Hold That Fiber

There was a time, not that long ago, that this senior pug needed to be mindful of the calories he consumed. That, however, is not the case now…au contraire…any extra poundage I can add to my frail frame without putting a strain on the old armature is desirable. I need a small reserve for any physical emergencies.

Well, dear reader, my loving parents, in all of their caring devotion to and attentive focus on my health and well-being, neglected to change my kibbles to Mature Adult from Adult Light. Light formulas, as you probably know, contain an incredible amount of fiber, which allows Butter Ball or Bella to eat an acceptable amount of tasty particle board without gaining an excessive amount of weight. How does that work, you ask? Ah, there is the mighty rub. Butter Ball and Bella poop prodigious amounts daily, at any time and without any warning sometimes.

For Mom and Dad, that meant keeping yours truly fully diapered at all  times and still having to deal with surprise droppings whilst changing said diapers. Poop ruled and ruined our lives. What went in, came out speedily. No wonder this old pug couldn’t gain weight. Our last visit to the Cape provided the wisdom we so sorely lacked. Grandma asked, in her assertive, no nonsense voice, “Why are you feeding this poor pug Light food and then complaining about all of the poop he makes?” Mystery solved, happy pug, and happy parents. Sometimes old people and dogs know best.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Here I am, freshly diapered and onesied, chilling on Dad’s legs.

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!

An Unfortunate Affliction, or Daphne’s Dirty Little Secret

Sitting in the capacity of senior member of this motley little pack, I am in a position to observe and comment about our behaviors and foibles. And so, dear reader, lest I offend any of you more sensitive sorts, let me warn now that what I am about to reveal will definitely be off-putting. I am not exploring this region of dog behavior because I wish to shock or horrify, but rather to inform and educate. While this particular “indulgence” is one with which I have had no familiarity, it is something I now fully recognize but abhor.

Daphne, Grandma and Grandpa’s French bulldog puppy, is an aficionado of coprophagia…the eating of feces. Yes, dear heart, it has a name…a medical name because it is in fact a medical condition. No longer must this repulsive habit be unspoken or, at best, whispered about among only the closest of friends. It must be openly discussed and examined. Vets disagree about the reasons for such a predilection and there are as many “cures” as there are reasons. Grandma has added Adolph’s meat tenderizer to our food, mixed pumpkin in all of our bowls, sprayed all of the stools with Sour Apple but with no success. We are now going to have pineapple added to our diet because supposedly that produces a highly unpalatable taste to our waste. I am not holding my breath on this either. Several theories suggest a vitamin deficiency as the cause, but after our vet thoroughly checked Daphne out, that was quickly eliminated. It is a highly unlikely cause for most dogs today since we are fed such perfectly balanced and nutritious diets. Another theory posited is that it is an acquired or learned behavior. Since neither Daphne’s mother nor littermates have that habit, then we can assume that theory is false.

So, poor beleaguered Grandma and Grandpa rush about frantically, with their state of the art “pooper scooper,” through poison ivy and brambles, trying to capture whatever any of the four of us deposit before Daphne can do “clean up in aisle four.”

When Daphne was in puppy class and one of the puppies decided the middle of the floor was as good a place as any to relieve himself, Grandma made a startling discovery. She, as a joke, told the owner that rather than clean it up she could turn Daphne loose. Almost every owner confessed their puppy liked that particular delicacy too, but they had been too ashamed and embarrassed to share this information. Grandma was dumbfounded learning this. Even the trainer said some of his own dogs enjoyed that activity.

As it stands now, Daphne no longer enjoys what she makes, but certainly seeks out Cecile’s, Lizzie’s, and mine. Grandma is covered in poison ivy, and Grandpa looks like Lucy in the candy factory episode of “I Love Lucy,” trying to capture the poops of three pugs, all squatting in different directions of the yard simultaneously, before Daphne “beats him to the punch,” so to speak.

We would welcome any and all comments on this one, folks, but for now kisses from Daphne are avoided.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

You didn't think I would show anything tasteless, did you? Just yours truly totally at peace on the deck.

Sunday morning, in Grandpa's lap, reading the Times...perfect!