The Devil Wears A Onesie

What a summer it has been, dear reader, and my silence is due only to Grandma’s endless stream of guests visiting on Cape Cod. We were fortunate enough, however, to manage four visits and enjoy all of the pleasures this beautiful strip of land and sea offer. And while I would gladly regale you with tales of my chivalrous and exemplary conduct, I fear the opposite is more the case.

Returning to New York always puts me in a more– how should I phrase this?–aggressive and machismo state of mind. The mellowing and soporific effects of Cape Cod go by the wayside once we cross the Triboro Bridge and zoom down the FDR Drive to the Lower East Side. The difference is palpable and this old pug knows the route like the back of his paw. Living in Gotham requires a fortitude and quickness of reaction that is like nowhere else on earth…and so I become Devil Pug!

It is not something of which I am proud, but there it is, dear reader, a fact of my life.

I am ashamed to confess that I did the unmentionable, the unthinkable, the most abhorrent of all crimes…I bit the hand that feeds me, my dearest and most loving mother’s. It was on a Saturday morning when we always lie in bed and play – I, on my back with four little legs pedaling the air wildly and mouth agape, exposing the few little tooth like stumps remaining in my head – that I chomped down on her index finger like a Wolverine, never dreaming for a second that my bite had any teeth (so to speak). Well, blood came forth as my mother yelled in great pain. I am a monster, a devil, an evil creature with no means of atonement. And without prolonging the suspense, Mom ended up in the emergency room Sunday morning with a significant infection in her finger for which she received both antibiotics and a tetanus shot.

Another incident proving my satanic qualities is my seizure of the loaf of bread she brought from California for Dad. She, without thinking, thought the bread was secure (you will remember my bread episode of several years ago that sent me to the ER) and of course it wasn’t. It was laden with seeds, nuts, and other delicacies not fit for a pug. I proceeded to gorge until I was discovered. You would think I had learned my lesson but here is the thing about pugs, dear reader, we have no memories of unpleasant experiences…only of pleasant ones. I remember that bread tastes good but not that I was deathly ill from ingesting it.

I will continue on my hellish, bullish way, climbing over Lizzie as if she were merely a bump in the road and something to overcome. I will use her as a pillow or else ignore her completely. And while I am not the vilest of all creatures, I am certainly deserving of my sobriquet in today’s blog title.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

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.

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!

Ask Mason

Yours truly...a day in the park with a bone in my mouth...extreme quality of life

It is interesting to note, dear reader, how often people turn to me for advice or even just to share a concern or complaint. Now I don’t pretend to have any sort of expertise or training in this field but I do have a body of life experience, albeit from a dog’s perspective. In that vein, today I will respond to a query I often receive from readers, which is the age old question of “How will I know if and when it is time to end my dog’s suffering?” It is a valid question and one that I am honored to tackle.
First, there is no hard and fast rule for this, but as humans you must know that you have given yourselves an incredible license…choosing your pet’s ultimate fate is certainly a great privilege and not something to take lightly. You hold the power to end your beloved pet’s suffering when there is no hope for a future and no quality of life remaining. But with all power comes a grave responsibility (pardon my choice of adjective), and that responsibility weighs heavily on every pet owner’s mind. On this you must trust me…we will tell you when it is time. We will tell you because we know of your concern and we are grateful that you can do this last act of extreme love for us. There will be no doubt about the time, and even if you cling to us for an hour or a day past that time, we know you will ultimately do the right thing, which brings us peace of mind.
So, while our lives are brief in comparison to yours, we know with absolute faith that you will see us through our journey with love and compassion. If we could, we would do the same for you. Remember, it is not the length of the life lived, but rather its quality. You give us the ultimate gift of love by ending our suffering when it is time.
I apologize for the rather grim subject, dear reader, but it is one that every pet owner must face from the moment we enter your life to the day we leave it. Shakespeare said it best in The Merchant of Venice…
“The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Nothing to do with my blog but thought you'd enjoy seeing that fool Lizzie with a pizzle in the park

The Reluctant Diner, or I’m Just Not That Into Food

Mason asked me to write this blog because he is so embarrassed by what he calls my “aberrational behavior, “ whatever that means. He calls me a disgrace to my breed, a pug with no “raison d’etre,” another term I don’t know, and says I am someone he is ashamed to share space with.

See, this is the problem and honestly, I don’t understand why it upsets him so, but when I am wakened in the morning, taken out to do my business, and then given my food, I have no appetite yet. I am not a morning pug at all. If I were given a choice, I would sleep the entire day! I love my pug nest and I am just not ready to leave it as early as Mason is his. Mason wakes up with guns cocked, ready to get outside, then rush into the kitchen and gobble down his breakfast. By the time I wander downstairs, Mason has done everything and is already sitting posed near the table, begging for scraps. I love to say a leisurely good morning to everyone, kiss Mason, and cuddle in Grandpa’s lap before going outside. Mason has no patience for me and tries to push me away so his concentration isn’t broken.

