Tag Archives: Hell

Hang My Portrait on The Wall of Shame

Oh my, dear reader, my soul is in turmoil and I am tormented by the demons of my transgressions. It is to this forum that I must turn in confession, lest I find myself spiraling downward into Dante’s ninth circle of Hell.

How to begin? This may be the one blog entry you wish to skip over, and then hope that better days lie ahead for yours truly. I am an addict. There, I’ve said it. I have a vile predilection, a taste for the highly unsavory (by human standards), a penchant for the forbidden. Many of you pugs reading this will know immediately to what I refer, so don’t pretend you don’t.

I thought I was managing this addiction fairly well this summer, but with two highly productive cats and two litter boxes in the house, I am surrounded by temptation on a daily basis. I also have noted that Grandma and Grandpa have become much more lax about maintenance of said boxes. I was weak yesterday, weak with hunger I should say, but the results were disastrous. Apparently this foray was my undoing, my overdose, if you will. The evidence lay all over my bed and when Grandpa discovered it, he ran downstairs to confer with Grandma. It was inconceivable to them that I would soil my own bed, but the evidence was irrefutable. Only today Grandma realized the vile product, that she assumed was “an accident,” was in fact the result of my stomach discharging its rich and toxic contents.

There will be no intervention, but I am guessing there will be greater vigilance for the rest of my stay here. You see the depth of my despair and shame, but at least I won’t be wearing the dreaded diapers that Grandma threatened before she knew the truth.

As the Pet Shop Boys sang, “So I look back upon my life, Forever with a sense of shame, I’ve always been the one to blame, For everything I long to do, No matter where or when or who, Has one thing in common too, It’s a Sin.”

I am a monster.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

P.S. I cannot show my face on this entry.

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Karma’s A Bitch…Named Lizzie, or Marrowbone Madness

You know the old saying, “what goes around, comes around?” Well, in my case it truly did. It would appear that I am an excellent teacher, because little Lizzie has mastered the art of aggressive behavior.

 Grandma gave us each a marrowbone, which is one of the true delicacies for a carnivore, and we each repaired to our respective dining stations in the back yard. Lizzie prefers the deck for this treat, while I prefer the grass or the wooded part of the yard. This seemed an innocent enough activity for both of us and yet it took a decidedly nasty turn.

 I tend to move quickly over these bones, sucking what marrow I can initially, removing any meat or fat that still remains, and then burying the bone safely in the woods for a future retrieval. After burial, I  sauntered up to the deck to check on Lizzie’s progress when she viciously turned on me, growling like a fiend from Hell! I was so shocked and dumbfounded that I froze momentarily. I looked at her with both awe and confusion. How could this be? Another case of my tutelage creating a monster! She had turned on her master. I could only shake my head and back away from this beast. Grandma kept saying, “Lizzie! Was that really you?” I think Grandma was as amazed as I by our little girl’s outburst.

 Do I believe Lizzie intended me harm? No, but she certainly employed my tried and true technique for warding off bone invaders, so I will not put her to the test in order to satisfy my curiosity. It almost brings tears to my eyes, watching her growing prowess and strength. She is becoming a force to reckon with and I am the proud professor.

 Respectfully submitted,

 Mason

 

Here I am in the initial phase of marrow retrieval

Here I am in the initial phase of marrow retrieval

Deeper licking and chewing

Deeper licking and chewing

Off to the woods for burial

Off to the woods for burial

 

Here is Miss Lizzie, threatening me as she stands guard over her bone.

Here is Miss Lizzie, threatening me as she stands guard over her bone.

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A Pug Faces His Demons or My Soul’s Darkest Hour

I know some of you humans may think when you read this entry that I am being overly dramatic or blowing an innocuous situation completely out of proportion, but every pug will immediately understand what I am saying.

There is no soft peddling this topic, no sugar coating that makes such an unbearable experience palatable. I refer, dear reader, to the trimming of a pug’s toenails.

 This one event can transform a perfectly wonderful and carefree day into the blackest and most terrifying of a pug’s life…akin to staring into the gaping abyss of Hell and seeing Satan’s fiery maw waiting to consume sixteen little toenails! I have no idea why this is so extraordinarily painful for a pug, but it is. I have tried the manly approach, only to fold like a two dollar suitcase, requiring the assistance of five vet techs to restrain me whilst foam spews from my mouth, unearthly howls erupt from my throat, and my eyes bulge and roll wildly about in my head. This is humiliating for me but it is one thing over which I seemingly have no control.

 I have heard whispers from my mother that a trimming is imminent. I heard her speak with Grandma about doing it tomorrow, along with the dreaded bath. I think, however, that they’ve decided to wait for my appointment with my Cape Cod doctor the following week. I can only hope and pray that this is true. I know it is only delaying the inevitable but a week will seem a great gift.

 There are not enough treats in the world to assuage the anxiety, stress, and pain of this medieval form of torture. The bitter irony of this is that simple- minded little Lizzard rarely, if ever, has to have hers trimmed! I don’t understand this at all. We walk the same streets in the same manner and her toenails are always perfect.

Pray for me…

 

Respectfully submitted,

 

 Mason

 
 

Happier times...buffalo jerky in my mouth and toenails that look fine to me.

Happier times...buffalo jerky in my mouth and toenails that look fine to me.

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