Ode to My Dad, or I’d Take a Grenade for Ya

Dear reader, I apologize profusely for my long absence but there were several contributing factors which prevented me from sharing with you the trials and tribulations of this old pug’s life…1) There is little to nothing happening during the season of cold and darkness. 2) We’ve been experiencing very challenging legal issues with our building. 3) Grandma has been busy with her so-called life. At any rate, here I am, poised and primed for regaling you with tales of my life in the city that never sleeps.

I dedicate this particular chapter to my long-suffering, but dutiful dad. He is a prince of a human (and I don’t say this lightly). On a recent evening, he took Lizzie and me out for our post dinner walkies and toileting. In his haste to complete this task, he neglected to bring the required baggies for waste collection, and of course Miss Lizzie, being the dutiful little pug that she is, quickly deposited her offering. Poor Dad though, realizing his oversight, ran into the tailor’s shop directly across from Lizzie’s “gift” and procured only one bag. Having averted that disaster, he led us on our journey. I failed to deliver, however, the much-awaited offering and Dad had no choice but to shepherd us into our building’s lobby, admonishing me all the while. Once inside, out of the cold, I assumed the all too familiar semi-crouch fast walk, immediately recognized by Dad as my signal of imminent release. With the alacrity and speed of one long accustomed to such emergencies, my blessed dad scooped me up and caught the unstoppable missile in his open and bare hand before it ever reached the marble floor. There being no receptacles in the lobby, my dad had no choice but to carry his prize in one hand into the elevator with two pugs in tow in the other. Once inside the elevator, Dad realized that tenants most likely would be entering our confined little box and then he would be forced  either to explain his foul smelling hand or hide the evidence. He chose the latter option and found a way to conceal the offending object by a quick sleight of hand, turning an open palm into a quickly flipped, reversed closed palm, hidden behind his back. Fortunately no one joined our little “lift party.”

Entering our apartment, Dad went straight to the toilet and flushed away any evidence of my effort. Mom could only stare in amazement and then give way to uncontrollable laughter.

And so, dear reader, there you have it…just another day in the life of a pug named Mason. You must remember I have no control of my hindquarters, so the humor in this situation is elusive to me, but according to my mom, my dad is one in a million.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Laundry delivery day...note my louche posture in a fetching onesie. Lizzie, of course, is just embarrassing.

Here we are, wedged into our little wheelie, being transported to Grand Central Station.

Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen, or Oops, I Did it Again

Look at this face, Dad...eager and well-contained for the train trip

And here is the Village Idiot, sitting up on the sofa as if she knew what she was doing.

I know, I know, dear reader, that my lament grows tedious but there seems to be no end to the indignities I both must suffer and inflict upon those I love. As I have mentioned over the past two years, growing old is neither for the faint of heart, nor for sissies, and yet it is something both humans and animals must face. In addition to my growing incontinence, I have apparently lost my hearing. How do I know this, you ask? By watching the frantic and exasperated expressions on my parents’ faces while their mouths move and hands gesture wildly, I am able to ascertain that whatever sound they are producing does not reach my ears.

I do try to control what happens in my hindquarters but am rarely successful any more and yesterday’s accident set off my dad in a particularly alarming way. Since Mom is out of town this week, it falls exclusively to Dad for our care giving, and he is both thorough and conscientious; however, yesterday he failed to take us out before feeding us dinner and I was unable to stem my flow after inhaling my meager but long awaited meal. Dad then stepped in it, reacted violently by taking his urine soaked shoe and throwing it into the wall, opening up a sizeable hole. Lizzie and I could only stare stupidly (Lizzie’s normal gaze) in amazement. Since I am no longer of the hearing world, I could not actually hear his imprecations but I am pretty sure they involved my name.

And there was the ill-fated morning that I unfortunately released several unsavory offerings in the elevator and poor Dad had no bag to contain them. He, being a considerate and civic-minded pet owner, had no choice but to scoop them, run to the apartment, and flush them away, all the while invoking my name in a very derisive manner.  After explaining his anger to Mom, she asked where Lizzie was and of course it was clear one pug had been left behind. That’s right, folks, Lizzie was once again riding mindlessly up and down our building’s elevator just waiting to be rescued.

