Daddy is our November 23, 2014 Pup of the Week

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 he has bowel movements they are frequent and often loose.  Because of weakness in his limbs he can’t stand for long and often he gets his movement on his back legs, and being a good dog, he knows he did something bad, and he feels very guilty that his Mom and Dad have to clean him off.

Daddy has always been a very proud dog. To see him losing his dignity and not being able to play with his brothers has been very hard on his parents.  A short time ago he was a vivacious, fun loving German Shepherd Dog and slowly the disease is taking that from him.

But Daddy still has energy.  He eats, he barks at his brothers, he acts like he wants to stay.  And that is what makes it so difficult.  He is suffering, but he still shows sparks of the proud dog his parents adore.

I didn’t give my parents much choice when it was my time.   I could not live outside the oxygen tent.  But when I was inside the tent I was me, bright eyed, tail wagging, ready to go home.  Outside the tent I could not last five seconds, so the decision was easy.  

The question of when is torture for our parents.  They always want one more day but they are also the ones who have to decide when there will be no more days.  How do you make that decision when it’s a soul you love with all your heart?  How do you know you did not rob yourself of one more day?

I am going to let you humans in on a secret.  Us dogs do everything we can to hide our pain and our illnesses from our humans.  When we can no longer hide our pain it has become unbearable.  But we are still going to fight the pain, still try to cover it, because we don’t want to worry you, and we want to stay with you, no matter what we have to endure.

So when is the right time?  There is no right answer.  Just listen to your heart and it will tell you when.  And it will be the right thing.   Because we never want to go but we also want you to let us go, so when you say it’s time, it’s time.  From the day we came into your house we put our lives your hands.  And sadly, in the end, we put our death in your hands.  It’s quite unfair.

We are sorry, it is the hardest thing we have ever asked you to do, but we need you to do it.  So please, be strong for us, and do what needs to be done, not in the name of humanity but dogity.

And we will be grateful to you for eternity.

Boy Daddy and the Monkey

These are the days of the middle blanket. To crawl in so you're so deep there's no light, no hint of the outside world that throbs with pain and despair. Just block out the world, block out the light.

But I have responsibilities. So many of you count on me to give you a smile. It's hard, especially when you've spent so much time gathering the pieces of your shattered heart and trying to remember how they go back together. All of this has contributed to the worst case of Foley Block I have had since I ate that wheel of cheese out of Ron Burgundy's refrigerator.

What to do when you've got grieving followers begging for the structure of a few words to either bring a smile or raise a chuckle? I went down to the old sea chest, opened it with my nose, and pulled out Daddy's first dog Barney's diary.

I flipped through, and hopefully this story will do one or the other.

"It was my second summer with the Gays. Life was good. I was the bull of the woods. The toughest bark in the neighborhood. When a Lollipop was in heat I was the one to beat. I was fathering children like Wilt Chamberlin on a cross country book tour. My strong legs, my large butt, and my sharp teeth, made the male dogs quiver. If one of them crossed my path in pursuit of Lollipop stick, I would lay them bleeding in an alley. Nothing upset my world.

Then one day Boy Daddy came home stinking like monkey.

I smelled Boy Daddy as soon as he got out of the car. I walked over to him, having spent an afternoon of lady mounting, in a pleasant mood, when I smelled it. "Get over here!" I whispered because I didn't like to talk in front of his Pop. We went over to my dog house. I made myself a Scotch. Nothing like a little Johnny Walker after a day of love making. "Now Boy Daddy," I said. "I have a very finely attuned nose, and I would swear, even if I know it can't be true, that you smell like monkey."

Boy Daddy smiled. "I just my picture taken with a monkey," he said.

I sighed, lay down, put my paws over my eyes. I couldn't look at him. But I could still smell the stank of monkey. "Why did you have a picture taken with a monkey?" I asked.

Boy Daddy explained that he was spending the afternoon at the newspaper where his father was editor. At the end of the day, after everyone had gone home, a man came in the newsroom walking with a monkey. Boy Daddy, like all boys, are fascinated with monkeys. I don't know why. I think they are vile and disgusting creatures who throw their own excrement instead of dining on it like civilized animals. He went over to the monkey, while the man explained that he was with a small circus that had pitched tents in town, and they were looking for someone to take a picture with the monkey for publicity.