After I come inside, my breakfast is put before me, and since I really have no appetite yet and don’t want to disappoint Grandma and Grandpa, I just stand in front of my bowl, staring at it. Mason hovers behind me, hoping someone will tell him it is okay to eat my food. Sometimes the cats come too and watch me. All of this makes me very nervous.

I want to please Grandma and Grandpa but I’m just not hungry, so some mornings I stand there for 15 minutes before I am able to even take a bite and some mornings I can’t eat at all.

So, you can only imagine how angry Mason is with me, particularly those of you who read him regularly. Mason believes that life is about getting and eating food. Everything he does is about those two goals. He is patient, impatient, tricky, sweet, funny, angry, and probably other things I can’t even think of, but all of these things are about getting food (he would say “the acquisition of victuals”).

Well, thanks for listening everyone, and I wish I could write about wonderful things like Mason does, but I’m just not that clever or interested.

Have a great day!

Lizzie

P.S. Guess what??? My mom and dad come today for a visit. I am so excited!

You can see I have a big audience which gives me stage fright.I'm looking at Grandpa, hoping he'll say I may be excused.

I sniff at it...

but I just don't want it.

Oh What A Tangled Web We Weave When First We Practice To Deceive

Sir Walter Scott’s poetic line is certainly appropriate for today’s entry. I am caught out, undone, revealed, exposed, discovered, and busted. The jig is up. My dirty secret has been laid bare. My life will no longer run with its controlled clock-like precision, all because I had over-weaning confidence and let down my guard. I was sure I could keep up the ruse, fool my mom, deceive the world, and conceal the truth.

Saturday morning, a particularly wonderful day of the week for any right-minded pug, found Mom, Dad, Lizzard, and yours truly snuggled deep into a world of down…sandwiched between the featherbed and comforter. It was so warm and cozy that I let go, relaxed in the moment, and against my better judgment and instinct, did the unthinkable…I started playing with Lizzie.

We lay face to face and started batting each other with our paws while mouth wrestling. I know, I know…it was stupid. At that point, Mom peeked under the cover because she felt our little legs kicking and caught us in the act of joyful abandon! I have spent the past year convincing everyone that this silly little pug is something I merely tolerate and it is only out of the generosity of my spirit that she is allowed to share my space. To be foiled in such an unmanly way sickens me.

So now, dear reader, my folks know the truth…that Lizzie and I play when we are alone. We romp, we frolic, we gambol wildly, we interact, and we cuddle. Lizzie, because she is such a mental midget, sees no problem with their knowing the truth and so naturally she tries to do these same activities in front of them. I have had to rebuff her soundly so they wouldn’t assume “we have bonded.”

I can no longer make them feel guilty for leaving us. It is over and I am a ruined pug. Read this and weep for me.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

 

Caught again by that d--- pug cam in our most compromising and revealing position!

These Are A Few of My Favorite Things

Hi Everyone!

Mason is pooped today so he has let me do a little dictating. When I last wrote, I had been a very naughty girl and was feeling guilty. I am happy to say that those days seem behind me now. I have tried really hard to avoid the garbage area of the kitchen(but I’m not always successful) and I have made every effort to ummmm, relieve myself outdoors. So, you’re probably wondering why I am writing this. The answer is pretty simple. I am grateful for so many things but right now I’m sooooooo happy that I can live in this cozy apartment with my mom and dad, and most especially, Mason. Also, Valentine’s Day is on Saturday and I am filled with love!

Sometimes Mason can be a bit grumpy and mean, but I know that deep down he really loves me. He doesn’t like to show it but he does in little ways, like he doesn’t run away every time I try to cuddle up to him, he lets me burrow deep under the covers up against Mom without pushing me out of bed, and he doesn’t stand over me when I eat, waiting for me to miss a crumb. That has to be love, doesn’t it?

On these freezing cold mornings I don’t even want to open my eyes, let alone get up, then put on a sweater and boots, and head to the elevator for our freezing morning walk. I do it though, because I am so grateful for all that I’ve been given. Also, I hope Mom and Dad know how much I love it when they rub my belly and cuddle with me.

I don’t have plans or ambition like Mason; I am just happy to be along for the ride. When Mom and Dad tell me they love me, well, I am the happiest pug in the world. Happy Valentine’s Day to everyone, but most especially to my wonderful family.

Love, pugs, and kisses,

Lizzie

P.S. I am sure Mason will have something to say about this entry.

 

Oh gosh, I didn't even know this was taken! Here I am napping on Grandpa's side, as he naps. He has a red shirt on so I thought of Valentine's Day...oxox