I must dedicate this blog to my dad who gives us such loving and efficient care on a daily basis, but like Job, must suffer the many trials I inflict upon him unwittingly and unconsciously. I love you, Dad, and wish my final years were not so challenging, but I have so much enthusiasm, energy, and lust for life that I am not about to bow out at this time. Bear with me and I will try my best to be a pug of fewer accidents.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Love Walked Into My Life, or Ode to Miss Brooke

As you know, dear reader, no greater love hath a pug than for his mistress, but I’m not going to lie, my love for Miss Brooke exceeds what passes for normal infatuation. When Mom and Dad realized their travel schedules were going to overlap for their away time, panic ensued. Who could they possibly find to care for their dearest treasures (Lizzie being a more tarnished treasure)? This was not something they approached lightly, but rather with a heavy heart and much dread. But imagine their joy and excitement when they reconnected with Mom’s sister’s oldest and best friend who also lives in New York. Miss Brooke not only loves pugs with every fiber of her being, but also has an aged family pug living on Cape Cod with her parents.

It was kismet, destiny, fate, call it whatever you wish, but from the moment Miss Brooke came to care for us I was lost. Her voice is like melted butter, warm caramel, sweet honey…all of those luscious tempting tasty treats rolled into one mellifluous sound. When she speaks to us we feel her love and adoration. And her smile….ahhhh. Her entire face becomes illuminated every time she smiles, which is a constant with her. I would wiggle and dance until I collapsed just to gaze upon her countenance. Her body is soft and warm, and to cuddle with her at night is one of my life’s sweetest memories.

She is never cross and always ready to love and hug us. Even when I bark incessantly (for which I have no explanation), she just smiles and asks if I am hungry! Fellow pugs, I have found nirvana right here in the Lower East Side of New York City! And guess what? She returns to us this coming week! Oh thank you patron saint of pugs for what you have so graciously put into our lives! And you know those embarrassing moments I am so prone to? She just says, “Oh Mason, you poor little love, let me clean you up, honey, and you’ll be good as new.” And then she kisses me. Maybe I’ve already crossed on over the rainbow bridge, folks, and this is heaven. If not, then it is heaven on earth.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

I have included a short film that Miss Brooke took having a conversation with me. Listen to the sweetness of her voice.

Sniffing for Truffles, or Suitcase Secrets

First, dear reader, I am well, relatively happy, and trying to enjoy what few pleasures remain for a pug of my advanced years and infirmities. While I was unable to spend an entire summer on my beloved Cape Cod due to a vicious Frenchie named Daphne, who for some unexplained reason goes into a blind rage just seeing me walk about in “my home” (remember I was there first), and lack of bladder and bowel control, I was able to enjoy quite a few visits. Grandma has had company all summer and was unable to write her usual timely updates for me. She does, however, keep readers informed on my Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mason-and-Lizzie/44314065749) and you should always check it out if you are concerned for our (read “my”) welfare.

As many of you may recall, I had a very serious episode this spring when I devoured Grandma’s 12 grain seeded bread in its entirety. Well, as Grandma is wont to say, “There is no fool like an old fool” and I guess those words are applicable to yours truly. But honestly, folks, this pug is starving…really! Is it too much to ask, at this stage of my life, that I be given working dog rations? After all, I bark incessantly, burning countless calories.

My mom’s sister from California was visiting and she very generously left her suitcase open, the guest room door as well, and then departed for the day with Mom, leaving Lizzie and me unattended. My nose quickly ascertained that there was some kind of food in her bag and so I enlisted the aid of my stupid but faithful sidekick…Lame Lizzie. Always eager to please me and gain my praise, she hied to, foraged wildly like a boar rooting for truffles, and came up aces! What a veritable treasure trove she unearthed in this copious bag…a sealed plastic bag with individually wrapped rice cakes dipped in carob. What joy! What bliss! What unadulterated euphoria! I can tell you honestly that I, not for one New York minute, hesitated before giving that plump little woodchuck the green light for opening these treats. She neatly scissored, on their seams, each little package and laid its contents at my feet. No frantic ripping and rending for that squirrely little pug…oh no, Lizzie’s approach is meticulous and precise, never giving a hint of her presence, other than the missing food.

