Who the hell is Steven Colbert and why did he win a cute dog contest

Foley Monster here, and I have a bone to pick with America.

Us dogs don’t bother you for votes much, except for Pocket, and that’s a dog of a different color. We don’t take pride in much, some of us do dog shows, some of us do agility, but for the most part we’re content with good food and warm laps.

But we all take pride in our looks. There is no such thing as a bad looking dog. And when we compete in cutest dogs competitions, well, from the bitches to the lollipops we take it seriously.

You humans, all you have to vote for who is the cutest dog, but instead you go out and vote for a dog named after a talk show host.

Now I don’t know who or what a Steven Colbert is, and I don’t want to know. I don’t know why you would name your dog Steven Colbert, I don’t know why you would name your human Steven Colbert. It sounds like someone the Nazis stopped to ask directions from on the way to Paris.

The thing is, it’s got darn hard work for us pups to pose for these cute pictures. You silly human may think that you just sneak up on us and catch us looking cute, but the truth is we have put in hours of training and practice to look that good.

Take the classic smile picture.




You might think I was just standing there, minding my own business, but the truth is I spent days looking at my reflection in the sliding glass doors looking just right. First of all, to get that big a smile, and the tongue curled just right, we have to get a good pant on. Since panting is how we sweat a smile like that is equivalent to a giant pit stain on a human. So I have to get myself all worked up, in this case by lying in the hot sun. Then I have to make sure my eyes have the right sparkle, my head is tilted perfectly, my tongue is curled just so. That picture took me four weeks of practice. On some of those days I only slept 18 hours.

Now on this one.



It takes months of practice, because the eyes are shut, and it is hard to tell just how adorable you actually are. Also the tongue position is very important, too much tongue and it’s just gross, not enough and, well the tongue makes the cute. Plus you want the legs spread apart enough to be cunning, but not to look like you just got a ticket to Vegas on So You Think You Can Dance.

Now here’s one of Pocket.




It looks like she just got interrupted chewing a bone. In fact we took hours setting up that shot, getting the bone perfectly lined up, getting her situated just perfect, her head up, eyes clear. Then she sat for 45 minutes before one of our parents to notice, come over, and took a spontaneous picture.

The hardest picture is the sleeping picture. Look at this one of Sydney.



Have you ever tried to fall asleep cute? When you’re a dog you have to because who knows when someone will take a picture of you. We have to try and stay awake so we can practice looking cute while we sleep. Do you have any idea how hard it is to stay awake while you’re pretending to be asleep and still be cute?

So the next time you have to vote for a cute pet contest remember the hard work us pups have put in to get our picture taken (and I didn’t even get into the primping, pampering, grooming and personal dogscaping it takes to look this good all the time) and vote for who you think is the cutest dog, not after who is named for some stupid celebrity.

Because if it happens again I am taking the Foley Monster show to E! at 11:30 and kicking some Colbert ass.

Sleeping patterns

Our Sunday question was where do you sleep? Foley Monster and Pocket are bed sleepers. Yorkies are great dogs for bed sleeping, they’re tiny, so they don’t crowd you (although you would be amazed how much room Pocket can take up when she spreads across the bed) and when you’re cold you can grab them and stick them next to you turning them into little bed warmers. Often times, on very cold nights, Pocket is pulled back and forth so many times she needs to nap the entire next day.

When we first go to bed Foley decides to lick every inch her of Daddy’s face and hands like she’s Kirstie Alley at a Tasting Table. Pocket wants to play, first tug of war with a small rope, and then moving on to a larger one, while periodically joining Foley at the tasting table.

Then they will move to the desert table, which are things that have stuck to one another’s fur during the day. They lick and snip at one another, often leading to an over bite and a fight, which means Ted and I have to each grab one, lift them, pull them apart, while their legs still flap in the air like little propellers trying to get at one another.

Seconds later, when they’re put down on the bed, everyone is best friends again. Like all couples one is the first to sleep and that is Pocket. She will climb under the covers and settle down next to Mama. Foley goes back for seconds at Daddy’s tasting table, licking again, and sometimes, if she’s allowed humping her Daddy’s arm. The first night, when her new beaver toy was brought home, she began to hump that in bed, and we all turned away in shame.

Then Foley will mosey down to the end of the bed, and begin to scratch and spin. Sometimes, on cold night, when the comforter is at the end of the bed in wait for the late night temperature dip, Foley will decide she wants to be wrapped in it, and will sit at the foot, glaring at us, until one of us pulls up the comforter so she can burrow into it. She will sit the for half the night, those tiny brown eyes burning through the book I’m reading, until one of us puffs up the comforter for her, or she caves. Then she begins to scratch, and scratch, and scratch, until she finally settles down.

