Mollie is our December 4, 2011 Pup of the Week

You know, sometimes all you want is a sun room.

That’s all our friend Mollie, her Mom Cindy, and her Dad wanted.  A sun room.  But this sun room became to them like an Alby Truss, something that follows them around and brings nothing but trouble.

The building of their sun room began, according to my calculations, sometime in 1992.  Mollie has her favorite spot in the sun removed.  There was banging and booming, sawing and swearing, all day long.  Now they are waiting for the painters to get done (we remember the hot week in July when the painters took over our house, no fun) and then for the ceramic tile to come in.  Seems endless to me.

And they need to have an inspector come in.  An inspector is a lot like a dogtor.  They poke and prod until they find something wrong.  We can only hope that Mollie’s sun room is done before the snow melts.

But that is not why we honor Mollie, much like our our friends last week, we honor them because after all this work, her Daddy has taken ill.  He was diagnosed with prostate cancer.  Daddy once told me how they checked for that and I slapped him right in the mouth.  Sicko!

The cancer was low risk so Mollie hadn’t barked about it before.  He had surgery and it went well.  Mollie’s Mommy said it was a textbook surgery.  I hope when Mommy has her surgery the doctor doesn’t need a textbook to do it but anyway, the surgery went fine.

But the recovery didn’t go as expected.  Mollie’s Daddy had a triple bypass in 1996 and his repaired heart wasn’t working like it should.  It is such a human problem, you get yourself steely for one problem and another comes around your blind side and slaps you in the head.


Mollie’s Daddy’s heart can’t seem to get into rhythm.  He was allowed to go home hut human hospitals always need more beds so we hope he wasn’t let go too early.   Mollie’s Daddy has been getting lots of shakes, and he doesn’t have a lot of energy.  

He is going to see the doctor on Monday, and Mollie’s Mom is hoping to check with his heart doctor too.  Right now what Mollie needs is some prayers and no one does better prayer brigades than dogs.

So tonight let’s say some prayers for Mollie’s Dad to get back to normal so he can finish the sun room and Mollie can get her place in the sun back.  Then they can both lie down and have a good, long rest.

Foley Raised A Cain

I have never sought the spotlight. I prefer to stay off stage and comment on the events of the day. But today I reluctantly found out that a long forgotten incident has caused me to become fodder for the American tabloid machine, even though I did nothing wrong.

The incident began, as so many do, innocently enough. I was a young dog. I had been working for months creating, and perfecting, squirrel jerky. I was selling it out of the sliding glass doors of our condo when a passing kitty told me there was going to be a National Restaurant Convention coming to the Boston area later that month. The kitty said I should go to it to peddle my jerky.

I saved my kibble and bought a bus ticket to the big city. I loaded the jerky into my fanny pack, boarded the bus, and headed off to make my fortune.

I set up my Squirrel Jerky booth. While some of the humans showed a slight interest none of them saw it being a big item on their menu, and they reminded me something I, in my young and inexperienced ways, had forgotten: Dogs don’t eat in restaurants.

I was taking my display down, ready to return to the small town life with my tail between my legs because I got Tabasco on it when I heard a deep voice say “Squirrel jerky, what a wonderful idea!”

I turned around and standing there was a big man, must of been about 210, black skin, mustache, glasses, thinning hair, pleasant smile, and he said he was interested in my jerky technique. I pulled out my samples and said I could show him but he said it would be better if we did it in his hotel room. I, being naive, agreed.

I went to the room at the appointed time and scratched the door. He let me inside. I could smell a mixture of Aqua Velva and Manischewitz on ice. I removed my fanny pack to display my wears on the floor but he said he had a bad back and he needed to see them closer. He helped my up on the bed. It was there that I lay my jerky.

As I was explaining the product he began to pat my head, which I did not mind, in fact I found it plesaent. As I continued he scratched under my chin, just above my breast bone, which is my sweet spot. He asked me if I liked it and I said I did. He then told me that he was over talking to one of his pizza buddies when across the room he saw the swish of my tail and had to get to know me better.

I tried to steer the conversation back to jerky. I began to explain how I made them from the finest squirrel by product when suddenly he lifted me, flipped my over, and began to give me an unwanted, and unauthorized, belly rub. I tried to get free but the big man kept me presed down on the bed. I finally was able to nip a finger and he cried out and grabbed his hand. I jumped down from the bed and began to nip at his heels. He tried to grab me but I darted back and forth barking until the hotel manager came to to tell him there were no dogs allowed in his room. When the door was open I dashed out, down the stairs, to the bus station, and on the bus home, ashamed that I had left evidence all over my bed.

I had chalked the incident up to a lesson learned and forgot about it until today when I got a call from the Huffington Post asking me if the incident was true. I did not know why it mattered, but I told them it was. Well it turns out I wasn’t the first lollipop who had her belly rubbed without permission by this man. In fact he had several accusations made against him. And he was running for President of the United States.

Now it seems that having an illegal Yorkie in his room has derailed his campaign and he is going to drop out of the race.

I am sorry this happened Mr. Cain. I did not mean to cause you any pain. Just wish you hadn’t made me run out in the rain.

Oh, and one other thing. Can I have my jerky back?

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.