I enjoyed myself thoroughly and was resting comfortably when the hammer fell. Home came the humans and Mom and her sister quickly discovered our activity. I was too sated to protest or throw Lizzie under the bus…and so I took my punishment like a man (a little man). Fortunately for me, there were no severe consequences necessitating a trip to the ER but I confess there was a copious amount of waste the next few days and I was denied dinner that night.

So, what could have ended poorly didn’t and I am right as rain again, ready to face whatever adventures fall into my lap (a little play on the current autumnal season).

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Killer, right?

One of my favorite summer activities...driving Grandpa's Jeep

Ship of two fools...Lizzie and Cecily at sea --- literally

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder, or Did You Miss Me?

I know I know…my silence speaks volumes but, dear reader, my voice is stilled only by Grandma’s preoccupation with other matters (none of which could possibly be as important as my words). At any rate, I am pushing her to complete what I don’t consider an odious task, but rather a creative and informative pleasure.

My fourth of July was all a pug of my advanced years could hope for: a car trip cuddled next to Mom, green grass dotted with marrowbones, clam shells thrown casually about, lobster outdoors, fireworks viewed from the comfort of Grandpa’s Jeep, Four Seas ice cream, and a visit to my favorite animal hospital. No, there was no injury or illness…just a once-over by my sardonic, I’ve-seen-it-all vet, Dr. Munson. Mom was concerned since I am less able to navigate freely with the gradual wasting of my hindquarters, particularly the left hind leg. With his usual shrug and caustic tone, he assured her that I still “had game” and was in for the long haul. Reassured, she hugged me and professed her undying love. Frankly, I have no idea why she worries so. So what if I’m held together by duct tape? I have more enthusiasm and lust for life than most puppies I’ve seen. And of course, Lizzie performed her little “Oh Mason, I’m glad you’re back and so glad you are okay” dance when we returned. She is so disingenuous and I know this because the minute I left she was cuddling with Cecily, like I never existed.

The good part of this growing infirmity is that I am free to be me, and  dear reader, as any elderly human knows, one of these freedoms is to poop when and where I wish, without any warning. I apologize if I’m offending any of you,  but this is my reality. Yes, I do don the nightly diaper but it can manage only so much payload (forgive me again) and there are oftentimes escapees. And often, some errant stool, like rain from heaven, falls to the ground, as I either am  being carried or strolling through the house. Grandma and Dad are not fans of this occurrence. Of course that presents a secondary problem since Grandma’s domineering, alpha Frenchie, Daphne has a predilection for my sweet offerings. As I’ve often said, old age is not for sissies, nor the faint of heart.

Everyone was on high alert that weekend, always trying to  stay one step ahead of the inevitable. And  into the fray came Otis, the English bulldog, who vomits when he is frightened, but he spent his days at the beach swimming and body boarding.

I’m not sure how sad Grandma was seeing us leave but I know the weekend was magic for this old pug.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Ridiculous two females...Cecily and Lizzie just wallow in their girlish love for one another.

Daphne, the terrorist, on our boat outing over Memorial Day...

Otis at the beach, on a beach chair...His nose got sunburned because he spent every day in the water without sunscreen.

And now, the best is saved for last. Who could resist this pug mug?

Not too bad for an old guy. I'm in it to win it!

Green Acres is the Place to be, or La Symphonie Pastorale

Last weekend, dear reader, confirmed all of my long-held beliefs that canines, like all other creatures of the wild, are meant to spend their days in the great outdoors…with the exception of bitter cold winter weather. Pugs would not survive long in such unforgiving conditions. Pugs do well curled up in front of a fireplace or on a soft sofa, safe from such challenging elements…but I digress.

