“Oh What a Rogue and Peasant Slave Am I” HAMLET, William Shakespeare

My inner turmoil and struggle are nothing compared to those of Hamlet, but like Hamlet, I do tend to work myself into an emotional frenzy. One of two things serves as a trigger — food or Lizzie. I am quite sure that Lizzie is the more formidable agent of the two.

Recently I laid bare, what I consider, a very revealing incident/olfactory response to you, dear reader. I am assaulted daily by such conflicting emotions. I would like to punish Lizzie severely, and at the same time, bury my nose in her tantalizing flesh. I spend my days staring fixedly at her, sending out subliminal messages, exhorting her to vanish. And then instantly, like a schizophrenic rat, my pupils turn from hellish red to soft brown, shaded with longing and desire. I am beset with such constant mental instability that I can no longer enjoy those long coma-like sleeps of yore. In west coast lingo, my mellow has been harshed.

If she weren’t so ingratiatingly cheerful and content – which I suspect is due to her significantly lower IQ – I would have an easier time hating and reviling her. No matter how tempestuous my moods or aggressive my behavior, she just slinks quietly away, waiting for a gentle touch or soft voice. Which brings me to the second of my triggers…food. As a result of Lizzie’s toxic scent, I must assuage my fixation with F O O D! I have become even more of a growling, barking, whimpering, demanding beast than before. If I see a dust mote, I attack it like it is my last hope of sustenance and my job is to bring it down swiftly. No human escapes my quest for crumbs, and I fear I’ve made everyone’s life a living Hell. Oh woe is me – a lost pug in Manhattan, struggling to combat my daily demons.

Perhaps if Lizzie is bathed she will lose that atavistic scent and I too will lose my desire for her. I am a monster.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Lost...lost in her scent. I cannot escape.

Here we are together, as always, lying in Dad's bathroom doorway. Look at her staring vacantly into the camera...nothing there at all. I don't get it.

Let Him Have Time a Beggar’s Orts to Crave — Shakespeare

I apologize to William Shakespeare for use of his line as my title, but I love that he wrote “orts.” I’m not sure that the passage is germane to this entry since it has such a negative connotation, but I’m using it anyway. You’ve heard the expression, “One man’s trash is another’s treasure.” That pretty much sums up the pug life. We adore whatever food you discard, with the exception of coffee grounds and tea bags (Lizzie, however, might explore them but not consume them). What is it that makes us such connoisseurs of your ort? An aficionado of your refuse?

 We are dogs, first and foremost, and our noses are much keener than yours. We smell top notes, low notes, and all of the notes in between. We are so much more tolerant than humans in our olfactory center. What disgusts and repulses you, stimulates and entices us because we are able to experience the entire range of smell potential. We haven’t learned that offal is bad and steamed lobster is good. They are one and the same to us.

 Cleaning our nether regions falls into the same category of experience. Have you ever noticed a beautifully groomed and coiffed lady kissing her little Muffin on the lips, just after Muffin has dutifully cleaned himself? Why doesn’t the lady recoil in horror for what she has just done? Humans are so strange in that they rarely see the connection between what they love and hate.

 Pugs are so basic, dear reader, in that we will smell anything and everything, without any preconceived notions, while you will refuse to smell something you’ve already deemed unacceptable. I say don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. We are much more open-minded, aren’t we?

 More deep thoughts from a ruminating pug…

 

Respectfully submitted,

 Mason

 

Here I am indulging in one of my favorite pastimes...eating old pizza out of its box.