Pug Windbreaking, or I’ve Still Got What It Takes

Ah, dear reader, there are some minutiae of a pug’s life better left unspoken, but there are, of course, always exceptions to the rule. In this instance I would feel remiss if I didn’t recount, with some degree of both embarrassment and pride, the most recent of events.

I do not pretend to understand the physiology of a pug but I do know when there is an excess accumulation of methane gas, it must be released. I have no idea why this morning found me suffering so from this affliction. I ate nothing unusual yesterday, and if fact, enjoyed one of the most relaxed and indolent of days with my mom. We spent it lazing on the couch, watching movies and napping, wrapped in a cocoon of love and warmth. This morning, however, my flatulence probably surpassed any I have ever  experienced in my life…surprising even yours truly. For those of you who would rather not hear the somewhat graphic details, I would advise you to close this entry now. For the rest of you with prurient interest and curiosity, read on, but please forgive the slightly distasteful nature of this expose.

Mom bundled us up for our morning outing and as we were ambulating briskly along Clinton Street, I let loose such forceful wind that two young men, standing outside of their apartment building, exclaimed, “Dude! Did you just hear that dog? I mean, did you hear him? He exploded!” My mom, bless her soul, always quick to rush to my defense, turned toward them and said, “Yeah, right, like the dog did it.”

We continued on our way and much to my astonishment, I again let forth a magnificent detonation, so that there could be no doubt whatsoever as to its source. Mom was horrified but, I also suspect, a bit amused. She felt the need to question its source all the way home.

And so, dear reader, for those of you who might wonder if this old pug is all that he should be, let me assure you that I am still capable of producing the kind of resounding, virile, and highly competitive flatus any man or pug would be proud to claim.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

P.S. My eye is healing nicely and Mom freed me of my collar yesterday.

A pug in his prime, master of his domain, and king of his castle.

A Pug In Need…

Dear Readers,

This is a request for you to vote in a blog contest for my blog. The site is: http://www.TrainPetDog.com. After entering the home page,  you must then type in this voting code in order to cast a vote for yours truly…ACogF. The site is fairly interesting so you might want to visit for a while, after casting your vote.

Fifty votes are required  to move into round two. I would really like to be named in the top twenty blogs but can do it only with your help. It is difficult for me to make such a shameless plea, but I know of no other way.

Thank you in advance for your confidence, support, and votes.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

P.S. I promise to write a real entry very soon.

“I Have Only One Eye,–I Have a Right to be Blind Sometimes . . . I Really Do Not See the Signal!” – Lord Horatio Nelson, Viscount Nelson

These eyes, tho’ clear
To outward view of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot,
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not
Against Heaven’s hand or will, not bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward.
– John Milton, Sonnet XXII (l. 1)

Dear reader, weep not for me today (even though your every instinct would compel you) because I am bearing up nobly. I write only to reassure you that even though I suffer from a corneal ulcer and must wear this cruelest of medieval contrivances…the Elizabethan Collar…I am on the road to wellville (paraphrasing T.C. Boyle’s wonderful book’s title).  This is a mere speed bump, a minor snag in my already challenging life.

We have no idea what caused this but presumably I walked into something and scratched my exposed cornea. I liked the rakish look it lent, before treatment, sealed shut and offering only one window into the world.  I felt like a swashbuckling pirate pug, except that it didn’t elicit fear from viewers…only pity and concern.

I must receive eye drops three times daily and wear the collar until the doctor feels I am beyond self-harm. Being the rather clever and inventive pug that I am, I managed to devise a way of having my marrowbone and eating it too. If I wedge it carefully within the inside of the cone, and then press my head against a wall or some other stationary object, it is possible to enjoy, in a limited fashion, a small bit of comfort.

The really disappointing component of my malady is the discovery of that conniving and false Lizzie’s true nature. She who greeted me with wild abandon after my visit to the vet’s, she who sniffed me from stem to stern, assuring herself that I was okay, she who pretended to care for my suffering, is the one who immediately began to squirrel away all of my bones into her nest, knowing I would have an impossible time finding and reclaiming them. I am done with that self-serving, dishonest little strumpet of a pug. Remember, Lizzie, I may not see well, but I know and remember what you’ve done. Revenge will be mine.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

P.S. I cannot include a photo…it is far too humiliating for yours truly. Please respect my need for privacy.

