For Whom the Bell Tolls, or Just Call Me Pavlov’s Pug

Lest you become inured to my frequent musings, I should assure you that with Grandma transcribing, there will be great periods of drought…but not at the moment. I am compelled yet again to reveal the inner workings of a highly adaptable, intuitive, and intellectually evolved pug, to wit: last night’s bedtime quandary and this morning’s quick response.

As you loyal readers are aware, I am a wearer of the “nighttime cloth” due to the weakening condition and lack of control in my hindquarters. This single clothing item has saved bed linen as well as my relationship with Mom and Dad. Last night, however, presented a serious dilemma. At bedtime, when the donning of said item takes place, Mom and Dad discovered the diaper was with the laundry, which had not yet been delivered. The realization of what this implied drove Dad to blame Mom and Mom to blame Dad. Why do humans always traverse that path? Like a spectator at a tennis match, I watched as the words flew back and forth. I hoped it might mean a costume-free sleep…but no, Mom had several solutions. One involved a hair elastic holding a piece of cloth together, another involved the wrapping of long scarf around and around my girth, and the final one solved the problem. She selected a cloth napkin, which she fashioned quite charmingly at either side of my slim flanks. I have attached a photo so you can see. Not only did it work, it also worked exceedingly well. It was, as they say in medical terms, a “clean catch” when Dad made his morning inspection. I would say the only down side to this improvised garment is that it does not leave my fetching little tail free, but that is a small point over which to quibble when so much is at stake.

Freed of this rather distasteful burden I scampered about as Dad prepared his breakfast of toast and peanut butter (a particular favorite of yours truly). And this is where you will understand the full impact of my title.

As the toaster bell chimed its cheery “Ding” I immediately went into a wild and frantic barking mode. Dad quickly queried, “What are you, Pavlov’s dog?” All I knew was that food was forthcoming and I needed to share in its ingestion. My barking became so frantic and demanding that Dad had no choice but to put me up on the counter with the toast as he prepared it. It afforded me the desired viewing and management position I obviously required, as well as quieted my straining vocal chords. A bite was offered and I accepted greedily.

Just another night and day for this pug living in the Lower East Side of New York.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Here it is, as I described. I think its colorful stripes suggest summer wear, don't you?

Look how cunningly Mom "packaged" me...I do have a slightly hang dog expression though.

Here I am, eyes agog, assisting on the counter.

“Oh What a Rogue and Peasant Slave Am I” HAMLET, William Shakespeare

My inner turmoil and struggle are nothing compared to those of Hamlet, but like Hamlet, I do tend to work myself into an emotional frenzy. One of two things serves as a trigger — food or Lizzie. I am quite sure that Lizzie is the more formidable agent of the two.

Recently I laid bare, what I consider, a very revealing incident/olfactory response to you, dear reader. I am assaulted daily by such conflicting emotions. I would like to punish Lizzie severely, and at the same time, bury my nose in her tantalizing flesh. I spend my days staring fixedly at her, sending out subliminal messages, exhorting her to vanish. And then instantly, like a schizophrenic rat, my pupils turn from hellish red to soft brown, shaded with longing and desire. I am beset with such constant mental instability that I can no longer enjoy those long coma-like sleeps of yore. In west coast lingo, my mellow has been harshed.

If she weren’t so ingratiatingly cheerful and content – which I suspect is due to her significantly lower IQ – I would have an easier time hating and reviling her. No matter how tempestuous my moods or aggressive my behavior, she just slinks quietly away, waiting for a gentle touch or soft voice. Which brings me to the second of my triggers…food. As a result of Lizzie’s toxic scent, I must assuage my fixation with F O O D! I have become even more of a growling, barking, whimpering, demanding beast than before. If I see a dust mote, I attack it like it is my last hope of sustenance and my job is to bring it down swiftly. No human escapes my quest for crumbs, and I fear I’ve made everyone’s life a living Hell. Oh woe is me – a lost pug in Manhattan, struggling to combat my daily demons.

Perhaps if Lizzie is bathed she will lose that atavistic scent and I too will lose my desire for her. I am a monster.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Lost...lost in her scent. I cannot escape.

Here we are together, as always, lying in Dad's bathroom doorway. Look at her staring vacantly into the camera...nothing there at all. I don't get it.

Scent of a Pug, or Missing the Obvious

Sometimes, dear reader, it is possible to be so involved with the minutiae of living, or at least what passes for living, that we miss what is literally right under our nose. I like to think of myself as a fairly observant and perceptive pug – one who does take some time to smell the roses, and do bear with me on this smell metaphor, but it seems I have overlooked something rather obvious. Let me explain.

Yesterday, while Mom was performing her usual morning ritual of bathing and grooming (why she does this, I have no idea since, to me, she looks and smells divine all of the time). Lizzie was seated in her frog-like position, propped against the bathroom door and as I walked past her I was assaulted by her perfume. It literally smacked me in the face…high notes of kibble, dried saliva, ear oil and low notes of city streets and pug butt. How can I even begin to describe such a heady, intoxicating aroma? Was there ever a pug to smell so desirable? I was lost, dear reader, lost. My senses were on overload and my head spinning. There was nothing for it but to explore every nook and cranny of this delectable creature. She, the once scorned and much maligned Lizzie, was compliant and accommodating for my request, offering up her spindly little legs and maneuvering her bullet-shaped body into positions of acquiescence. I was wild with desire and she innocent of my yearning. Throwing myself against her in complete surrender,  I cuddled as I’d never cuddled before, hoping to absorb her essence into my skin. When Mom left the bathroom and found us huddled together in such fashion, she could only stare in amazement and confusion.

I can offer no explanation. This foolish little creature has lived with me for nearly three years and I’ve never felt compelled to seek her out. How have I been so blind? What if she, a seemingly guileless simpleton has cast a spell on me? What if she is really a sorceress and I her willing victim?

I have no satisfactory answers, dear reader, but perhaps you will. Lizzie –enigmatic or malevolent?

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Frog Lizzie

Lost in her scent

They say couples resemble one another as they age