Pocket's favorite time of the day

"Pocket where is your ball?" Daddy asks every morning while Mommy is in the shower.  

I don't know why he asks me this.  If I knew where the ball was I wouldn't be hysterically running around the house looking under every chair, bureau, and couch cushion in the house.  Then Daddy gets down on all fours and begins to look under the same things.  I don't know why he does this either.   I have everything covered at ground level.  It's the human's eye view I need.

Daddy is frustrated when he does this.   Before we moved, when we played ball, the ball would roll under the hutch or the microwave cabinet (it's actually a liquor cabinet but it was called the microwave cabinet because they stuck a microwave on it so people wouldn't know they are drunks) and Daddy would have to crawl into the dining room to free the ball, while I stood near the ball's location and barked.    \

When we moved there was nothing in our ball throwing area that the object of my affection could roll under so Daddy thought he could hurl without consequence.  While I enjoyed this at first I must admit I got winded pretty easily.  And I missed watching the old man crawl.  So I started to nose the ball under things.  Then I would stand by my hidden treasure and bark.  Daddy would come crawling over and ask how I got the ball under what ever I had hidden it beneath.  "She put it there, idiot," Foley would say from inside the warmth of her blanket.  Apparently Daddy didn't get the message because a few minutes later he asked me the same thing while trying to stick his hand under the TV stand (which is still a liquor cabinet but they stuck a TV on it saw now it's a TV stand.  If we didn't have appliances I would be very concerned my parents have a drinking problem).   When breakfast or supper is ready (we always seem to play around dinner time) and Daddy goes to the table I begin to get worried about the ball like that dog who puts his bone in a safe deposit box.  Foley says she wouldn't open that box because she doesn't know where the key was kept during the dogs travels.

So, in my worried and agitated condition I nose the ball under something.   After supper we all snuggle together and watch our programs.  Then it's bed time and we scrunch together and get real comfy.   Well, by the time I wake up, I don't have any idea where that ball could be.

I whine, and cry while I search and Daddy soon joins the team.  After awhile we find where I have hid it.  Daddy pulls out the ball and I bark in excitement.  He then picks me up and kneels with me, scratches my ear and calls me a silly little elf, or scratches my chest while I give him a lick and he tells me he loves me then throws the ball while I bark after it and scamper on the hard wood floor.

You know, us finding the ball together, and him picking me up and scratching me and calling me a silly name, that's just about the best time of the day for me:  It's all about me and getting attention.  Just don 't tell Daddy.  I don't want him catching on to my whole nosing the ball under furniture thing.

Pocket's Morning Play Time

By Pocket Dog:

I love mornings when Daddy doesn’t have to work. He gets up, does some downstairs business, takes us outside, gives us a treat and then sits down on the floor, and it’s Pocket Playtime.

First thing we have to do is find my orange ball. This is my second orange ball. My first got destroyed last April. I switched to a green ball, but last week I killed it. Daddy then lined up my balls: the orange, the green (new), the blue, and the red. I sniffed each carefully, then nosed the orange ball towards him. He threw it, I chased it, and the game was on.

To me that little orange ball is alive. I chase after it like I am hunting a squirrel or a tiny heffalump. I do it with an unmatched ferocity. Nothing can keep me from catching and destroying it, unless it goes under the hutch, or in the bathroom, or under the water dish stand, or under a chair or couch, then, like all ferocious hunters, I sit by the object it’s hidden behind and whine until my Daddy retrieves it.

Playing ball is my favorite thing to do. Sometimes I even snatch them out of midair (Foley says it’s just that the little ball lands in my big mouth but I say it’s great athletic skill.) Sometimes I run upstairs with the ball, let it go, and then bark at it as it hops down the stairs.

Then I get tired of the chasing and find my little rope toy. I pick it up and I shake it like I’m killing a mean snake. Then I put my front paws down and growl. Daddy takes it in his hand and starts moving it back and forth. I pounce on it and growl and pull until it stops wiggling then beat it on the ground into submission.

Once that is dead I find one of Daddy’s old gloves. This is where being a little dog comes in handy. Daddy puts it on and then rubs it on the floor. I attack his hand, taking his fingers into my mouth and pulling on them. We have an understanding, I never do anything like this when he’s ungloved or to anyone else. But I love hand attacking.

By this time Foley, who is quite annoyed with my morning energy, will come down and snuggle next to Daddy and growl to be scratched and rubbed while I’m growling to be played with. He’s got a gloved hand rubbing this way, an ungloved hand scratching that way, he’s like Michael Jackson with poison ivy.

Sometime Foley gets in the act. She might attack a little turtle that we have. She doesn’t have a ferocious grrrr like I have, her grrr is like a gerbil with its foot stuck in the wheel.

Then Daddy sticks his hand up our beaver. We love it when Daddy put his hand in the beaver. His thumb and little finger go in its arms, and his other fingers go in its head and he attacks us with it. I prefer to tame the beaver by thrusting at it and taking it to the floor.

Foley prefers to wrap her paws around the beaver and licks it and makes the grring sound (it’s actually more like a purring sound but don’t tell her I said that.) Then she grabs it and gives it a shake and even I, seven years younger than her, think it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

I’ve had three straight play mornings with Daddy and I think I’m going to have another tomorrow. Four in a row is almost a record. If you want to play come on over tomorrow morning and chase some ball.

My orange ball has passed away

By Pocket

My original orange ball died today. Daddy was throwing it to me. It was almost totally split down the middle, one side had all the orange covering gone, the other only had a small strip of orange going across it, making it look like an old man attempting to pull off a comb over on top of his shrunken skull. Daddy threw it, it skittered across the floor, no longer even bouncing. I picked it up, rushed back to Daddy, and he went to take it, but I held on, and pop, it broke in two. And there wasn’t a danm thing in there. Great! Then Daddy walked over to the trash, opened it, and dropped it, leaving my best friend, my orange ball, in the trash. I followed Daddy back to the living room. He sat on the floor. I looked up at him. “Where’s my orange ball?” I asked and began to look all over for it. I’m not sure if I’m going to find it. I think something happened to it. Oh well, let’s nap.