Beat This Caption

 

Honey, I am looking in the crack and I can't find the cat nip.
Are you sure this is where you put it?

Monday Question

 Where are your favorite(s) places to be rubbed or scratched?

I never turn down a scratch but I enjoy them on my lower half, specifically the butt and the belly the most 

Fireworks, what are they go for? a Guest Post From Pocket Angel Dog

 

Hello, my friends. This week Foley has allowed me to write the blog. Last Tuesday was Foley Monster Day, her birthday, and she is sleeping off a week of wild partying. Anything can happen at a Foley Monster party, save one: Fireworks.

No angel will have fireworks at a party. We are no longer afraid of them. But it is out of respect for the many mortal souls who spend the days around our country’s Independence living in fear, which, when the show begins, turns into a blind panic where we forget all our training.

I am the only pup my mom has had who was afraid of fireworks, a fairly good record for a five-dog pack over nearly 30 years.

I did not like thunder and lightning either, but the fireworks were worse because they went on for hours.

I was lucky to be small. Daddy would carry me around the house. Sometimes we would stop, and he showed me the fireworks, saying there was nothing to be worried about.

Just unexplained, loud, colorful, explosions in the sky.

Dad was very patient with me, doing all he could to keep me at an eight on the nervous scale.

I always felt bad, feeling like I was inconveniencing him. Now, when it thunders, or there are fireworks, it makes him miss me more.

My Day was doing what tens of thousands of pet owners do during the week of our country’s independence. They pet, they soothe, they hold, and they pray that the barrage will stop. Sometimes it does stop. Sometimes it begins again and continues past midnight and into the crooked numbered hours.

And it starts at dusk the next night, and maybe the night after that.

They all run together for us, that is how it is in hell.

When I was a mortal dog I never knew why people were allowed to set fire to the sky. Every other time, you can’t disturb the peace. Since I became immortal I learned the reason: Patriotism.

I used to think that word meant everyone fighting for their country, and one another.

But I was wrong.

It means doing what you want, even if it is illegal, and hurts your neighbors. And the souls they love.

To speak out against it is to be the worst thing: Unpatriotic. To avoid that label the police don’t stop these endless backyard displays. To avoid that label the lawmakers won’t pass laws to arrest, prosecute and fine those who set off illegal explosions that only bring joy to the fool with the match, and their drunken friends.

I thought when someone was killed shooting off fireworks they would stop: They haven’t.

I thought that when dozens of dogs end up getting loose and running for their lives, to be taken in by animal control until their parents are found they would stop: They haven’t.

It’s a shame.

The only time I am glad to be at the Bridge is the first week in July.

I know thousands of dog lovers who, if they could afford it, would flee the country that week.

You know, for patriotism.

Since I was a pup something has broken in our country.

I think it was patriotism.

The Ruby Rose Report: The Crate Door

 

My parents had a cookout to go to on the Fourth of July, one that I was neither invited to nor barred from. My participation was fully at the whims of my parents.

Let me be clear. I did not want to go. There would be my least favorite things there: People, and even worse, small children. Wet little tykes. Dripping from the cement pond. Who would want to hug me, pressing their wet suits against me, and I have no choice but to soak in their wet like a reluctant sponge?

Also, I would not be the only dog there.

Mommy’s nephew brings his dog Aiden. He loves his family the pool, the kids, and the heat. It loves everything.

If you ask me it’s a little with the loving.

He lets wet kids hug him, as well as dry old people, and damp middle-aged people.

I have not met him, but I have smelled him on my people, which is rude.

So, what I’m saying is I didn’t want to go.

I didn’t want my parents to go either.

This is when having a mischievous angel sibling is fun,

I am more comfortable in my crate on the rare occasions I am left alone so I was not responsible for what happened next.

My parents said goodbye and were ready to go out when the door on my crate fell off.

You all know crates. They are tiny plastic fortresses. Doors don’t just pop off, at least not without some pressure from the inside.

My parents put the door on, and locked it, then went to leave again when the door fell off, and I heard River snickering.

They went to put the door on again when they noticed the clip-on top of the non-locking side was missing. Then looked for it and could not find it.

It made no sense. But they weren’t counting on the interference of River, a devilish little angel.

There was no way the door was going on, that was clear, but my parents are intellectuals which meant they spent 15 minutes trying to outsmart the door and get it to stay. They failed, and they were now twenty minutes late. The people, already at the cookout, began to hope that “those dreadful people,” would not be attending.

My Dad, who thinks everything can be fixed with duct tape, picked up a roll, My Mom dismissed it with a curt “no.”

They remembered when they first got me they had bought a soft-sided travel bag and got that, but it was seven pounds, and a few inches ago, and they could not leave me in such cramped circumstances.

They realized they could put the crate facing the wall, which would hold the door in place, but they didn’t want me to not be able to see what I usually could when created, the floor and the bottom of the couch. How would I survive without such reverting entertainment?

Finally, they settled on using an unplugged space heater which would block the unhinged part of the door.

Of course, they could have left the door off. I had no desire to be out of the crate.

Once they were gone River appeared to me and explained that her interference was not to keep me out of the crate, but to delay my parents’ arrival by a half hour, cutting the time of attendance on this hot Fourth of July by a half hour,

Angels help our humans even when they don’t realize it.

The River came into my crate, and we played canasta until my parents got home.

And they ordered a new crate.

This is what they could have done, but they have some ideas on how to fix it without paying for a new one.

I may never be left alone again.

 

 

 

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Thursday Poetry

 

It is time for another installment of Poetry corner with out hosts Angel Sammy and Teddy.

They provided for photo below to inspire our poerty

When Bob was small he had a great imagination

He called himself crazy Bob the daredevil sensation.

The announcer said Crazy Bob has no trepidation.

A hero for this new generation.

 

Bob put a small board on top of a rock.

And how the neighbors did gawk.

He pedaled his bike and jumped over the side walk.

But in his mind he flew like a hawk.

 

He pictured it being the Grand Canyon where he did jump.

And when he was the highest his first he did pump.

He landed hard hurting his rump.

But he didn’t care, after that no one would call him a chump.

 

But soon the time came for Bob to put aside his childish dreams.

Such things won’t fly when you’re in your teens.

He was told to get good grades, be a good boy and no daredevil scenes.

Being a normal hardworking student was now his theme.

 

Then came marriage and then came kids.

Doing anything out of the norm was forbid.

There were bills, work, and doing everything right to keep the family off the skids.

And it became more so when the kids’ made grandkids.

 

At 65 Bob did retire

His wife passed and kids moved to the Berkshires.

He lost his balance and walking became dire.

He was alone in a chair with nothing to aspire.

 

Then he saw a boy wearing googles that he did like

Leaping off a ramp like he was Fonzie on a motorbike.

And Bob smiled, hit the gas, and let out a yell most warlike.

He soared over canyons, and into the sky, even ancient, he was again a happy tyke. 

Wordless Wednesday

 

Beat This Caption

 

My tunneling skills come through again!

They think the can lock me in the bathroom!

You can't lock up sweet Mr. Wiggles