Because Mom and Dad had to attend a wedding party in New Orleans last weekend, Lizzie and I were driven to Ct. to spend that time with our other grandparents. While their knowledge of and experience with dogs is somewhat limited, they tend to lavish us with treats, attention, and great freedom as compensation. I would never want to disappoint them by suggesting such treatment may not be in our best interest, and so Lizzie and I just go with the flow! Marrowbones awaited our arrival and we were free to explore their three acres for the most desirable chewing spot. I found mine under a large shade tree and was content to idle away most of the afternoon in this rewarding pursuit. Lizzie, however, liked following Grandpa around as he gardened, but then again she has never been very imaginative. I was able to take advantage of her absence by hiding her bone behind the tool shed, which afforded me great pleasure. I then remembered my former ploy of burying my bones in the tall grass and then appearing crestfallen before my Cape Cod Grandma and Grandpa. Assuming I had consumed them, my Ct. grandparents handed over more, which I hid for future use…kind of like putting money into a savings account.

I discovered living such a bucolic life gave me a brief return to my former glory, as I nimbly navigated the outdoors stairs without any assistance.  I was able to travel up and down at will, with no ill effects. How was such a feat possible, given the severe limitations of my hindquarters? I cannot answer this question but can only assume that the magic of such a weekend gave this venerable old pug a small taste of his former glory. Whatever the reason, my legs took wing, enabling me to forget all of the pills, pain, and palliative care of my daily existence. I know it was difficult for my grandparents dealing with all of the diapering, pilling, and bedtime issues but I want them to know their efforts were greatly appreciated. Thank you Grandma and Grandpa for making this old pug feel like a young pup again.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

How perfect a picture is this?

Love this because Lizzie is behind the fence and can't get in

Yours truly being held while wistful Lizzie looks on!

Naptime

King of the yard with his treasure

A Loaf of Bread, A Lot of Time, and Moi

The old saying, “no fool like an old fool” is certainly applicable to yours truly, and were I able to undo the events of the past 48 hours I would. I am, if nothing else, an extreme gourmand (not to be confused in any way with gourmet) and I have lived a long life in a daily quest for errant pieces of food, ort, and garbage. It is my “raison d’etre,” my passion, and my undoing.

Grandma arrived Friday afternoon bearing treats and toys, which I enjoyed to no end. We then decided since the weather was so fine, to walk to Epsteins for an outdoor adult beverage. Mom fed me a fair amount of French fries, which I inhaled, while Lizzie sat on Grandma’s lap just waiting to be petted by passersby. That outing and indulgence set the stage for what unfolded Saturday night.

With my bowels already quite roiled by the ingestion of foods not normally a part of my daily diet, I should have realized how important it was for them to rest. And after the “accidents” of Saturday morning and afternoon, I knew the wise choice would have been to relax and not pursue my food quest, but of course I could not obey that instinct.

Mom and Grandma left the apartment at 7 pm since they had theater tickets, which left Lizzard and me to our own devices for an entire evening. I remembered seeing Grandma carry into the apartment a large bag from Eataly, a remarkable food store on lower 5^th Avenue. I was positive there would be something of interest within that bag but unfortunately Grandma had stowed it in the guest room, up on the sofa, out of my reach. Since I have little to no use of my hindquarters, I had to involve the village idiot in my plan. I will say this for Lizzard, being of a lower mental order she is always willing to forgive and forget previous wrongdoings. In a Machiavellian manner, I explained how important it was for me to acquire said bag because I felt certain Grandma had left a treat in it for us which she had forgotten to hand out earlier. Spry as a roly-poly little hedgehog, Lizzard sprung up onto the couch, snagged the bag, and hopped down. Pushing her aside roughly I inspected its contents, discovering a handsome 9-grain loaf of bread. This was the perfect choice so I searched no further. I must admit it was a bit too hearty for my palette, but I was a pug on a mission. It took five hours of serious chewing and swallowing but I managed to finish all but a small chunk of it. Finally I knew what it felt like to be full…so full I couldn’t drag my body across the room when I heard the key in the door after midnight.

