Green Acres is the Place to be, or La Symphonie Pastorale

Last weekend, dear reader, confirmed all of my long-held beliefs that canines, like all other creatures of the wild, are meant to spend their days in the great outdoors…with the exception of bitter cold winter weather. Pugs would not survive long in such unforgiving conditions. Pugs do well curled up in front of a fireplace or on a soft sofa, safe from such challenging elements…but I digress.

Because Mom and Dad had to attend a wedding party in New Orleans last weekend, Lizzie and I were driven to Ct. to spend that time with our other grandparents. While their knowledge of and experience with dogs is somewhat limited, they tend to lavish us with treats, attention, and great freedom as compensation. I would never want to disappoint them by suggesting such treatment may not be in our best interest, and so Lizzie and I just go with the flow! Marrowbones awaited our arrival and we were free to explore their three acres for the most desirable chewing spot. I found mine under a large shade tree and was content to idle away most of the afternoon in this rewarding pursuit. Lizzie, however, liked following Grandpa around as he gardened, but then again she has never been very imaginative. I was able to take advantage of her absence by hiding her bone behind the tool shed, which afforded me great pleasure. I then remembered my former ploy of burying my bones in the tall grass and then appearing crestfallen before my Cape Cod Grandma and Grandpa. Assuming I had consumed them, my Ct. grandparents handed over more, which I hid for future use…kind of like putting money into a savings account.

I discovered living such a bucolic life gave me a brief return to my former glory, as I nimbly navigated the outdoors stairs without any assistance.  I was able to travel up and down at will, with no ill effects. How was such a feat possible, given the severe limitations of my hindquarters? I cannot answer this question but can only assume that the magic of such a weekend gave this venerable old pug a small taste of his former glory. Whatever the reason, my legs took wing, enabling me to forget all of the pills, pain, and palliative care of my daily existence. I know it was difficult for my grandparents dealing with all of the diapering, pilling, and bedtime issues but I want them to know their efforts were greatly appreciated. Thank you Grandma and Grandpa for making this old pug feel like a young pup again.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

How perfect a picture is this?

Love this because Lizzie is behind the fence and can't get in

Yours truly being held while wistful Lizzie looks on!

Naptime

King of the yard with his treasure

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.

But Whenever Monday Comes You Can Find Me Cryin’ All of The Time – A Pug’s Lament

I know that whatever goes up must come down and this is particularly true for a pug on Monday mornings. The Mamas and the Papas got it right in their Monday, Monday lyrics.

I don’t think there is an easy way down when a weekend has been so filled with love, attention, outings, and quality time. This was such a weekend…perfect weather and an inordinate amount of time with Mom. I felt reborn, completely hers, wrapped in the cashmere of her love, and then came the Monday morning reality check.

Lizzard doesn’t feel it because she is so amoeba-like in her wiring…as long as she is fed and curled up someplace warm and soft, she is happy. I, however, have much more refined and patrician needs. I am cursed with such sensitivity that, like the fabled princess who slept on a hundred mattresses covering a pea and suffered from the painful lump, I awake suffering from the pain of Monday morning.

Not to belabor this metaphor, I must move on and find the strength to make it through today. Knowing that Mom is suffering from the same pangs while at work is small comfort for me. I guess I’ll take my cue from Lizzard and snooze until the workday has ended.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

A portrait of a pug in pain as he struggles to escape into sleep.