You Can Teach Old Tricks to a New Pug, or I Am Still King of My Castle

For those of you rookie pugs who are just cutting your teeth on the tricks of the pug trade, I am about to offer up a bit of valuable modeling. As a pug who has seen many winters, springs, summers, and falls, and who now finds himself chronologically in the least coveted of those seasons, I offer an interesting exercise in getting what you want while leaving your human speechless.

Let me explain. The other night Dad took Lizzie and me out for our pre-dinner walk, and yes, it was cold, dark, and unwelcoming. I wasn’t my usual jovial, bonhomous self, and I refused to produce anything other than a poor attitude. I really wasn’t quite sure what it was that I wanted, but it certainly wasn’t what was being offered at that particular time. I dragged my unwilling feet, exaggerated my roach spine, and stubbornly resisted any of Dad’s encouragement. A clever pug knows at this crucial point he must take his act up a notch, and a highly effective way of doing this is by suddenly freezing in his tracks, thus causing the walker to be thrown off balance. This should be repeated several times during the journey.  It was not a pleasant return walk for any of us, except that fool Lizzie. She is oblivious, ignorant, and disgustingly cheerful at all times. By the time we reached our apartment Mom was home. Suddenly, I knew what I wanted and needed. All of my pent up frustration and unidentified yearning came together when I saw her face and heard her voice. I needed QT…quality time alone with my mom. When she learned I had done nothing outside, she quickly bustled me out the door again. She had concerns because I had been quite gassy the previous evening from my pizza orgy. Just hearing her inane chatter as we walked along together, without Lizzie, put a spring in my step and a song in my heart. There we were, as in olden times, sharing a cold, crisp night as I located the perfect spot for my deposit. I am both proud and ashamed to say that I produced one of my most manly and pungent specimens in the middle of the sidewalk. The lightening I felt at that point was both literal and metaphorical. I took off running down Clinton Street, ears pulled back, mouth grinning madly, like a crazed young adolescent, leaving my mom gasping in disbelief.

This, young pugs, is how you keep the interest alive in your human relationship, while also getting what you want most…his or her undivided attention and unqualified love.

Respectfully submitted from a wise old pug,

Mason

This is my happiest place in the world. Look at my expression and learn, young pups.

Pizza, Chicken Soup for a Pug’s Soul, or I Never Smelled a Pizza I Didn’t Love

Some days, dear reader, the cold is so bone crushing and pervasive that every step taken is excruciating. Going out to relieve oneself is a cruel exercise in torture. Today was such a day and I fear my old pug bones were challenged at a new level of intensity. I know I presented a pathetic sight with my roach spine and halting gait. I could see passersby stare and “tsk tsk” with empathy as they viewed my poor ambulation. When I realized the emotional outpouring I was receiving, I upped my performance a notch, hoping Mom would join in the pity party and just pick me up.

But just when I was sure my act was about to garner a cozy reward, I smelled it. That’s right… the smell that no red-blooded, all-American, food obsessed, wildly possessed pug can resist…PIZZA! The holy grail of all human food. I mean pizza is my raison d’etre, it is what compels me to tick off the days until the next pizza delivery, and it is what compels me to accomplish seemingly impossible feats of pug daring.  I am ashamed to say that if the pizza delivery boy offered me a home with him, I daresay I would have my bags packed and out the door before Mom could croak, “Mason!”

I digress. It was in the midst of this pitiful charade that I smelled it. My little pug feet took wing and in a trice I had tracked down the source…a Domino’s delivery bicycle parked outside an apartment building. There, clinging to the bike’s cold and brittle metal framework, were pizza molecules, bearing the heady, aromatic, and intoxicating aroma of its last delivery. Dear God, no right-minded pug can resist that smell. Energy returned and vigor was restored; all of my senses became electrified in that one defining moment. Mom looked at me with such disbelief that even I felt some embarrassment. It was as if she had seen Christ cure a leper, or restore a blind man’s sight, or give a cripple the use of his legs again.

I raced home, convinced the Domino’s man would be upstairs waiting for me. How could he not be?  This is where the story takes a decided downward turn. There, of course, was no Domino’s delivery, or any other pizza delivery for that matter; however, I did hear Mom say that tonight will probably have to be a pizza night after my transforming encounter.

All’s well that end’s well, dear reader.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

From the archives...here I am thoroughly enjoying my pizza

I am dominating that box ( a little play on words)!

