My life, so far, has been fairly undemanding and probably unproductive, which suits me fine, thank you very much. For some bizarre and unexplained reason, Grandma has taken up the notion that I would enjoy learning and performing the physical feats of a trained circus dog. As a result of acquiring these skills, goes her theory, I will become a much happier and more fulfilled pug. Au contraire, Grandma! I like my life just the way it is.
This week, however, brought stress into my stress free existence. Out came the newly purchased stakes…ten of them…planted strategically in a long row, 1 to 2 feet apart, in the back yard. Grandma proceeded to put me in my harness and leash, show me a fist full of tasty treats, and then lead me outside to the row of said stakes. Her voice was filled with a whole lot of encouragement and, what I later discovered to be false, bonhomie. After viewing the treats again, I was forced to “weave” through each of these stakes with the proffered treats always in view. Grandma kept repeating the dreaded “weave” and I, realizing what was being asked of me, stubbornly dug in all four feet while my harness was being pulled to the point of serious separation. Upon completion of this torture trail, Grandma forced a hearty, “Good job, Mason” and rewarded me with a tiny morsel. At this point, I felt I was okay because at least it was over; but no, again she started with the weave command. I couldn’t believe it! My grandma, who usually is tuned in to my every nuance, expression, and reaction, just forged ahead in her resolute determination of making me fulfill her dream — producing a superb agility pug.
Fortunately, and I cannot believe I am saying this, goofy old Lizzie waddled out, looked at my misery, and decided she would enjoy this game. She started walking in and out of the stakes, just to be near me, and Grandma suddenly said, “Why Lizzie, you may be a better candidate. Let’s get your harness on and try it.” Thank you Lizzie! I was free…never again would I be subjected to such folly!
You must weep for me, dear reader, because my once beloved granny was not done with me. She has made me revisit this medieval torture, this cruel practice every day. I am not doing any better and yet she persists. Somebody please put an end to this for me. Maybe an intervention is needed? Didn’t she get the memo that pugs are lap dogs?