Tag Archives: Satan

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,





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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,




Happier times...buffalo jerky in my mouth and toenails that look fine to me.

Happier times...buffalo jerky in my mouth and toenails that look fine to me.


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