“Oh What a Rogue and Peasant Slave Am I” HAMLET, William Shakespeare

My inner turmoil and struggle are nothing compared to those of Hamlet, but like Hamlet, I do tend to work myself into an emotional frenzy. One of two things serves as a trigger — food or Lizzie. I am quite sure that Lizzie is the more formidable agent of the two.

Recently I laid bare, what I consider, a very revealing incident/olfactory response to you, dear reader. I am assaulted daily by such conflicting emotions. I would like to punish Lizzie severely, and at the same time, bury my nose in her tantalizing flesh. I spend my days staring fixedly at her, sending out subliminal messages, exhorting her to vanish. And then instantly, like a schizophrenic rat, my pupils turn from hellish red to soft brown, shaded with longing and desire. I am beset with such constant mental instability that I can no longer enjoy those long coma-like sleeps of yore. In west coast lingo, my mellow has been harshed.

If she weren’t so ingratiatingly cheerful and content – which I suspect is due to her significantly lower IQ – I would have an easier time hating and reviling her. No matter how tempestuous my moods or aggressive my behavior, she just slinks quietly away, waiting for a gentle touch or soft voice. Which brings me to the second of my triggers…food. As a result of Lizzie’s toxic scent, I must assuage my fixation with F O O D! I have become even more of a growling, barking, whimpering, demanding beast than before. If I see a dust mote, I attack it like it is my last hope of sustenance and my job is to bring it down swiftly. No human escapes my quest for crumbs, and I fear I’ve made everyone’s life a living Hell. Oh woe is me – a lost pug in Manhattan, struggling to combat my daily demons.

Perhaps if Lizzie is bathed she will lose that atavistic scent and I too will lose my desire for her. I am a monster.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Lost...lost in her scent. I cannot escape.

Here we are together, as always, lying in Dad's bathroom doorway. Look at her staring vacantly into the camera...nothing there at all. I don't get it.

Ask Mason

Yours truly...a day in the park with a bone in my mouth...extreme quality of life

It is interesting to note, dear reader, how often people turn to me for advice or even just to share a concern or complaint. Now I don’t pretend to have any sort of expertise or training in this field but I do have a body of life experience, albeit from a dog’s perspective. In that vein, today I will respond to a query I often receive from readers, which is the age old question of “How will I know if and when it is time to end my dog’s suffering?” It is a valid question and one that I am honored to tackle.
First, there is no hard and fast rule for this, but as humans you must know that you have given yourselves an incredible license…choosing your pet’s ultimate fate is certainly a great privilege and not something to take lightly. You hold the power to end your beloved pet’s suffering when there is no hope for a future and no quality of life remaining. But with all power comes a grave responsibility (pardon my choice of adjective), and that responsibility weighs heavily on every pet owner’s mind. On this you must trust me…we will tell you when it is time. We will tell you because we know of your concern and we are grateful that you can do this last act of extreme love for us. There will be no doubt about the time, and even if you cling to us for an hour or a day past that time, we know you will ultimately do the right thing, which brings us peace of mind.
So, while our lives are brief in comparison to yours, we know with absolute faith that you will see us through our journey with love and compassion. If we could, we would do the same for you. Remember, it is not the length of the life lived, but rather its quality. You give us the ultimate gift of love by ending our suffering when it is time.
I apologize for the rather grim subject, dear reader, but it is one that every pet owner must face from the moment we enter your life to the day we leave it. Shakespeare said it best in The Merchant of Venice…
“The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Nothing to do with my blog but thought you'd enjoy seeing that fool Lizzie with a pizzle in the park

“Old Age Ain’t No Place for Sissies” Bette Davis

“Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;

for in my youth I never did apply hot and rebellious

liquors in my blood; and did not, with unbashful

forehead, woo the means of weakness and debility:

therefore my age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.”

William Shakespeare, As You Like It

We laugh about it, reference it in our jokes, and point out those who suffer from it. We feel secure from its progressive and relentless approach. Old age, if we live long enough, afflicts all living creatures, both great and small. Yours truly has officially entered that dreaded and much maligned realm.

It should have come as no surprise that, with my various physical limitations, I would eventually be forced into wearing “the cloth,” i.e. diaper. I know many of you are gasping and reeling in shock, but let me assure each and every one of you that there truly are  worse symbols and afflictions of senior status. I, for one, am willing to embrace the employment of any prophylactic aid that will enable me to continue living a “strong and lusty” life.

You’ve all seen the ads, giggled at the names – Depends, Poise, Dignity –  and assured yourself that life wouldn’t be worth living if any of these became part of your wardrobe. Well, this man-pug can say, without embarrassment, that the donning of nighttime diapers is not the direst fate awaiting you. Frankly, I appreciate the comfort and security these little denim drawers afford me. Knowing I won’t be shooting off a missile(s) onto the bed or floor makes me sleep a lot easier (and my parents too).