Mom and Grandma inspected the living room quickly, ascertaining there was no evidence of accidents, while chatting about their wonderful evening. It was then that Mom noticed my bloated and distended belly. At that same moment Grandma discovered a little piece of bread on the rug and asked what it was. The rest is a bit of a blur…the discovery of the bag on the floor in the guest room, the small, uneaten hunk of bread, my hardened belly and inability to navigate the room. I was tossed into my carrying bag and off we rushed into the night.

Trying to hail a cab at 1 am in Manhattan is nearly impossible but my wild and crazy mom was successful. By the time we were heading uptown I began to pant, always a signal that something bad is happening in my lower intestinal area. Gas redolent of released yeast and stool filled the cab and Mom alternated between laughter and tears while Grandma tried to keep her calm until we reached the hospital.

An x-ray revealed an abdomen four times its normal size and I spent the night and next morning receiving copious amounts of fluids in order to move its contents along. It was not pleasant since the amount of diarrhea I produced required the shaving of my rear end, giving me a definite baboon butt.

The care and attention I received at the Fifth Avenue Veterinary Specialists Hospital, however, was phenomenal, but I was definitely jonesing for a treat by the time the acute phase was over. Sunday afternoon I spent releasing foul and noxious gas into the apartment but today I am right as rain, ready to eat my weight in kibbles.

And there you have it, dear readers, my weekend with Grandma. Mom said this little escapade of mine was more costly than a stay at a four star hotel and spa, and without any of the perks.  And no, I did not share with Lizzie.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

P.S. Dad was out of town so he missed all of the excitement.

Here we are this morning, Lizzie sleeping in Dad's golf bag and yours truly very comfortable on the floor.

What Goes Up Must Come Down, or How Dumb Can One Pug Be?

Just when I think Lizzie has reached maximum capacity for stupidity, she trumps herself! And once again I am reminded of the earth’s incredible and powerful karmic flow; otherwise how could such a life-affirming event occur, bringing yours truly such deep satisfaction?

This weekend brought beautiful weather to Manhattan and afforded us long walks, great naps, and much needed cuddles. On Sunday, Mom decided it would be lovely to mix up some cocktails, grab a couple of succulent marrowbones and go to the roof of our apartment building, just to soak up the warmth of the spring sun. I was certainly game, with my tail twitching madly and my eyes darting about wildly, until Dad uttered the familiar question, “Where is Lizzie?” As I looked about, I quickly realized that Lizzie indeed had gone missing. What joy! What bliss! What unadulterated pleasure! My weekend went from an eight to a ten in seconds flat. The harsh reality, however, quickly reared its ugly head. My parents were frantic with worry and could not possibly ignore the situation. I communicated with passion, abandon, and fervor that they should not worry, that we should head to the roof, and enjoy ourselves as a perfect threesome…a holy trinity… without Lizzie.

But to no avail were my desperate efforts…a search ensued for the village idiot. We hunted high and low; she was not in the apartment, and not in the hall. At this point Mom was quickly losing what little composure she had, screaming, “Where is my baby girl? Where is my Lizzie?” I was sickened by such a display and could not understand her concern. Finally she pressed the elevator door, waiting for its stop on our floor. The doors slammed open and there stood the most brain-addled pug in existence. Did she hop off and throw herself into Mom’s open arms? No…she just stood there, frozen, as the doors closed, taking her on another journey. Mom and Dad both pounded the elevator button in order to bring Lame Lizzie back home, knowing they would have to snatch her quickly before the doors closed again. We couldn’t even calculate how long she had been traveling up and down since we weren’t aware of her absence.

Dear reader, as you can easily understand, this is not a gifted pug, and like the mentally challenged turkey who drowns in the rain from keeping its mouth open, Lizzie lacks all common sense. While I feel pleased to witness her sufferings for her transgression against Little Bear, it is almost a hollow victory.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Refresher: Mason + Little Bear = Love Affair

Again, another refresher...one dull and vacant looking pug and one highly alert and curious pug. The latter would not ride endlessly in an elevator.

Revenge is a Dish Best Served Cold, or What Goes Around Comes Around

As you recall, dear reader, when last I wrote, Lizzie had committed the unthinkable, the unimaginable, the most egregious of crimes against another pug — the taking of a prized possession and then defiling it. I did vow to seek revenge, even if it involved patience and planning. Never did I dream that said revenge would actually fall into my lap due to the carelessness of my dad.

