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.