Tag Archives: torture

Pizza, Chicken Soup for a Pug’s Soul, or I Never Smelled a Pizza I Didn’t Love

Some days, dear reader, the cold is so bone crushing and pervasive that every step taken is excruciating. Going out to relieve oneself is a cruel exercise in torture. Today was such a day and I fear my old pug bones were challenged at a new level of intensity. I know I presented a pathetic sight with my roach spine and halting gait. I could see passersby stare and “tsk tsk” with empathy as they viewed my poor ambulation. When I realized the emotional outpouring I was receiving, I upped my performance a notch, hoping Mom would join in the pity party and just pick me up.

But just when I was sure my act was about to garner a cozy reward, I smelled it. That’s right… the smell that no red-blooded, all-American, food obsessed, wildly possessed pug can resist…PIZZA! The holy grail of all human food. I mean pizza is my raison d’etre, it is what compels me to tick off the days until the next pizza delivery, and it is what compels me to accomplish seemingly impossible feats of pug daring.  I am ashamed to say that if the pizza delivery boy offered me a home with him, I daresay I would have my bags packed and out the door before Mom could croak, “Mason!”

I digress. It was in the midst of this pitiful charade that I smelled it. My little pug feet took wing and in a trice I had tracked down the source…a Domino’s delivery bicycle parked outside an apartment building. There, clinging to the bike’s cold and brittle metal framework, were pizza molecules, bearing the heady, aromatic, and intoxicating aroma of its last delivery. Dear God, no right-minded pug can resist that smell. Energy returned and vigor was restored; all of my senses became electrified in that one defining moment. Mom looked at me with such disbelief that even I felt some embarrassment. It was as if she had seen Christ cure a leper, or restore a blind man’s sight, or give a cripple the use of his legs again.

I raced home, convinced the Domino’s man would be upstairs waiting for me. How could he not be?  This is where the story takes a decided downward turn. There, of course, was no Domino’s delivery, or any other pizza delivery for that matter; however, I did hear Mom say that tonight will probably have to be a pizza night after my transforming encounter.

All’s well that end’s well, dear reader.

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

From the archives...here I am thoroughly enjoying my pizza

I am dominating that box ( a little play on words)!

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Agility Training For Pugs…An Oxymoron, or Just Give Me The Treat, Grandma

My version of weave is avoid

My version of weave is avoid

My life, so far, has been fairly undemanding and probably unproductive, which suits me fine, thank you very much. For some bizarre and unexplained reason, Grandma has taken up the notion that I would enjoy learning and performing the physical feats of a trained circus dog. As a result of acquiring these skills, goes her theory, I will become a much happier and more fulfilled pug. Au contraire, Grandma! I like my life just the way it is.

This week, however, brought stress into my stress free existence. Out came the newly purchased stakes…ten of them…planted strategically in a long row, 1 to 2 feet apart, in the back yard. Grandma proceeded to put me in my harness and leash, show me a fist full of tasty treats, and then lead me outside to the row of said stakes. Her voice was filled with a whole lot of encouragement and, what I later discovered to be false, bonhomie. After viewing the treats again, I was forced to “weave” through each of these stakes with the proffered treats always in view. Grandma kept repeating the dreaded “weave” and I, realizing what was being asked of me, stubbornly dug in all four feet while my harness was being pulled to the point of serious separation. Upon completion of this torture trail, Grandma forced a hearty, “Good job, Mason” and rewarded me with a tiny morsel. At this point, I felt I was okay because at least it was over; but no, again she started with the weave command. I couldn’t believe it! My grandma, who usually is tuned in to my every nuance, expression, and reaction, just forged ahead in her resolute determination of making me fulfill her dream — producing a superb agility pug.

Fortunately, and I cannot believe I am saying this, goofy old Lizzie waddled out, looked at my misery, and decided she would enjoy this game. She started walking in and out of the stakes, just to be near me, and Grandma suddenly said, “Why Lizzie, you may be a better candidate. Let’s get your harness on and try it.” Thank you Lizzie! I was free…never again would I be subjected to such folly!

You must weep for me, dear reader, because my once beloved granny was not done with me. She has made me revisit this medieval torture, this cruel practice every day. I am not doing any better and yet she persists. Somebody please put an end to this for me. Maybe an intervention is needed? Didn’t she get the memo that pugs are lap dogs?

Respectfully submitted,

Mason

Here is view from the upstairs landing of my torture course.

Here is view from the upstairs landing of my torture course. Lizzie is stupidly staring at the stakes and wondering what they are.

As you can see I have removed myself from the danger, while Lizzie "weaves."

As you can see I have removed myself from the danger, while Lizzie "weaves."

Yours truly beating a hasty retreat before being driven back to the stakes.

Yours truly beating a hasty retreat before being driven back to the stakes.

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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,

 

 Mason

 
 

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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