On a typical workday morning, Dad assumes the role of pug caregiver, unless, of course, he is out of town. This Monday morning was no exception to our normal routine: we get up, are taken downstairs, fed our breakfast, suited up, walked, cleaned up after, and returned to our apartment. This morning, however, one of the steps was neglected, which worked to my advantage, as you will learn.

Upon gaining entrance to our apartment, Dad always goes to his bathroom, which is downstairs, and performs his morning ritual. I rest on the living room rug, which affords me a 360-degree view of our dwelling. Resting comfortably I became aware of a pleasant sensation…the absence of one offensive female pug. Yes, dear reader, Lizzie had been left behind. At that same instant, a frantic scratching sound began, coming from the direction of the apartment door. I chose to ignore it because suddenly my life was filled with hope, joy, and contentment; however, the noise became louder causing Dad to shout out, “Annie, do you hear that noise?” Mom was upstairs in her bathroom blowing out her hair and heard nothing. Dad again yelled out for her to listen. I, of course, remained mum, knowing that fate, God, or divine justice had bestowed upon me this miracle. Dad, in frustration, finally walked into the living room and listened, looked around, and shouted, “Lizzie!” He opened the door and there she stood…a pathetic little groundhog of a pug. She trotted wildly into the room, wagging and wiggling idiotically, and then sought out my company for solace and reassurance. It wasn’t as if she had been left outdoors in the rain or snow, but to see her pathos you would have believed otherwise.

There you have it, dear reader…a small piece of my greater plan, but one that will keep evolving until I am satisfied that she has been sufficiently punished for her sin. And no, I did not offer her any comfort at all.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

The Idiot and I

Little Bear and I, in happier times

I Get No Respect, or Nobody Knows the Troubles I’ve Seen

This is a tale of two pugs…one good and one extremely bad. Surrounded by treachery, deceit, and disrespect I am forced to dredge up Rodney Dangerfield’s most famous tag line and apply it to my situation. I’ve said it before but it bears repeating…Lizzie is a sly puss, a tricky little minx, and not the innocent everyone believes her to be. She is the enemy, make no mistake about that, and even though I am physically limited (hence my undoing), I have experience, intelligence, and patience.

Let me explain. Last week, on a particularly boring afternoon, one where napping and restless pacing weren’t a viable option for either of us, Lizzie decided she would violate the holy of holies, that she would take the one sacred object of mine which even my parents are loath to touch…my little bear. If you recall, from an ancient blog, I have honed my shaping skills to such a fine art that Little Bear sports an exquisite belly Mohawk of unyielding stiffness. He is a prized source of comfort and release. Lizzie is well aware of his revered and inviolate status, and yet, on this day, she chose to transgress.

In her perversity she made a subversive foray into Little Bear’s safe zone, i.e. my bed. Snatching him up in her foul little mouth she trotted across the living room to the ottoman, where she nimbly sprung up onto its surface. Knowing full well I can no longer perform that maneuver due to the degeneration of my hindquarters, she proceeded to maul it wantonly in my presence. Horror of horrors…I thought my heart would burst with pain and anguish. How could she be so cruel? How could she defile this precious object with such casual abandon? At that moment I wished only to save Little Bear from her vile mouth and then destroy her. Unfortunately I could do neither.

At the appointed time of Mom’s return from work, that little she-devil pranced to the door, wagging and wiggling wildly. Mom, of course, greeted her effusively asking what she was so excited about and, I can scarcely believe it as I retell it, that evil strumpet led Mom to the ottoman where Little Bear lay. Mom wanted to believe, for a split second, that I had regained the use of my hind legs and had been able to make the leap. She was sure Lizzie was excited about my recovery. But, as you and I both know, Lizzie of the black heart and treacherous soul was seeking approval for the coup of her lifetime.

I am down but certainly not done. Vengeance is mine and I need only to wait for the perfect opportunity to rain down a revenge of epic proportions on this false pug. Patience and time.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Pure bliss...Little Bear and I sharing a moment