The Ruby Rose Report: Accidentally Growing Up

As the seasons shift and the days grow shorter, I’ve found myself adjusting my walks to embrace the warmth of the midday sun. It’s become a welcome change, though there are moments when I pause, turn back, and long for the comfort of home. My dad, my loyal walking companion, gently tugs at my leash, urging me onward. Yet, when I choose to turn back, it can feel like trying to move a 16-pound boulder with just a rope! In those instances, he sweeps in to lift me, carrying me a short distance before setting me down softly. While he holds me, the stubbornness vanishes, and I find joy in our continued stroll. It’s a delicate dance of small compromises that weave our bond even tighter. 

I often reflect on the day I first arrived at my new home, just shy of my first birthday, brimming with energy and mischief—something my parents find endearing. Back then, I thrived in two states: sleeping and playing, both pursued with unrestrained enthusiasm.

Now, as I approach two and a half years, my spirited antics have softened. I’ve become a more tranquil dog, content to relax and lounge peacefully—unless, of course, the faintest sound catches my attention, sending me racing to the window to bark at whatever elusive presence intrigues me. While I still indulge in my long naps, my playful side has waned.

During supper preparations, my devoted mom in the kitchen, my dad and I cozy up in the front room—a repurposed bedroom that has transformed into a pantry—where a box of my toys awaits along with the only rug in the house. This space fills me with joy as it’s where I love to play.

One of our cherished games involves Dad teasing me with a stuffed squirrel, making it hop across the floor while squeaking. I pretend to be uninterested, only to suddenly pounce, caught up in the thrill of the chase.

Yet now, at two and a half, I find the soft squirrel less engaging than before. As Dad places it on the floor and moves it around, I can't help but think, “This again?”

I suppose my thoughts must have shown on my face, as Dad glanced at me and asked, “You want to play with something else?” I could see the flicker of disappointment behind his eyes, the silent question lingering there: “Is she outgrowing this?”

I hadn’t realized that my playtime was about more than just my fun—it was also for my parents’ joy. I want to hold onto the spirit of my two-year-old self for as long as I can.

If not for my 

 sake, then for theirs.

The last thing I ever want to witness again is the look of disappointment in their eyes. 

Poetry Thursday

 

Once again, Angel Sammys and Teddys Pawetaton have provided us with a photo for Poetry Thursday

I want to live where the people are fewer

I want to live like Old Jim Brewer

I want to live high in the sky

I want to give humans a final goodbye

Lord give me isolation

I wanna live in my own nation

In solitude I find salvation

I want to live like Howard Hughes

And not have to talk to none of youze

I want to live like Bardot

And hide in the shadow

I want isolation

And never have to see no one

High up so I can touch the sun

I found my home high up on a rock

Far from the gridlock

No way to go up no way to get down

High above my stupid town

I was happy living high off the hog

When tragedy struck, the toilet did clog

Now I yearn for a ladder

Or at least a way to relieve my bladder

Splendid isolation 

Turns it is pretty dumb

If you try it I am sure you will concur

Isolation is fun and games until you need a plumber

Wordless Wednesday

 

Beat this caption

 

Walter Had been taught since he was a young pup that it was rude not to leave a little something under a Christmas tree

Monday Question

 Do you snore? 

I snore like a trucker on a three day bender with a respiratory infection and  a broken nose. Pound for pound, round for round, I am the finest snorer around. 

Foley's Taies From Rainbow Bridge: Talkin' Turkey

 

I lost the dog who taught me how to be a pet and a family member at just over a year old. Blake always had a spot in my heart, and now, as an angel, she has a spot on my couch living that Shih Tzu life and being a lollipop of leisure.

I became the lead dog at a young age, at first, to two dogs who passed too young, and too unexpectedly, and possibly because of healthcare malfeasance

Then came Pocket: My sister for most of my days. Pocket was scrawny and scared, only happy chasing her ball or sitting in a lap, so when a dog needed to step up to protect the family, it was always me, and then River. I was Sonny, River was Michael and Pocket was Fredo.

Now Ruby has the very important role of head dog with no backup. She is very good at cuddling and playing, but when it comes time to be family her bark is her only weapon, and when it doesn’t fool her enemy, she hides.

She barked at the turkey who had made a home in our backyard, but the turkey ignored her, and the backyard became the top of the list of things of which she was scared.

It was up to me to deal with the turkey.

I flew over it a couple of times. She was a mean-looking mother. Finally, I settled next to her in cardinal form and asked what was wrong.

“I am hunted,” she said.

I asked by whom.

“It’s Thanksgiving. People eat turkey. If you hadn’t noticed, I'm a turkey.”

I hate BWA (birds with attitude).

I assured the turkey it was quite safe. “You're a wild turkey, no one wants to eat you.”:

“Why?” the turkey snapped. “What is wrong with me that I am not good enough to be eaten.”

“Humans raise turkeys just to be eaten, and you’re lean, tough, and gamy.”

“But one of these people, unable to pay grocery prices, might eat me. I jump every time I hear a door shut.”

