Monthly Archives: January 2009

A Pug Takes On

Really, I am not a whiny pug and I do enjoy my life, for the most part, but it does seem as if I always have something to complain about. This isn’t a complaint, so much as it is a query. I don’t understand why humans, specifically pug owners, love to see large numbers of us together, frolicking in playful abandon. I can’t help but ask the question, “Aren’t I enough?”
I was with Mom and then Dad, without Lizzard, and they seemed to be perfectly content with just me. I filled her days, and then his, with joy, love, and entertainment. So then why do I always hear Mom saying how she would love ten or more of us? I cannot understand that thinking, when supposedly I am everything she could desire in a pug.

More confusing is how humans usually choose to marry or live with one person for their lifetime, trying to remain faithful to and happy with that one person, but as pug owners feel compelled to increase and multiply their pug herd. Why ever would Mom dream of having a brace of us?

This phenomenon occurs at the dog park too. Mom gets all excited and silly acting when she sees a bunch of pugs there. She naturally assumes we will all love one another and want to be best friends. Frankly, I couldn’t care less about a bunch of hyperactive mouth-breathing pugs running around. It is a kind of“pugism,” don’t you think, that pug owners practice?

I’ve gotten used to Lizzard but that doesn’t mean I want another one taken into our fold. Mom, aren’t I enough? You are enough for me.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

I dressed up for you (humiliating for me).

I dressed up for you (humiliating for me).

I swam for you in a horrible life vest.

I swam for you in a horrible life vest.

I even posed for you. I did it all  because I love.

I even posed for you. I did it all because I love you.

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Old Pug’s Book of Practical Cats

Apologies to  T.S. Eliot for messing with his great title but, dear reader,  I needed to grab your attention. This musing isn’t so much a vent as it is an expression of a growing concern for yours truly. My grandparents on the Cape have had two cats since before I even joined this family, and over the years, we’ve co-existed rather well…either by avoiding or ignoring one another. I must admit, though, there have been a few incidents where the proverbial fur has flown, usually over a crumb of food or space encroachment. We always manage to walk away with our dignity intact and a newfound respect for one another. Oliver is their oldest cat and he is a formidable British Shorthair.  Just before Christmas, his younger brother, Pip, died. I know how much Grandma and Grandpa miss him and I also know that Oliver still howls for him every night at bedtime. So it is no surprise that they have been looking for a kitty to fill that void.

 Which brings me to my current concern. Yesterday, Grandma found a kitten and to hear her talk about this creature, she is the greatest thing since sliced bread. As you know I am not a mean-spirited or selfish pug, but this could present some serious problems for me.

There has existed a nice balance of power, a mutual respect, and a healthy fear (on my part) of the cat’s decided advantage. Now with the arrival of a new feline, all we’ve achieved could go away. What if she decides to compete for crumbs of food, or, even worse, what if she sees herself as the new sheriff in town who needs to clean up the “pesky varmints” (us)?  There is a definite potential for disaster here!

 The worst part is there is nothing I can do but wait and see what happens. I also worry that lame Lizzy may decide to befriend “Chloe” or “Zoe” or whatever they decide to name her. Maybe I can enlist Oliver’s aid; maybe we can join forces against the newcomer…

 

I will keep you posted on this latest roadblock.

 

 

Respectfully submitted,

 

Mason

 

See how fierce Oliver is and look at poor Lizzie in the background.

See how fierce Oliver is and look at poor Lizzie in the background.

 

This shows his scary eyes really well, even though he cuddled up in a blanket.

This shows his scary eyes really well, even though he is cuddled up in a blanket.

 

This is the new one. It's hard to tell what kind of cat she is but I am wary.

This is the new one. It's hard to tell what kind of cat she is but I am wary.

 

 

 

 

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A Pug’s Shame

Hi, it’s Lizzie writing since Mason told me I really needed to and I always trust his advice. This has been a very hard week for me, and because I feel so ashamed I’ve decided to confess to all of you.

 I really try to be a good girl and I think I am for the most part, but ever since Mason told me how to get into the garbage can, I’ve been fixated on doing it. Most of the time Mom and Dad remember to pick it up but this Tuesday night they ran out of the apartment for dinner and forgot. I wish I could say Mason helped me, but he didn’t…I did it all by myself. The really scary part is once I’m in the act itself, I tune out the rest of the world. No matter what garbage is in the can, I just dive in and go crazy, which leads me to what happened this particular night. I never heard the door open or my parents come inside. They were standing over me as I was burrowing deep inside the can, with only my tail sticking out. They started screaming and grabbing me before I knew they were even there. Oh my, my…I am such a bad little dog. I don’t know what possesses me to do this disgusting thing that I know makes them so mad. I wish I could say I was sorry, but since I can’t talk, I just make myself as small and quiet as possible. Do you think I have a problem?