Sometime during the night, usually when I have to go to the bathroom, Foley will wake up and decide to go under the covers. If I don’t get up I’ll feel her paw scratching my shoulder and I, in my barely awake stupor, will lift the blanket, usually while she’s standing on it, and then shove her under the covers. I start to fall back to sleep when I hear: scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch for ten minutes. Sometimes I will tell her to stop it, and then I hear scratch, scratch, scratch, spin, spin, settle.

Pocket will usually sleep right up against me, but sometimes Foley will get up, walk over her, and look at her. Pocket will lift her head and see Foley’s “move your ass away from the warm spot next to Mommy.” Sometimes she’ll just put her head back down and Foley will either continue to stare at her, or begin trying to stick her nose under her, until Pocket moves, or scratch at me until I wake and move her. Pocket will then snuggle up with Ted.

Sometimes, if we sleep late, I will wake up with my hand resting near one of the dogs and my head nestled up against theirs and it is so sweet until I realize…..that….is…..not….her…head! Then I jump out of bed shaking and shivering like John Candy and Steve Martin in Planes, Trains and Automobiles.

But, for all of my complaining, there is nothing like waking up on a cold morning with a few hours left to sleep snuggled with warm dogs. That makes everything else worthwhile.

Daddy brought home a beaver

Foley: Yesterday Daddy came home with a great surprise. Pocket and I each enjoy a game where Daddy wears a glove, and we bite on his fingers (not hard at all) and tug on the glove. I know it’s not supposed to be done because you don’t want pups to think they can bite hands but we’ve always known to do it only when there’s a glove. I wouldn’t recommend this game for any dog over five pounds. Anyway Daddy comes home with a beaver. And get this, he could stick his hand right into the beaver. Right up to the wrist. I mean the size of the hole in this beaver was huge. Biggest beaver hole I have ever seen. Anyway, Daddy put his hand in the beaver, and then he began moving it along the floor like it was a real beaver, and I was on it, growling and shaking my butt and it was a terrific amount of fun.

Pocket: Today, for some completely crazy reason, Daddy came home with a live beaver! What kind of person brings a live beaver into the house? A lot of time it would lie there sleeping and I’d attack it and it was fun, but then Daddy would go over to it and the next thing I know the thing is moving around and darting at me. What the hell was that?

Foley: It’s a toy. A freaking toy. It’s not a real beaver. You know how Mommy is about Daddy bringing strange beaver into the house and then sticking his hand into it (up to his wrist.) It’s a toy for us to play with, that’s all.

Pocket: I head Mommy say “You paid nine dollars for a beaver!” She didn’t say toy, she said beaver, that freaking thing is alive and believe me, the last thing a politician in an important political race needs is to be caught with some freaky beaver.

Foley: OK, Pocket, my little sister. You know how Daddy used to play with you using the glove, well he just sticks his hand up the beaver and it’s the same thing. You have a hand, a Pocket, and a beaver, that’s hours of fun

Pocket: I know the glove, I’ve smelled the glove. I love the glove. That beaver is not a glove.

Foley: OK, see the beaver, watch Daddy, see how he goes over to the beaver, see how he slips his hand in the beaver hole, and now see the beaver moving?

Pocket: Holy cow! There is beaver in the living room. (Pocket scampers up the stairs.)

Foley: You don’t know what you’re missing little sister. I’m just going to lay here and lick my beaver.

Foley's mid-dog crises

At the end of the night, before bed, Daddy takes us for one final spin around the common lawn where the gazebo is at our condo complex. The past two nights, as we’ve walked past the darkened windows, on the grass, near the gazebo, was the world’s fattest, roundest squirrel.

Both Pocket and I made the line of our flexi-leash unspool like a fishing reel with a catfish on the business end. We both jumped and attacked the giant squirrel.

It was a football.

Now Pocket, we don’t expect much from Pocket, being a politician and all. Dogs go into politics when they can’t find real jobs. But me? The Mini-Monster? Unable to distinguish between a squirrel and a football? What is becoming of me?

I hear the whispers, of course I do: Too many Foley-tinis; too much time playing Sim-Dog and chasing Sim-squirrel; that I’m nine now and much like my forlorn ovaries my faculties are starting to slip.

