It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

What a glorious weekend for this remarkable old curmudgeon of a pug. Traveling with Mom to the Cape on Friday was only the beginning of our journey. We surprised Grandpa at his art show opening and then celebrated his birthday on Saturday. Even though the temperature was quite cold, we enjoyed a hike through the woods at Eagle Pond, my favorite destination. The smells were particularly pungent and I wandered unfettered off the trails, exploring each scent that took my fancy.

Sunday was the icing on the proverbial cake, though. It was the annual Christmas party at our Cape Cod vet’s hospital. When the four of us trotted into the waiting room, the audible ooh’s and aah’s gladdened my attention-seeking heart. People were visibly moved by the spectacle we created and naturally, I garnered the lion’s share of this acclaim.

I quickly assessed the situation, ascertained that the popcorn machine was running smoothly, dog biscuits were plentiful, and human food covered a huge buffet style table. All was well. I knew we’d have to earn our rewards, however, because Santa was sitting in front of the fireplace waiting to hold us for the taking of pictures. Ah, what price fame! We were four highly compliant canines and the results are nothing short of spectacular.

Mom happily threw popcorn and dog treats into our snapping maws while people came to admire our catching skills and general cuteness. Grandma, however, always the voice of reason, started to “harsh my mellow” by suggesting that perhaps we’d had enough since she would have to deal with  the consequences later in the evening. I flashed my glistening eyes in Mom’s direction, beseeching her with a silent eloquence, that she should ignore Grandma and just keep feeding us. Mom unfortunately decided it was time to go since she had to catch a train in Providence for New York.

That night, sleeping in Grandpa’s office, I was awakened several times by stomach rumblings and distress. Even the trusty but loathsome diaper could not contain what my bowels were producing. When Grandpa came to fetch us this morning, my diaper was in the corner and evidence of my discomfort left a vivid trail around his office. I felt bad but unfortunately there was no help for it.

They say it is the season for giving and receiving. I received and I gave.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Have you ever seen more fetching beasts? I think the photo would be significantly improved, however, if Grandma would crop out the three others.

When Good Pugs Go Bad, or Dear Santa, Please Forgive Us

Perhaps it was the building excitement of the holidays, maybe it was having extended time alone in our wee apartment, or maybe it was mercury in retrograde…whatever the reasons, Lizzie and I behaved poorly on Friday and since Christmas is so close I felt some atonement for our sins was in order.

I understand the first step in this process is the acknowledgment or ownership of the wrongful action, and so I am saying now that Lizzie and I were despicable in our behavior. Describing our crimes requires the delicacy for which I am most known, but even so my description may offend you, oh gentle reader. Please understand that I must have my say or else all is lost.

When Mom arrived home from work on Friday she greeted us in her usual effusive and loving manner while we wiggled and squirmed in her warmth. The spell was abruptly broken when Mom began sniffing the air, which, I must admit, was redolent with the sharp scent of pug waste. Mom spied Lizzie’s foul offering, piled atop her favorite Etro accent pillow on the couch. Now, you may wonder, how can I honestly say it was Lizzie’s and not mine? Simply put, it could only be Lizzie’s since my hind legs prevent me from making the leap onto the couch anymore. The tale does end here.

When Mom took us out for our evening walk, the elevator was not running efficiently so she carried me down the stairs and Lizzie walked. Again, the limitations of my hind legs prevent my successfully navigating such steep stairs.  This weakening has also affected control of my, hmmm, entire hindquarters, and so, I tend to leave little reminders of this condition whenever I’m being carried to my toileting. This occurs only when the need for relieving myself is imminent. Mom, however, was ignorant of my droppings, so to speak.

Later that evening, she and Dad left for dinner with friends, and again were forced to use the stairs. Mom, in her Louboutins, squished on each step of her descent, looked down in horror and had to return to the apartment for a cleanup. In their haste to make their reservation they committed the cardinal sin…failure to elevate the garbage can. That’s right, when they returned later that evening, tipsy and tired, they were greeted by one of Lizzie’s most thorough trash tosses.

I do not believe pugs are either good or bad, and I do think that all of us, given the opportunity, will behave in a way that is highly objectionable to humans. We are sorry, Mom and Dad. Please try to remember that for most of the year we are well-behaved and people-pleasing pugs.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Look at this, Mom and Dad, and think of happier times...