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.

You Can Go Home, or To Every Season There Is A Purpose

Forgive the ruminations of a sentimental old pug, but I find it comforting to recall the life I just left behind. Lizzie and I now are ensconced in our Manhattan apartment, napping and waiting for our new dog walker to arrive for our afternoon outing. It is hard to believe the dramatic change we’ve undergone within the past twenty-four hours.

We love being with Mom and Dad again but, like anything in this life, there is a tradeoff. We lose the natural beauty of our surroundings on the Cape, the freedom of running or sleeping outdoors without leashes, and having human company all day long. In NYC, we are alone during the day (except for the dog walker’s two visits), our walks are on leashes on the sidewalk but at least the smells are intoxicating, our apartment is small but at night we sleep with Mom and Dad. In either case we gain and we lose something.

I miss Grandma and Grandpa and all of our car outings, I miss visiting Chloe, I miss going out on the boat, I miss clamming, and I miss evenings in front of the fire.  I love, however, waking up in bed with Mom and Dad and having that extra cuddle time in the morning, I love weekends walking to Thompkins dog park, I love napping on the sofa with Mom on a Sat. or Sun. afternoon, and I love sharing a pizza with Dad.

Both lives are wonderful and we are extremely fortunate but I still hate goodbyes. Lizzie is an idiot and will cuddle with any warm body, so I don’t think she cares where she lays her head. I, however, am extremely mindful of my surroundings and always suffer from dramatic change syndrome.

If you see us walking around the Lower East Side, stop and say hello. We miss all of our friendly faces on the Cape.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Our last day on the Cape...

Our final lobster dinner

Lizzie going for the last drop.

Look at me going for my last taste!

And, our last boat trip....

When The Frost Is On The Pumpkin, or Memories of a Season Well Lived

You know, dear reader, that I am a pug prone to rumination and as my season on Cape Cod draws to a close, I tend to experience each of my favorite things while living here with a bittersweet zest. Perhaps I am not alone in this regard. As I’ve written before, we pugs have an internal clock/calendar that guides us into seasonal changes and senses the passage of time.

When Grandma gives me a “bully stick” now, I attack it with a passion and fervor unlike earlier months. When Grandma mixes up my kibbles and pumpkin, I become wild with anticipation. When Grandpa asks, “Do you guys want to come with me to the bank/post office/library?” I respond immediately and as if it were my last trip on this earth. Even our morning and evening toileting has a poignancy unlike any other time. There is an organic quality to using the woods that we miss in the city. Everything is sweeter…the clams, the lobster remains, carrots, kitty crullers (to borrow from an observant reader my favorite new phrase for this delicacy), naps, walks, boat trips, swims in the ocean, and just being with the old folks (sorry Grandma and Grandpa).

I am not a pug that takes his life for granted; I know how fortunate I am. I don’t know if goofy Lizzie is cognizant of her blessings, because she barely knows what day of the week it is, but I am mindful always. I even enjoy Lizzie more than I could even imagine. And as I say that, please bear in mind that I haven’t crossed over into the dark side. I am just saying that this season of change has intensified everything for me. I have a picture in mind of returning on our last boat outing this past weekend, sitting in Mom’s arms, up tight against Lizzie, in the bow of the boat. The air was cool, our backs were against the wind, and the gentle motion of the boat lulled us both to sleep in the safest cocoon imaginable.

No more sentimental or mawkish thoughts from me…

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

This is for all of you who simply must have a seasonal shot...you can see my level of disinterest.

I think this is a nicer shot of yours truly, and shows Lizzie to be the true loser that she is.