Well, this is nonsense, what does mistaking a football for a squirrel mean anyway? We continued onwards, and then before us we both saw it, a giant bird, gently flapping it’s wings, and we charged after it, and ran straight into a fallen branch.

How did I make this mistake? What is happening to me? Excuse me one second: “Pocket, stop growling and shaking that thing, it’s just a branch you twit!” Thank you.

Then I began to put the pieces together: The DVA meltdown, the stint in re-hab, the 24 hour foley-tini-a-thon.

I am going through a mid dog crises.

I did learn many things in re-hab. One was how to complete a twelve bone program as part of my recovery. A big part of that is truth telling, so I need to make you aware of the following signs of a mid dog crises.

For the last three weeks I have been wearing fur extensions.

I’ve been dying my tail hair. Am I kidding myself? Does no one notice the paws don’t match the tip?

I pimped out the stroller Mommy sometimes puts me in when she takes me into the city so now it’s a convertible.

I’ve been sneaking out of the house during the day and sleeping on another Mommy’s lap.

I’m eating less, sleeping more, and while I’m still farting, I don’t enjoy it.

I cashed in all my kibble on E-Bay for a Tom Arnold lunch box because I thought he was the pig in Green Acres.

I told Pocket I really loved her.

That was the last straw. I know I have a problem and I am going to start working on correcting it. First step?

More Foley-tinis please.

How my crazy sister will help me get elected to the Senate

Hello friends. Pocket here. Wow, what a crazy week it’s been. I’m no longer a Kennedy. I am very happy with that. I think it’s time to let Pocket be Pocket. There was the wonderful afternoon with our friends on the yacht, then Foley’s embarrassing break down at the DVA’s. This morning Foley’s friends (enablers?) broke her out of re-hab and she’s back home, sleeping with Mommy after finishing a big bowl of Foley-tinis.

At first I thought how terribly Foley’s actions would affect my Senate chances. No one wants a skelaton in their closet, even if it’s a five pound one. But then I realized, all great politicians have crazy siblings.

Bill Clinton had Roger. Jimmy Carter had Billy. Jack Kennedy had Teddy, Teddy had Jack, and Bobby was lucky enough to have them both. Jeb Bush had W. who started an unnecessary war and forgot to listen to the weather report for the Mississippi Delta.

Maybe that one wasn’t good. But if you’re running for office, crazy in the family is never a bad thing.

I had begun to wonder, after losing the Kennedys and Foley’s incident, if I should abandon my Senate run. And then on Wednesday Zoe’s Mom Connie Gross drew the most wonderful picture of me in the Senate. I have been inspired to continue with my campaign for all puppies everywhere and owe Connie Gross my forever thanks.

Now enough with the Gross lets get back to the Crazy.

Having Foley as my sister means any mistake I may make either on the campaign or in office won’t top the news cycle for long because what I can do bad Foley can do badder. I will always publicly support my big sister, but then will “accidentally” speak into an open mike calling my beloved sister a “jack-ass.”

There is plenty of precedent to show Foley’s mistakes can only help me: Woodrow Wilson’s brother Desmond left the beloved sitcom Sanford and Son making many fans angry, but it did not hurt President Wilson; The unfulfilled promise and often selfish play of NBA guard Rickey Pierce did not prevent Franklin Pierce from being President; the slovenly housekeeping of Oscar Madison did not stop James Madison from reaching great heights; and don’t even get me started on Kenny Reagan.

So every time Foley either slaps or insults a cat, leads a raid on an unsuspecting castle, storms on stage at an awards show (we are keeping her away from the Emmy’s, Lord knows what she will do if Cherry Jones doesn’t win for 24,) it’s a plus for me.

So go ahead Foley, let your Crazy flag fly and I’ll ride your warped coattails all the way into the Senate.

Goodnight and God bless

Foley breaks out of rehab with a little help from her friends

I have to thank my fellow Tanner Brigade members for the wonderful raid on the Lassie Ford clinic that broke me out of re-hab, where I did not want to stay: No, no, no.

I was in my room watching Animal Precinct while my roommate Underdog was buffing my paws. (He’s not very good as a superhero but quite adept as a shoeshine boy.) I heard on the intercom the sharp tones of Nurse Ratchit: “Paging Dr. Howard, Dr Fine, Dr. Howard.”

I knew everyone on the staff. There were no doctors by that name. Then the door flew open. Shams, Duke and Fay-Fay stumbled in wearing stethoscopes and those big light things on their heads. “We’ze here to rescue you!” Shams said. Underdog jumped on the bed, yelled: “Here I come to save the day!” and curled up into a wonderful sleep.

