Tag Archives: Lizzie

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,


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.


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Ask Mason #2, or What is Love?

Readers often ask me questions of both a personal and spiritual nature, so that from time to time, I feel compelled to address them in this format. One that recurs, in one form or another, is “You really love Lizzie, don’t you?”  That, dear reader, is a loaded question – one fraught with many ramifications and consequences.

Much like Professor Henry Higgins, in Lerner and Loewe’s My Fair Lady, as he sings about Eliza Doolittle, I can say of Lizzie “I’ve grown accustomed to her face.” Hmmm, I just realized the strong connection between Eliza and Lizzie. How did I not note that before? I digress. Lizzie has become a part of my daily scenery, and more accurately, quoting the lyrics from said song,

“I’ve grown accustomed to her face.
She almost makes the day begin.”

The question still remains, “Do you really love Lizzie?” and to that I must honestly answer that I don’t know.  How is it possible to love such a non-entity of a pug? She contributes nothing to my day. She fusses needlessly over me when I’m ill. She stares at me with these pathetic mooneyes. She always waits for me to have the first treat. She is incapable of having an intelligent conversation and she simpers like an empty-headed twit. She protects me from any imagined danger on the street. She knows I’m not interested in cuddling but sometimes ignores that caveat and curls up close to me anyway if she “senses” I might need her little body near me. She is cloying and annoying. She has lost more teeth than she currently has, and her body resembles a cross between a hedgehog and a woodchuck. So how could I possibly love this foolish pug?

Think of me as a pug Rex Harrison and sing these words:

Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn!
I’ve grown accustomed to her face.
She almost makes the day begin.
I’ve grown accustomed to the tune that
She whistles night and noon.
Her smiles, her frowns,
Her ups, her downs
Are second nature to me now;
Like breathing out and breathing in.
I was serenely independent and content before we met;
Surely I could always be that way again-
And yet
I’ve grown accustomed to her look;
Accustomed to her voice;
Accustomed to her face.

What is love anyway? I’m sure I haven’t a clue so I leave that answer to you, dear reader.

Respectfully submitted,


I offer this photo of Lizzie as evidence.


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