This was during a magical time called the '70's, when no one spade or neutered their dogs, allowed them to run around freely, made them sleep outside on something called wood chips, thought Jack's pretending to be an overly effeminate homosexual on Three's Company was the height of humor, stayed home Tuesday nights to watch Barnaby Jones, smoked in restaurants, bought Emerson, Lake and Palmer records, drank a lot, drove home, were helped by police officers if they couldn't make it, and allowed their kids to have their pictures taken with monkeys if it would sell a few newspapers (they also read something called newspapers, then used them for us dogs to pee on and caged birds to poop on.)

So Boy Daddy, his Pop, the man and the monkey went downstairs to the press room. They got the photographer Emmett, (in the 70s men were named Emmett, wore striped suits and fat, bright ties), put Boy Daddy in a chair and then put the monkey on his lap. They took the monkey's right arm and put it around Boy Daddy's neck, and Boy Daddy grabbed the monkey's hand with his left hand. "Now make sure you don't jerk the monkeys arm or move suddenly" the man said.

"Why shouldn't he do that?" Pop asked.

"Last week the little monkey ripped a kid's arm off when he moved suddenly, and a week before a kid got his ear bit off."

So Boy Daddy sat as still as he had ever sat before. And drunk Emmett (did I mention drinking on the job was another fun part of the '70's) slowly snapped pictures while the monkey decided how good Boy Daddy's ear would taste.

When they were done the monkey climbed down and Boy Daddy asked why he didn't bite him. :"I don't like Portugese food," the monkey said then walked off with the man.

I put my paw on Boy Daddy despite the monkey stank. I told him that while he loved his Pop, sometimes Pops don't make the best decision, and made him promise me that he would never pose with another monkey again, and to keep away from that guy Emmett because he gave me the creeps.

I then told Boy Daddy he would have to take a bath. He told me he was going to take a shower but I was sure that wouldn't cure it. I told him to remove his clothes. He did. (It was the 70's: people were naked often in the 70's.) I went in the shed and got the steel tub that I got my twice yearly bath in, and the heavy soap, dragged over the hose, filled the tub, had him sit in it, poured in the heavy soap, and with my teeth and paws scrubbed off the monkey stank as best I could. When I was done I buried his clothes in the back yard.

From that day, until I leaped to the Bridge, I do not believe Daddy saw or touched any monkeys. I would have known even when I got older and my smeller got worse. You can't miss monkey stank. I don't think he did after I went to the bridge either. Being stripped naked and roughly washed in a cold tub by a big black mutt helps kids learn lessons.

This is the end of my diary post about the monkey. I'm off leash again. God I love the 70's. Going to get me some strange.

How we survived the blizzard

This morning when the alarm went off Daddy got up and looked out the window and let out a big groan. Mr. Winter had left a bunch of deep and cold snow outside. While Pocket and I burrowed further down the covers, and Mommy rolled over and pulled them tighter, Daddy put on his clothes, his coat, his gloves, his hat, his booties, (big Kitty, Pocket and I go out in our everyday wear) and then went outside to dig us out a spot to pee and Vick.

We woke up an hour later and silly Daddy had not come back in the house yet. This was so aggravating. We sent Pocket down to see what the delay was. She ran downstairs, looked out the window, then went back to the bed to tell us he was laying in the snow making snow angels. Mommy was so mad. Just like Daddy to be playing when there was work to do.

Mommy put on a robe and a jacket and we all went down stairs in a grumpy huff. I jumped on the back of the couch and said "I don't know if Daddy is making snow angels because he's not moving his arms or legs." Mommy looked out and shook her head and said that not only was he a below adequate shoveler but he was a lousy snow angel maker.

When we went outside Mommy yelled at him, but he's such a clown, he lay there, still not making his angels properly. Mommy told him to get up, but he's such a clown he didn't move, so we went inside for some hot chocolate with cinnamon and I wrote this poem for all of you who survived the blizzard.

I hope you're inside all safe and warm
I hope you're not wet, that you've been dried
We are going to send Pocket out into the storm
To nuzzle Daddy to see if he's died

Update: Daddy is fine. He passed out in the snow. A burly snow plow driver saw him and performed CPR. Outside of a few beard hairs in his throat he's as good as new.