 I am still shaking from this awful experience. I wish Mom wouldn’t scare me so, but she does. I am trying to be as good as I can, and I hope I don’t ever do this again, but I can’t be sure I won’t. I hope Mom forgives me. Dad felt bad for me, and I think he talked to Mom about not being so cross.

 Mason thinks this will help my case.  I hope he is right.

Shamefully yours,

Lizzie

 

Here I am...a much happier time but you can see how aggressive I can get with food.

Here I am...a much happier time but you can see how aggressive I can get with food.

 

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Beware of Pugs Bearing Rings

I fear these long, cold winter days are turning me into a pug in his dotage, one who spends much time dwelling on past events and memories. A particular memory is of my mom’s wedding, two and a half years ago. She was married at the home of my grandparents on Cape Cod. It was a beautiful August night and the ceremony was at the beach with a reception outdoors at their home. Now I wouldn’t want any of you readers to think I am a sentimental fool, because I am not. My memories naturally go to the food that was served and the catering prep going on in the kitchen. It was truly a golden opportunity for a clever pug. With all the comings and goings of people, flowers being arranged, tables laid, and caterers preparing and setting up food, it was extremely easy for me to assist in the kitchen. I was very helpful and made sure to stay close to the chef (read glued). While everyone else was fussing over Mom, I was busily employed in the best way I knew.

 What I didn’t realize, and this is where the story takes a decidedly less desirable turn, was that I had a particular role in the ceremony. Grandma drove me to the beach, since Mom and Grandpa came later, and then she attached this ridiculous little lace pillow-like contraption to the top of my halter. Tied to it were the two wedding rings. That’s right, dear reader, I was the ring bearer. At this point I was of two minds: I wanted to be a part of Mom’s day, to stand by her side loyally but I certainly did not like wearing this froufrou nonsense. What to do? Well, I just pretended it wasn’t there and stuck close to my mom’s ankles, reciting like a mantra that there would good snacks back at the house if I behaved.

 And yes, my mom was beautiful and my dad very handsome. I know people thought I rocked the rings but believe me, I will never do that again! The food was extraordinary and since it was served outdoors at various stations, I sampled as much as I could as a free-ranging pug.

 I’ve included some photos so you can see how faithfully I performed my duties.

 Respectfully submitted,

Mason

 

Here I am with the caterer, alert and eager to assist.

Here I am with one of the caterers, alert and eager to assist.

You can see how ridiculous I look.

You can see how ridiculous I look.

Check out who Mom is kissing!

Check out who Mom is kissing!

 


 

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For Pug’s Sake, Grandma, Hurry Back!

As I dictate this entry, my thoughts return to Grandma and her visit this weekend. When she walked through the door Friday afternoon, I was sure that all of my wishes would come true. Seeing the bags she was dragging into the apartment, I knew that at least one item in them would be for Lizzie and me. I could scarcely contain myself, but in true Grandma fashion, she insisted that we go out for a walk before dispensing treats. I wasn’t at all keen on that idea since I knew the danger, pain, and extreme cold facing me. I wanted Grandma to see how well I navigate the streets but the reality of getting salt on my paws, and having to wear the dreaded hooded sweatshirt caused me to break like a little girl. I put away all pretenses of bravery in the face of this pain, and wildly shot out each of my paws while gyrating around on the sidewalk. Grandma, of course, realized the severity of my condition and plucked me up into her arms, cradling me like a baby. During this entire scene, little Miss Perfect Lizzie just kept trotting along without any sign of discomfort. Sometimes she really sickens me!

Home at last! Grandma rooted around in one of her capacious bags and whipped out the mother of all treats…the snack no self-respecting dog of any breed can resist…the smelliest and foulest of goodies…a bully stick, a.k.a., bull pizzle! For those of you, dear readers, who are ignorant of this particular delicacy, look it up on line. Oh boy, oh boy! Lizzie and I retreated to opposite corners, lay down, propped the sticks between our paws and began chewing, shredding, and sucking. What bliss, what joy, what incredible happiness. And then Mom came home…end of fun. She hates these culinary delights and quickly removed them from our jaws.