The Pack told me to follow them down the hall. The orderlies who were supposed to be watching me were watching Ladybug instead as she strutted around in her nurses uniform. They didn’t pay any attention to us at all. We slinked down the walls until we found a hole.

Moe stuck his head out. “Follow me, I made a tunnel,” he said. I was worried because my bigger friends would be left behind but the Pack said they were going back for Ladybug then would walk right out the front door. Meanwhile I stuck close behind Moe in the hole he had dug. His ass smelled remarkably refreshing.

Guards patrolled the building’s parameter. I was afraid we’d get caught because they were very mean. When we got outside they yelled at us to stop but from behind a tree Gracie and Max Earnest ran out. They rolled over on their backs. The mean guards said: “oh, look at the cute puppies, how precious.”

Moe motioned for me to hurry over to a waiting car. I turned. Gracie and Max were activating their belly copters. (It was one of their brother Teddie Bond’s favorite gadgets.) They flew over to awaiting car where Dulce was sitting behind the wheel of his Chrysler Beagle.

I climbed in the back seat with Moe. Gracie and Max landed on the roof. They jumped in through the windows. Shams, Duke, Fay-Fay and Ladybug all climbed in too. Next to Dulce was Lilly holding a stopwatch. My little friend had planned the entire rescue. She told me to open the gift in the back. I ripped into it. There was a cake from Max and Tupper. It’s what I found inside that truly made me happy. They had baked Foley-tinis right into the cake. Yum.

Dulce started the car. Boy, was he a terrible driver. He hit the car in front of us, and the car behind us, but I didn’t care. I was getting sprung. “What about the guards at the gate?” I asked. “I have that covered too!” Lilly said.

We stopped at the gate where Hobo sat surrounded by guards. At his tiny paws was a case of Grey Goose. Humans, they sure do love their geese. They gave Hobo a scratch on the head, then gratefully opened the gate for us just as Hobo hopped in the car.

We headed home with Dulce running lots of cars right off the highway. Soon I was back home with Mommy, with one slice of Max and Tupper’s Foley-tini cake for my Mom.

So thank you all my friends. I did not like re-hab. No, no, no.

I will continue my wonderful lifestyle of getting by with a little help from my friends, getting high with a little help from my friends. Gonna try with a little help from my friends.

Foley's letter from re-hab

Hi everyone. I am writing you from my room at the Lassie Ford clinic. I have come here for a much-deserved rest. Can you believe it’s been almost a year since I joined cyber-space, writing blogs, leaving comments, making forever friends? It’s so nice to come here and relax.

Oh, and apparently I have a “drinking problem.”

I believe it was the exhaustion that caused my improper interrupting of Sandy’s speech at the DVA’s even though the counselors here seem the believe it’s my fictitious “drinking problem.” God I could use a Foley-tini right now.

But I do like it here. And you will never believe who I ran into? Princess. What…..a lush. All that power went straight to her head and then spilled out into a blender.

And she’s not even the most famous pup here (but she thinks she is.) Underdog is here, and that little dude can’t even fly. He just takes a running leap and smashes against the wall (makes me miss Pocket.) And McGruff the crime dog? Someone had his paw in the stash. I don’t believe he is even a duly deputized member of the law.

It’s not just puppies either. That chimp that belonged to Michael Jackson: Bubbles, he keeps everyone up all night swinging from the lights until an unlicensed anesthesiologist finally gets him asleep. Then he wakes up in the morning and starts throwing his feces in the air and when the feces hit the fans I call Pocket for lawyers, guns and money.

There are some dogs owned by celebrities here too, but I try to steer clear of them. Both Paris Hilton’s and Lindsay Lohan’s dogs have been here for extended stays. Whenever I go into the activities room the two of them are always on their backs with their legs spread showing their most private areas off to anyone who doesn’t have the pride to turn away. Plus the two of them keep eating all the heartworm medication.

There are even some kitties here too. The one on the internet who keeps jumping in and out of boxes? There are those goldfish treats at the bottom of the box. Left to her own devices, that cat would eat goldfish treats until she weighed 1,000 pounds.

I was raking the lawn the other day with this wonderful horse with a beautiful singing voice. It was later that night when I found out it was Amy Winehouse, animal re-hab was the only de-tox she hadn’t been thrown out of.

I only plan to be here a couple of more days. I am doing everything the councilors say so I can get home to Mommy. Sometimes rest is a good thing.

And to Pocket, I’ll be back to managing your campaign any day now, so get the Foley-tinis on ice.