Hi Shakira,” I said.  “You know I can never keep my prayers straight.”  Then I stopped and looked up.  “Shakira!”  I yelled.  I began to look through my prayers and could not find her name.  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Rule number two Foley,” a deep voice said.  I turned and saw one of my oldest friends, and a senior member of the Bridge Council, Shakira’s brother Angel Apollo, standing on a hill over us.  He ran down towards his sister.  Instead of running and playing together they just put their heads and paws next to one another and took comfort in the texture of their fur and familiar, long lost smell. Rule number two was never ask a pup what they w

Dear Aunt Foley: Dad went to buy me a replacement, 16 foot retractable leash, and found that all of the manufacturers must believe there is an absolute correlation between the size of the dog and the owner's hand. Leashes for small dogs come only with small handles, those for medium dogs only with medium handles, etc. How stupid is that? Haven't they noticed that some women with smaller puppies often require larger hand bags, and some men with a diminutive pack often need big briefcases, and vice, versa? Katie and Angel Cassie Dead Katie and Angel Cassie:  This is a seriously great question.  As I see it the real question is why the small handled leashes are sold anyway.  I was a very small dog and my retractable leash was large.  It wasn’t like the pull of the leash was going to lift me up and slam me back into the leash like a catfish being yanked from a crik.   Just because I’m a little dog doesn’t mean I couldn’t handle the the big line.  Believe me I can handle the bi

When is it time?  It is a question that has tormented our poor parents for years.  Humans who are in the final stages of their lives linger, they suffer, they lose their dignity, until mercifully they are brought home.  I am sure their loved ones would, at times, want to end their suffering, but they aren’t allowed to do what some call playing God   Thankfully our parents are allowed to play God when it comes to us, and we love them for it.  It is ironic that the term used to end our suffering is “humane” when humans are not given the privilege of ending the suffering of their loved ones. The term should be “dogmane.” Our friend Daddy, brother of Taser and Ruger, whose mother is Sue Ann Mohamud, is at the end of his life.  He has a tumor that can’t be operated on and he is at the stage where he has been brought home to be made comfortable.  Unfortunately being comfortable is hard when your body is failing. Daddy is having trouble standing and walking, and when

At exactly 10:00 every evening I expect at least one, and sometimes as many as four treat balls.   The first one I ever got was from Leo.  It was plastic, and I rolled it around the floor eating the kibble that slowly fell out.  Then one day I realized if I got on the couch with the treat ball in my mouth and dropped it on the floor the treats would come out faster, and it would scare the crap out of a sleeping Pocket.  It was a win win. I found out the harder I slammed the ball the more the treats came out until the day I slammed the ball so hard all the treats came out.  Unfortunately  I busted Leo’ gift and it was time to find me something new. So they got this really cool, thick white bone and the filled it with all sorts of yummy stuff:  Peanut butter, pumpkin, yogurt, and there would be treats inside the creamy stuff.  It was great.  I loved to climb up on the couch with it and start licking the stuff out, and when I got frustrated I dropped it on the floor and it sounded

Dear Aunt Foley:  We had a man come to work in our house recently and my siblings and I got locked in a room.  Why should we get locked away?  It’s our house.  - Downunder Daisy That is one of the most aggravating decisions parents make.  They love us, they are proud of us, when we are walking with them they love to show us off to passerby’s, but when a stranger comes in the house to do work suddenly we are Anne Frank.   We are trapped in the room while a human with all sorts of interesting smells walks through our house and the potential for wonderful scratches, rubs, and dare we say treats are lost.  And for what reason? Because suddenly we have become an embarrassment to our parents, who have become convinced that we might attack the man for being in our house?  Does the fact that a strange man comes into the house to work on the plumbing or something electrical turn us into ferocious beasts?  Or are our parents afraid that we will (heaven forbid) get in the way?

We dogs live our lives for our parents. We accept certain sacrifices when we agree to take in a human. Because we never want our parents to worry about us we hide our pain when we are sick as long as possible. That is why my cancer was such a shock to my Mom and why everyone was so shocked when Rocky passed to the Bridge. I have been here 17 months and I have learned to act with a certain amount of decorum when I see a friend cross the Bridge. I no longer run down the stairs and embrace them. I don’t ask them how they are doing since the answer is always: “Well not good I’ve been dying.” But my darn tail still wags when I see a friend, and it did when I saw Rocky. (I knew I should have had that thing circumcised when I was a pup. Now my back skin keeps betraying my emotion.) I concentrated very hard to keep myself under control as I swore in Rocky in a dignified and solemn ceremony. Then I got runned over when Sierra came flying down the hll, bowled me over, jumped o

Dear Aunt Foley:  I recently had a DNA test done and the results showed that I am a Argentine Dodo/ Chow Chow / Norweigan Bunhound Mix / Argentino Dogo / Bulldog / Black and Tan Coonhound Mix.  What’s up with that?  - Brody Dear Brody:  OK my good friend let me explain your heritage.    Somewhere down in your state of Arizona there was an Argentine Dodo hanging around a seedy neighborhood looking for some action  At the same time Martha Stewart was in town with her army of Chows.  One of them slipped out the limousine window and headed to the slums where she meets up with the Dodo.  They did the nasty and your line was created. An embarrassed Mrs Stewart sent her Chow to a dog convent where she had a baby:  A Chow/Dodo mix.  Not wanting a mixed breed to corrupt her line the Chow/Dodo was left at the dog convent.  When she became of age, at about six months, she escaped.  She found her way down to the docks where she was hungry and desperate.  A fishing ship with a Norweigan Bunhon

In our house we seldom expect good days.  We just hope they aren’t bad.  Inevitably they are, but that’s OK, it just lowers the bar for the next day.  But somedays that bar just crashes off poles and drops to the floor. It started off when we got up early.  Getting up early is never a good thing in our house, unless it’s because Daddy is working.  That usually means that he will go to work, Mommy will get in her recliner, and we take a long snuggle nap.  But if Mommy showers that means either prolonged crate time or household drama. This day Mommy showered and there was lots of drama.  First thing, during breakfast, a gigantic monster came and ate our driveway.  It chewed up the entire thing leaving nothing but dirt.  Then another monster came in and put down rocks and gravel.  Mommy said we were getting a new driveway.  I don’t know why.  But then again I don’t know why we got a new dog when Foley went to the Bridge. The men who were riding the Mon