So, dear reader, embrace your senior status when you achieve it. We should rejoice in our venerable stature and laugh at the foolishness of youth, knowing that most of us eventually travel the same path.

I know who I am and I’m more than a diaper!

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

You know, of course, that I do have limits. There will be no photo of yours truly in his nighttime accoutrements.

You asked for it so here it is. My dad captured me on his iphone so the quality isn't great, but you get the idea. I actually do look pretty good!

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

My Facebook contest for the most captivating pug photo has led me to a more contemplative area of thinking than usual this past week. I have thoroughly indulged myself in viewing the pugs in these photos, some of whom are whimsical, some in costume, some enchantingly posed, and some just as themselves. I find myself thinking about the very concept of beauty and what it means. Shakespeare says it best, I believe…

“To me, fair friend, you never can be old
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still.”

Our standards of beauty vary dramatically from one viewer to the next, hence the old adage I adopted for my title today. My great grandmother was fond of this expression and also employed “Pretty is as pretty does” when chastising my grandma as a young self-absorbed girl. So then, what is beauty? Is there a universal standard? And why are there so many hundreds of thousands of pug owners who find their own pug children so appealingly beautiful?  Is beauty really only skin deep? I don’t think so. The longer I live the more I believe that, and I know you will all reel in shock when reading this, beauty does lie within the eye of the beholder. We see what we wish to see. Time and age cannot tarnish what one first perceives as beauty in another.

When I look upon my fellow pugs, dear reader, I see all of the flaws, blemishes, signs of age and decay, but I also see evidence of love, hope, devotion, spirit, and beauty. I cannot believe I am uttering these words (living with Lizzie has definitely weakened my mind and spirit), but there you have it…deep thoughts from a pug named Mason.

Thank you one and all for sharing your photos and captions. Again, not to sound maudlin and overly sentimental like a pug we know well, I am proud to count all of you as my fans.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Yours truly as a young pup...am I less handsome now? I think not.

Sundays and A Homesick Little Pug

I am a pug…” If you prick us, do we not bleed?

if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison

us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not

revenge?”  William Shakespeare

I know some of you may find it difficult or painful to accept, but we pugs have an internal calendar and whenever Sunday rolls around, I find myself experiencing a yearning otherwise absent during the week. I apologize to the most revered Mr. Shakespeare for my lighthearted tampering with his The Merchant of Venice, and let me reassure you, dear reader, that I am not seeking revenge for anything, but you need to understand that pugs do feel pain and emotional anguish as do you humans.

Sundays were the day Mom devoted to me, her number one little man. We took long walks in the park, spent lazy afternoons napping on the couch or watching a favorite movie together. It was our day, our time, and it sustained me for the workweek ahead. I allowed her liberties I would never, under any other circumstances, consider acceptable by anyone else. We cuddled, snuggled, and frolicked together. She was mine and I was hers.

I don’t mean to be such a sissy, but Mom, I really miss you on Sundays. I can’t let Grandma and Grandpa know because they would feel bad and not know what to do. So, I did what any self-respecting pug would  under these circumstances…went into the back woods, found an old bone, and let it comfort me for the afternoon.

Sad in Sepia is what I call this photo...

Mom, I can hardly wait until Friday when you arrive for two weeks.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Don’t Rain On My Parade

I must open with a passage from King Lear, dear reader, since a deluge from which there seems no relief engulfs my days…

Contending with the fretful elements;

Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea,


Or swell the curled waters ‘bove the main,


That things might change or cease.”
- William Shakespeare, King Lear, 3.1.4


Perhaps this is being a shade too dramatic, but I find Shakespeare a great comfort for any of the maladies plaguing living creatures. Being locked in by a month of tempestuous, gloomy, and wet weather on Cape Cod is not what I signed on for. This is supposed to be the summer of Mason! I had so many plans, places to go, and people to see, and yet each day I am faced with cool winds and rain as I crawl out of my pug nest and go out to perform my morning toilet. It is discouraging to me and if it weren’t for the tasty breakfast that follows I am sure I wouldn’t bother with observing the niceties!

My grandparents try to compensate by taking us on car trips and errands, but it is not the same as having a nice chew on some bone or bully stick in the yard on a sunny day. Forgive me for sounding like a Willy Whiner, but I feel as if I am losing precious hours to a never-ending nap orgy.

I think there may be relief coming tomorrow, and if not, then certainly by the weekend. I’ve lost my mojo and seem to be living under a curse from which there is no escape. I do try to remain cheerful and alert, but I find the desire to nap almost overwhelming.

If you are living under a fair sky with a warm sun shining and a balmy breeze blowing, then be grateful and think of me…a handsome pug that is fast becoming a dull mushroom. The only bright spot right now is my new web site: www.summerpugs.com, where you can purchase an autographed (pawtograph) copy of our book. The site is filled with unpublished photos and interesting information, so do visit it.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Here I am on one such rainy day, trying to stay in the game and keep up my spirits.

Chasing a crumb

And, as you can see, I'm falling asleep