“The average age here is 76. In the morning people need four cups of coffee just to cut the cheese.” 

The turkey was still concerned. “I wish I was my cousin Ike. The President pardoned him.”

“I can pardon you,” I said, struck by t solution.

“You’re not the President.”

“Even better, I am a cardinal, and I can pardon you.” Then I did. The turkey was so happy she pecked my little head.

I watched her excitedly walk back towards her nest.

It was a shame.

She would have made a helluva sandwich.

The Ruby Rose Report: Stinky Unwashed People

I prefer a house that is quiet, and since my parents are wildly unpopular it is always silent here, since the only people who come over are Mommy’s brother and sister-in-law who come for dinner every couple of months. I show my displeasure by boycotting everyone until the start to eat and then I love them more than Elon Musk loves jumping.

So I was very disturbed when a noise that sounded like a Karen who mistakenly turned on MSNBC and then the remote broke, It roared, it shrieked, it called the cable company.

My parents both said “What the hell is that?” They ask this a lot, and there is never an answer.

The noise was coming from the laundry room, which is also where my pee pads are, which is a problem, because I need it quiet so I can concentrate when I perform my bodily functions.

The terrible noise was coming from the washing machine. “It’s busted,” I growled. They stopped it, unplugged it, and plugged it back in, because that’s the way white people think everything is fixed. It isn’t.

They played with the dials, and spun the drum, which did nothing because,
 “It’s busted.”

“Let’s see if we can make it happen again,” they agreed. This is what humans say when something happens, and it only works with making fire and discovering sex, never of which they can never stop doing.

They ran the washer again. The good news: There was no noise, the bad news: it didn’t spin. 

I guess that’s important. 

My parents said they needed a new washer, and fast before they ran out of clothes.

I never run out of clothes. I own one outfit and wear it all the time: To bed, outside, even when I crap. People have to change at least once a day, and some people more, like they think they’re Taylor Swift on the Era’s Tour.

Me, in my one outfit, don’t smell. Most animals don’t. So why do humans?

Because of dogs.

It is very hard for dogs to tell their humans because in a standing position we would have to recognize our parents by their knees, which is even harder because they keep changing their pants.

So, we prayed for an easier way for dogs to identify their people, and the God Lord gave them, smell, and the humans were so offended they have been bathing and washing clothes ever since.

People, do yourself a favor, let your stink rise, your dogs will appreciate it. 

Poetry Thursday

 

Once again, Angel Sammys and Teddys Pawetaton have provided us with a photo for Poetry Thursday

Lucy was a beautiful lion cat

But she had some dreams bigger than that

She had a dream that gripped her 

She wanted to be a stripper.

When Lucy was little she told her mom

About her dreams and she was told they were dumb

“You don’t have clothes, you have fur

You’re the queen of the jungle, not some amateur.

In the playground, the other lions jumped and ran wild

While Lucy did the bump and grind.

For her birthday she asked for a pole.

And was upset when she got a guy from Warsaw named Nole. 

Lucy had no interest in learning how to survive in the jungle.

She was more interested in being a fun gal.

Fearing for her life her parents called the zoo keeper

Keeping her from the grim reaper.

At the zoo, Lucy delighted the crowds. 

If her parents could see her they would be proud

Her bones rattled and her body quaked.

To see her people waited for hours on the interstate.

She slips, she slides, she slops, she bops, she bumps, she grinds.

She was certainly one of a kind

People were so happy seeing her grab her toes.

She was the famous lion stripper with no clothes

So if you want to see the biggest show 

To the club off the interstate you go Honestly she danced like a cross between Elaine Benes and Helen Keller.

But sometimes when you have a lion who can't dance it is best not to tell her

Wordless Wednesday

 

Beat This Caption

 

"“Henry, Trump won, so stop yelling about how Kamala freed the chihuahuas from the shelter, moved them in next door, and that they are eating the squirrels."

Beat This Caption

 What is your favorite sleeping position?

Foley's Tails From Rainbow Bridge: A Tail's Tale

 

Because I am a distinguished and well-known angel blogger I was selected to attend a meeting of Yorkie champions.

I went to the groomers to make sure I looked and smelled my best. I was picked up in a pumpkin carriage and brought to the celebration.

I walked up the front steps and came to the Great Danes who were working security. I handed them my invitation. The Dane looked down on me, then said he needed to speak with someone. 

This was embarrassing.

Then he returned and said I was denied entry.

Outraged, I asked why.

“It’s your tail,” he said.

“What about my tail?”

“It is long, curvy, and hairy at the tip. A Yorkie has a docked tail. You do not meet the breed standard.”

I began to respond then stopped. The Dane was a fine dog but knew nothing about Yorkies. I asked to see the dog who made the decision.

A perfect Yorkie, with long hair, bright eyes, a strut, and a docked tail came out. On her collar was the name Princess. She looked at the invitation, then at me, and said there must be some sort of mistake.

You tell it, sister.

“This dog never should have got the invitation, she has the wrong tail.”

