Dead Pug Walking — Part Deux

Since I’ve left you all hanging on the proverbial cliff with my tale of cruelty and betrayal, it behooves me to quiet your pounding hearts and offended sensibilities. Yes, this Christmas incarceration was shrouded in gothic and Machiavellian overtones, and yes, I was sorely hurt by my family’s duplicity, but remember, gentle reader, how I’ve sung the praises of Cape Cod Animal Hospital over the years. Do you honestly believe my humans would put me in harm’s way or in a situation where I would be treated poorly?

Because I am a pug who is used to receiving the lion’s share of attention, love, and food I saw no reason to believe those rewards would not be mine at the kennel. Aside from being forced to share the “matrimonial suite” with that loser Lizzie, my stay was surprisingly pleasant. We were fed at a respectable hour each morning and then let out into a large grassy inner courtyard where the four of us had private play/exercise time together.  Our living quarters were cleaned while we exercised, our bedding fluffed, and water refreshed. If we didn’t wish to watch the other “guests” have their romps in the yard, we were free to nap. But being the gregarious pug that I am, I preferred positioning myself so I could view all of the activity. The time passed so quickly that before I knew it, dinner was being served, followed by more exercise. The icing on my cake was the large cookie we were given at bedtime. This seems a very sensible and worthy practice for all pug owners, Mom.

Of course I haven’t mentioned the endless stream of visitors that yours truly received. Since I am a bit of a celebrity at this establishment, you can only imagine how many people stopped by for a chat and visit. Lizzie naturally assumed they were eager to see her but I quickly disavowed her of that notion, pointing out that no one in his or her right mind had any interest in such a foolish little creature, which caused her to cuddle even more desperately.

I would, however, prefer that Mom and Dad not be let off the hook easily, so to speak, since I wasn’t consulted about their decision to kennel me.  While it was hardly the Christmas of my fantasies, it had an element of adventure, excitement, and hospitality…much like a friendly canine B and B. Since we are, of course, preferred guests, our treatment was exemplary. What appeared grim, gothic, and forbidding was, in truth, rather pleasant for the four of us.

Cheers and respectfully submitted,

Mason

Grandma insists I include this photo of my Albuquerque cousins, Ricky and Lucy. She thinks they are adorable and I frankly don't get it, but here they are.They are Shih Tzu's so I don't see any connection to my tale. Grandma loves them and I have no say, it would appear.

 

Dead Pug Walking

It was always my intention to save this particularly grizzly exposé for a day and time such as this, rather than divulge it immediately after its occurrence. And because we in the northeast are experiencing a true “winter of our discontent” this seemed a fitting time to unfold, what is sure to be, a particularly macabre and medieval tale.

Ah, Christmas, that most celebrated, anticipated, and dangerous of holidays, by this old pug’s reckoning… Lizzie and I anticipated its coming with great excitement, and since we were already at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, knew (at least we thought we did) Mom and Dad would be arriving in advance of the holiday. We had visions of Christmas presents (for us) under the tree, Grandma baking up delectable treats in the kitchen (with our needed assistance), cozy fires in the fireplace (where we’d be napping) to ward off winter’s chill, and long sleeps (with Mom and Dad) on top of flannel sheets and under fluffy down. How very wrong can one foolish pug be? That Currier & Ives picture was never to be our reality. Ours was, in truth, truly Dickensian in every aspect.

No Mom and Dad arrived on the Cape, but rather we four dogs were taken to “the big house” for “lockup.” Yes, you must gasp with horror and reel with shock. It is true. Our bedding, sweaters, and comfort objects were hauled into the kennel at the veterinary hospital, where each of us was told goodbye, have a merry Christmas, and see you in a week. Not one to ever believe the worst of any person or situation, I put on a brave and manly face, trotted off thinking it was a joke, and that we were being taken to a room piled high with biscuits, treats, and marrowbones. Oh no…not by a long shot. This was a reality far from any life experience I could imagine.

Down a long cement corridor with cells on either side, far from the cheery front room with its crackling fire in the fireplace, and the welcoming techs and receptionists, were we lead. With little ceremony and no apologies, Lizzie and I were shown into our “suite,” with the echo of the slamming door sounding like our death knell. Yes, dear reader, yours truly was being locked up in a concrete cage with loathsome Lizzie for Christmas vacation.

To be continued…

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Look how happy and carefree we are at the vet's...

Same image but our Christmas reality