Who wants to be Foley's Daddy

Daddy, the less intelligent of the two slope noses that I live with, got a call from someone called a PA yesterday after he had something called an MRI. Do you find it as annoying as I do that so many humans speak in initials?

Well there was good news and bad news. The good news is that he does not have a torn ligament. “Nice,” I thought when he said it. “I haven’t had a good walk in two months while girlie man here is limping around with a splinter in his leg.”

Then he said that the MRI had shown he has a fractured leg. Well. That’s a shame.

Daddy doesn’t know what they are going to do, immobilize him (how do you immobilize someone who only moves to eat and pee?), put him in a cast, or operate on him. If they operate he may not be recovered until February. That’s when I realized what I needed: A new Daddy.

So I am putting out an open casting call for a new Daddy for Pocket and me. You will get a nice bed to sleep in, very good meals (Mommy is a great cook), and the forever friendship of two wonderful Yorkies (OK, one wonderful Yorkie and Pissy.)

So you don’t waste your time coming for an audition when you have no shot of getting the gig let me give you the characteristics we are looking for:

You need to have the ability to walk: Sorry, Daddy, but this is where you really fell down on the job. If you have trouble remembering this qualification then memorize this handy couplet: Foley doesn’t require a lot of walking / Just slightly more than Steven Hawking. Ten to fifteen minutes a day is fine. Just understand that interjected into this walking will be long spells of standing while Pocket and I sniff every square inch of ground we cross so this fifteen minute walk could take an hour and a half. So walking, and more importantly standing, is required. And please, no Segway scooters, I would rather be outside with a one legged Daddy then a two-legged geek.

You need to differentiate between green balls and be ready to throw one at all times: Pocket has two green balls. One she chases. One she ignores. You need to, with little notice, tell which ball is the ball that she chases, and throw it, and then retrieve it from wherever she dropped it, and throw it again, for hours if necessary. You need to be able to find the ball when Pocket drops it and noses it behind or under furniture. To give you a hint Pocket will run headfirst into several objects in the general vicinity of the ball’s location. This is where Daddy’s cane comes in handy. He used it several times to scoop the balls out of tight spots. Also you can’t be all prissy about getting your hand covered with dog goop. Pocket leaves lots of goop on her ball after she’s been playing with it.

You are going to be required to take a lot of s**t: And dispose of it. We live at a condo complex so whenever we double you have to pick it up and either bring it to the dumpster or to the toilet with the not always reliable flush. Now I don’t like the dumpster so when you go near it expect me to be pulling you to get away from the big, loud, smelly thing with the giant mouth. And don’t forget after you’ve done a pick up and put it in your pocket (because you’re holding two leashes), you don’t want to be like Daddy and be at work, someone asks you for a tissue, and you pull out one filled with double. When you throw it away you have to tell the inquisitive people that it was just some s**t you found.

You need to brush your teeth a lot and taste good: Whenever Daddy brushes his teeth Pocket and I wait for him. When he sits down we are both in his mouth fighting for a good lick spot. Second mouthed toothpaste tastes great. First mouthed, we don’t like as much. Once we’ve removed all the toothpaste I insist on either being scratched just above my chest or to lick your hand until every bit of salt is off. Pocket will also want you to play tug of war so you better have both hands free. Plus in bed we both will lick your mouth, and then I will lick your hands, arm, face, while Pocket will insist on playing tug of war. Oh, plus I’ll jump on your wrist and hump it like a puppy who just discovered his rocket. Trust me, you become my replacement Daddy you’ll get more action in the sack than a Kardasian.

So this is what we are looking for: A middle aged man, good looking for Mommy, good salary, who can walk but is patient so we can stop and smell the flowers; who can tell the difference between a dog’s green balls; doesn’t mind a pocket full of Pocket s**t; and doesn’t mind getting his toothpaste licked out of his mouth, leaving both hands free for licking and tug of war, and doesn’t mind an occasional wrist hump.

If you think you have what it takes then go to Gillette Stadium on Sunday at noon time where we will be holding auditions. The judges will be me, Pocket, and Posh Spice because we just couldn’t afford Paula. Hope to see you there.

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