“Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night” Dylan Thomas

Here’s the interesting thing about old age, dear reader, it cannot be anticipated no matter how hard we try, nor can its form be controlled. As humans, you acquire your puppy and are charmed by its youthful antics, its high energy, and evident good health. As you cuddle your precious, sweet smelling baby pug, it is nearly impossible to imagine this amazingly vital creature as a blind, deaf, drooling, limping, leaking, foul-smelling vessel of canine DNA.

For those of you who have followed me on my journey into old age, you probably are very aware of all of my physical changes and limitations but unaware of the daily toll it takes on my parents. I think humans get stuck on their memories of us as we were and find it very difficult to move forward into our new reality. My parents face a daily struggle, involving elaborate “pilling” twice a day, changing diapers regularly, and adding the protection of a onesie. These are merely the physical requirements. Add to this regimen, my constant barking upon waking, sleeping, walking, standing, and between breathing, which drives everyone crazy for some reason. And because I am obsessed with any and all food, I cannot relax for any period of time, lest I miss a crumb or morsel. There are also the unwanted accidents that occur during the diaper changing and the occasional nighttime diarrhea events, requiring a butt bath, change of diapers, onesies, and bed linens. This life stage has the power of erasing the wonderful memories of the preceding youthful years. Sleep deprivation is a constant in our house.

The irony throughout all of these changes is that my energy level and vigor remain untarnished, and in fact, are probably even stronger than ever. I can, on rare occasions, even interact with other dogs, twitch my tail gaily, and prance about as a young pup (see my video on Mason and Lizzie’s page on Facebook). Mom and Dad puzzle over this phenomenon regularly and I try to tell them by cocking my head and panting wildly that I am not leaving this life quietly or passively. This pug is going out on a rocket ship, with an earth-shaking blast that I hope erases the memories of these last few years.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Here am I, tearing into Little Bear as if he were my sworn enemy. Even in the onesie, I look fierce!

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!

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.