On Saturday, Grandma and Mom went shopping. Grandma was all buzzed because her sister had told her about a product that protects a dog’s paws from the salt on the sidewalks.  I was not eager to try it since I naturally hate my paws being touched for any reason. You don’t mess with Grandma though, and she proceeded to rub on this waxy stuff. Outdoors I refused to budge, digging my feet in, but Grandma kept yanking me along, and surprise, surprise, there was no pain! How could this be? I was able to resume my normal alpha male walk, attracting the usual admiring looks. Now, I am not a pug who is a promoter of products, but this stuff really works. It is called Mushers and it was developed for teams of huskies in Alaska, so it’s got to be good. It is also used to treat raw and cracked paws.  Now winter is not so unbearable for me.

Grandma left us Sunday and even though she can be tough, I really miss her. She is always ready with a treat, kind words, and a hug. Hurry back to us, Grandma. Mwah!

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

You can see my state of bliss.

You can see my state of bliss.

Little Miss Lizzie doesn't look so lady like now, does she?

Little Miss Lizzie doesn't look so lady like now, does she?

 

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Pugs and Kisses For Grandma

 

 

There isn’t much written about the unique relationship between a pug and his grandma. Grandmas come in all shapes, sizes, and ages but the ideal grandma for a pug comes bearing gifts.

 My grandma from Cape Cod arrives tomorrow for a visit and I’ve been talking it up steadily to Lizzie, who isn’t terribly responsive since all she wants to do is sleep when it is this cold. I, however, am pumped because I know that one thing my grandma understands is that I will be waiting for a special treat from her. She knows that my hard wiring demands a treat! Sometimes she goes to this wonderful dog store on the Cape called Hot Diggity, where all of the bakery items for dogs are homemade and delicious, and other times she goes to Trader Joes or Pet Smart.  No matter where she shops, the treat is unusual and pleasing to my palate.

The down side of Grandma is that she knows all of my tricks and ploys and will not tolerate bad behavior. She is not the soft touch, easily moved by big eyes kind of grandma…She is a firm believer in tough love, which I kind of respect but don’t really like. One thing I do like about her is that she thinks I’m funny, and as everyone knows, if you can make someone laugh you’re king of the world.

 So, there you have it dear reader. Grandma is coming and I can hardly wait. I will give you an update after her visit.

 

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

P.S. I’ve included a link to Hot Diggity for all grandmas

http://www.hotdiggityonline.com/index.php

This has nothing to do with Grandma but I think I look really good and Grandma will like looking at it.

This has nothing to do with Grandma but I think I look really good and Grandma will like looking at it.

 

 

 

 

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A Pug’s Summer Idyll

 

I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I’m a sentimental sissy because I remember certain days or events with great satisfaction, but since Lizzie and I have so much alone time in the apartment we sometimes share our favorite memories…not maudlin girly stuff though.  In that same vein I’ve decided to share one with you, dear reader.

 Summer, as you know, is the time we spend on Cape Cod with our grandparents. There probably is no finer place on earth, at least for a pug, than this spit of land. The smells, the sights, the air, the water, and of course the food, all come together to create a kind of paradise.

 So when Grandpa, who is a bit of a soft touch when it comes to loving his grandpugs, needs to run errands, all we have to do is run down the stairs ahead of him and stand alert at the door to the garage. I know it doesn’t sound terribly exciting for most of you unimaginative sorts, but for Lizzie and me, it is the Holy Grail of outings! With only a look at our perky little donut tails and eager eyes, he says, “Would you guys like to come?” Like stink on road kill, we shoot out the door with him and jump into the jeep. We perch up front in the passenger seat, with the window down and the sunroof open, and wait for the fun to begin. First we head to the post office where Grandpa puts us up on the scales and then the postal ladies give us cookies. We wag and smile and look from face to face, hoping for another treat. Next we head to the bank, where we wait in the drive thru line. Knowing that the nice teller there always has cookies for us, we fling ourselves into Grandpa’s lap in the middle of his banking transaction and wait for the little drawer to slide out, bearing its treasures. Then, if there is an upcoming party or cookout, we go to the liquor store where Grandpa puts us in a cart and pushes us through the store. That always garners comments and cookies!

 What wonderful days those were and we comfort each other with the thought that they soon will be here  again.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Weighing in...what we suffer for a cookie!

Weighing in...what we suffer for a cookie!

 

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