I was incensed. I had a perfect tail. It was one of my finest features. Also, it was natural. The docked dogs have to be surgically changed. How could I not be the breed standard if I had an original part? Anyway, it wasn’t my fault I never got my tail circumcised.

Princess checked on her I Paw and then said the cruelest thing. “I see the problem, there has been a mistake, this invitation should have gone to Pocket.”

Pocket? She was the breed standard? She has no strut, no style. But she did have a docked tail. I was disgusted.

I took the pumpkin of shame back home, went inside our warm, well-lit home, and found Pocket curled up on the couch. “This invitation was for you,” I said tossing the invitation at her. 

“I thought it was for you,” Pocket said.

“Me too, but I guess I am not the breed standard.”

“Well, if they won’t take you then I won’t go either.” Pocket made my little heart swell. “I know you wouldn’t go if I wasn’t allowed.”

Of course, she knew that was my exact plan. I kissed her on the head and told her she was no.

I needed to stop worrying about breed standards and being considered a champion. 

I was me, with my beautiful tail.

I planned to start my group, an exclusive club of full-tailed Yorkies. Then I abandoned the idea: Because Pocket would not be allowed.

And I learned that the true beauty of a dog is in their hearts, not their skin.

But still, it was a shame no one would be able to check my talk,  

The Ruby Rose Report: A Cane

 

When you see a soul everyday, and they slowly change, you don’t notice. Then one day, something happens and you notice.

Those are never good days.

My Mommy, when Foley was barely beyond a puppy, had knee replacement surgery, a week before the Patriots won their first Super Bowl. Her knee spans Tom Brady’s career, but it was not as celebrated.

The next year, at the same time of year, she had a second knee replacement. The Patriots didn’t win the Super Bowl. Mommy took that as a sign to never have another surgery.

The knee replacements were supposed to last 15 years, Mommy’s knees are pushing ten years past their expiration date and it's starting to show.

When Mommy landed on her right foot she did so with the delicacy of the T-Rex in the first Jurassic Park. Then she would lurch the rest of her body forward like someone trying to haul a giant octopus onto a sailboat.

My Dad encouraged Mommy to see a doctor, but she didn’t see the point, Tom Brady had retirted.

Having had a string of illnesses and operations in her younger years, Mommy vowed not to give into her maladies.

Each step sent a bolt of lightning up and down her leg and burrowed into her hip. But she toughed it out, like Tom Brady, staying on the field until the last down.

“Tom Brady has retired,” the box called Alexa said.

A year later Mommy retired from being a martyr. She did not see a doctor, and would not get an operation, but she agreed to get a cane,

She ordered it from Amazon.. I reminded her that, after Jeff Bezos would not allow the Washington Post to endorse Harris, she said she would never order from Amazon again.

“Fluff that I am in pain.”.

It was almost ten days of civil disobedient activity.

Not a bad record for this vicinity.

I don’t like the cane, it's like an unpredictable third leg. And it doesn’t sense when it hits me.

Also, I don’t like what it represents.  It means my parents are getting older.

Children were not meant to outlive their parents, and parents aren’t meant to outlive their dogs.

I shared my concerns with Foley who told me not to worry, a knee is not a vital organ, and walking on two legs is overrated. I said I didn’t want her to go first.

It would be nice to go together.

“And so you shall,” Foley said “when Mommy forgets to unplug her curliign iron and goes to sleep.”

Sometimes Foley isn’t a comfort.

I guess Mommy and I will gracefully age together and we are both old and gray and when one slips away the other will follow them into the dark.

As for Dad I am sure taking care of the two of us will send him to the Bridge to set up shop before us. 

Poetry Thursday

 

Once again, Angel Sammys and Teddys Pawetaton have provided us with a photo for Poetry Thursday.

My mom made many mistakes but not being a mother and wife

She wasn’t fancy, not a speck of posh

But the biggest mistake in her life

Was the time she took us to the monkey car wash

Dad was a strict man and could be mean

And he was very particular about his car

He called it the mean machine

And treated it like it was a Renoir.

He insisted mom when driving his car avoid all puddles

But in the car we kids were causing trouble

Which made our mom’s brain a muddle

And she hit a muddy pothole filled with rubble.

She immediately got out of the car and saw the mud

And she knew if it wasn’t clean of it she would never hear the end

She knew she had to clean off the crud

When she saw a car wash sign just around the bend.

It said it was a fundraiser for the zoo

Andshe pulled into the empty lot and handed a man the money

Then Mommy yelled when she saw the crew.

A dozen hose and sponge carrying monkeys

They climbed on the roof with their dirty feet

They spit on the windows then didn’t rub it clean

Their dirty fists left dirt when with their fists the did beat

And she quickly left the lot as the head monkey did scream.

Luckily she found a human car was and they gave the car a wash and wax

She got home, and let us all on with the house key

And when her husband got home and didn’t say anything she could relax

But that was ruined when he looked at us sitting at the table and said “which kid did you trade for the monkey?”