A Lyin’ (In Bed That Is) In Winter, or a Pug Says Thank You

This isn’t a blog that will amuse, confuse, sadden, horrify, or titillate you, dear reader, but rather it is a long overdue acknowledgment of all the steady influx of letters, comments, and kudos I’ve received during the one year I’ve been writing. You readers are the reason I make the efforts I do and without your feedback, I am afraid I would not have been so diligent. So, even though it runs counter to my very nature, I must thank each and every one of you for your kind and supportive words, throughout the year.

If I weren’t so limited, I would answer all of your letters, but I am dependent upon Grandma for my writing and I cannot, in good conscience,  ask her to do more for me than she already does. But I do thank you, one and all. Please continue to write me because she reads me every letter, note, and comment you send. I cannot emphasize too strongly how much I appreciate your words.

This time of year I do tend to take inventory, try to count my so-called blessings, and then figure out what direction I will take in the upcoming months. Fact: Lizzie is here to stay and all of my best efforts to depose her have failed. Some astute reader observed that she reminded her of the “fool on the hill” and I couldn’t agree more. She is, for the most part, innocuous and so I’ve learned acceptance. Fact: My health is a concern but I am going to see a surgeon for a consultation soon and perhaps see if there is something to be done for my poor spinal condition. I am not, I repeat, not complaining because I still receive two meals daily, plus assorted treats, which keep my interest piqued. Fact: I know my mom and dad love me, and if they could, would spend every free minute with me. That is comforting. Fact: The addition of Cecily and Daphne to this menagerie is troubling, to say the very least, but I am wrapping my mind around the idea that this just challenges me to be an even stronger alpha type of male (if such a thing is possible). I shall think of these bitches as my harem and I suspect that will allow me to assume a greater position of leadership in this pack. Fact: I have no plans for becoming a more tolerant pug, nor do I have any interest in one who does. I like who and what I am, and see no reason to soften my edge or attitude. Too much introspection is for sissies.

There you have it, dear reader…some deep thoughts from a pug named Mason.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

P.S. My very clever Grandpa suggested this title and I have to admit that I like it a lot. Thanks, Grandpa.

Now is the Winter of Our Discontent, or A Pug’s Countdown to Spring

When the apartment door closed behind Mom and Dad this morning, it rang as our vacation’s death knell. That click of the lock resounded loudly and with the finality of a tomb sealing. As you know, dear reader, I am a pug that likes to know that his creature comforts are always close at hand and not a struggle to obtain. This frigid and unrelenting cold has soured my usual sunny disposition, turning me into a needy, whiny, and short-tempered beast. Going outdoors for our toileting requires the outfitting of an artic expedition. First the blasted paw condoms must be fitted over eight resistant paws, then the dreaded sweaters and hoodies pulled and stretched over our heads and bodies, and finally the harnesses and leashes attached on top of the sweaters. By the time Dad gets into his gear, we are exhausted and struggling to hold our water and waste. This is not, I repeat, not the most wonderful time of the year for those of us living in the northeast.

Lizzie and I must find new ways to amuse ourselves and pass these miserable days. We’ve fully explored trash tossing and my penchant for chewing underwear and socks is only a memory of my youth. I’ve told Lizzie all of my embellished tales of glory and horror. Besides, she is hardly a worthy recipient of my intellectual prowess since all she wants to do is cuddle and sleep. So then the question remains, “What is a pug to do?” I am a bit concerned about the upcoming summer on Cape Cod, due to the addition of Grandma and Grandpa’s two dogs. The black pug is a formidable opponent. Like Lizzie she appears docile and meek, but if she senses any affront or attack upon her baby (the Frenchie) then she quickly becomes a snarling, howling killing machine. She caught me off guard several times when I went after Daphne for encroaching upon my food zone. That worries me a bit. The baby is a full blown, spoiled, active and willful toddler. She needs to be taught respect, manners, and boundaries before I can enjoy my idyllic existence there. I guess I need to give some considerable thought to this summer while I am ensconced in my overheated and quiet apartment.

The dog walker is due any minute so I must gird my loins for the donning of apparel, none of which is gay.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Lizzie and I doing what we love doing most...keeping warm on Mom's lap

The fiendish Cecily...looks sweet, doesn't she? But, at the slightest provocation, she becomes a tiger protecting her cub.

And the toddler, gnawing away on a marrowbone that should have been mine. She is an underaged lethal weapon.

Lizzie...the most indolent of all creatures living on the planet. What a ridiculous canine experiment she is. I am surrounded by too many bitches!