Pug & Pug LLC

You know those cheesy commercials that come on at 2 AM on Lifetime? The ones that say, "Hello! Are you hurt? Have you been injured in an accident? You may be eligible for damages, up to $1,000,000 dollars! If you want to find out more, call us at 1-888-I'M-GONNA-STEAL-YOUR-MONEY!"

Yeah, those. You know those. So I'm chatting with The Boyfriend tonight, and I'm discussing my overwhelming urge to parachute into the Amazon jungle and live off bananas and roots for the next five years - adopting a little monkey who I eventually name Yoko, who fathers a whole family I dub "Yokonites".

And he says I'm being impractical and unreasonable, to which I heartily agree (but when am I really ever reasonable? It's no fun to be reasonable). But I still insist he should take long vacations with me, feeding the Yokonites and feasting on crushed roots. Unfortunately, The Boyfriend has other things on his agenda. Things like, for example, working for the Public Defender's Office. Which is all well and good until you realize that a beginning attorney earns 1 vacation hour per week. WEEK - yes, I said week. Which, according to my sloppy calculations means he'd have to work for about 3 1/2 years before he could take a week off for vacation. What kind of retarded system is that?!

So, in shock and desperation, I order him to cease and desist all Public Defender activities and come join me and my side of The Force. Or rather, my own little private practice I'll set up when I graduate law school (the reason being cuz no one will hire me and my bad bad grades). I plan to name it Pug & Pug LLC (you know, Keller & Keller, Brown & Brown, blah blah blah). Our commercial jingle will be: "Is your dog in trouble? Has he been injured in an accident? Has your dog suffered discrimination? Has he eaten too many chicken wings? We can help! Call our offices of Pug & Pug LLC, at 1-800-PUG. We'll be waiting!" We'll even have a little V-Dub Beetle painted in brown with a speaker fixed on top that utters loud doggy barks every 10 minutes. It'll be awesome.

Ogley-Eyes

I went to the gym this week. Like the week before. And the week before. I've discovered, much to my delight, that the upstairs portion of the gym is almost always empty, and I can run from machine to machine in manic delight at the sheer available-ness of it all. So this week I was upstairs, pouring salty beads of sweat, and doing my best guppy fish impression while drinking from my water bottle.

And in comes someone to ruin my lovely I'm-all-by-myself Zen mode. The fella plops down on the floor and starts doing those crazy pushups you perform with 2 fingers or something. I'd never try that - they'd snap off in protest. So I'm chillin', doing my StairMaster, glancing at the clock every 2 seconds to see if I've progressed beyond my current 3 minutes of a rather lame-ass sissy workout.

And reading, of course. Every so often, I raid the Bargain section of the local Borders or Barnes and Nobles, looking for something that looks completely unintelligent and has someone being killed or stabbed or stalked or farted on. Hey, I can only concentrate so much while bicycling vigorously and swatting my tendrils of nosy hair back in place. I need brain-dead material to entertain me. Otherwise I will grow to hate the gym, and I will balloon up into an ungainly and rather unattractive 300 pounds.

So I'm reading, and stepping, and swatting hair, and drinking water. And sneaking little glances at my workout "buddy", rather jealous that he's lifting 100 pound weights in each hand like they're sticks of butter. And then I notice something that boggles my mind to this minute: my buddy is glancing at me, smiling that "you're kinda cute, do you think I'm cute too" smile, and winking every so often. I'm absolutely flabbergasted.

Now, perhaps I should explain. I understand, and have been told by some people, that I'm somewhat attractive. And this usually happens when I'm wearing the most expensive dress I own, the tallest shoes in my closet, and a bit of makeup. I've looked at myself in the morning after getting out of bed, and let me tell you, the sight is not pretty. Now, I'm one of those people that will get dressed up for everything - I'll wear a dress to go shopping for groceries. But the one thing I absolutely refuse to dress up for is the gym. In fact, I have subconsciously made it my utmost priority to look my absolute worst when I go the gym. Probably because my gym clothes look like they were made in the 70s, and I'm sweating like a pig.

So, back to the story, I'm puzzled that this fella is making ogley-eyes at me. Me, the girl in the old sweatpants and faded ugly t-shirt. The girl who's hair is pinned up, but looks strikingly similar to a volcano that's about to erupt. The girl who's face is as red as a tomato - no, make that an eggplant. Yes, I was purple from exhaustion. The man must be going delusional from all those 2-finger pushups. Or those He-Man weights. Or maybe he's crazy. Scenes from Psycho and the music from Jaws pop into my head and I grab my little towel, draping it over my shoulder like a mini-shield, and make a dash for the stairs. Once safely in my car, I realized perhaps he just has a fetish for eggplants in ugly sweats. That's probably it.

And since I wrote nothing about the pug in this entry, I shall let you all know: he's safe, he's snoring, and he's still the spawn of Satan.

Yoga!

Lately I've been thinking that maybe I should stop being a overweight slob and actually go out and do some exercise. As well as cut back on the gallons of ice cream consumed daily.

It's been going pretty good, and this week I decided to pick up a book about yoga. I've always been interested in limbering up (hell, I'd be happy just being able to do the splits), and I've heard yoga is great for that - so yoga book bought at Borders, brought home, quickly scanned while steaming broccoli, and forgotten until a more convenient time.

Today I got back from the gym sweaty and feeling like my tummy was carrying around one of those giant water cooler jugs (probably due to my over-enthusiastic consumption of water at the gym). I call out to my pug, with the usual greeting of, "Good evening, my child" (in a sinister Dracula-ish voice. I don't know why.) He jumps all over, snorts, farts and looks at his behind as if to say, "Huh? Wasn't me. Swear." and does all those other lovely pug things. I spot the yoga book lying forlornly on the kitchen counter, and decide to try it out.

So I pick the book up, read a little, lay down on the floor, and start my yoga routine. Ahh, the corpse position. Close my eyes...breathe in....and out....and in...and OUCH! I open my eyes. DevilSpawn is sitting on my chest, his little tail wagging like a torpedo, panting very very close to my face. Granted, I'm sweaty and smelly and all, but I still don't like being slobbered by a dog that eats chicken every day (hey, I'm a vegetarian. I cry for each chicken killed unnecessarily. But I get blackmailed into buying chicken every week for the pug. He's an evil mastermind, I'm telling you.) So I pick up the pug, put him far away, and return to my yoga maneuverings. Now, I'm sure if I had a Golden Retriever, or a Doberman, or a Keeshond, or even a Chihuahua, the dog would eventually tire of my antics and leave me be. However, that is NOT the case with a pug. My personal theory is that pug brains are so small, that they can only receive and remember a certain amount of information - therefore, what was newly discovered and memorized 2 seconds ago, has been erased by now. Which equals a very curious pug that never shuts up or leaves you alone. Let me tell you, that session was short. VERY, VERY short. Every time I moved a limb or finger, the pug would be there to put it in his mouth or slobber on it. And if I wanted to lie really still and concentrate, he'd make sure that I become an obstacle course, where he'd jump from my left side to my right side, usually falling on my chest in the process. Just lovely. I have a feeling he got more exercise done than I did.

And that was the end of my first try at yoga. I think I'll have to close the door next time.

Perfect Description

At long last, I've found the true meaning for the pug breed:

Pugs: They're like owning an incredibly dumb "Evel Knievel"

*Snort-and-roll-over-from-intense-laughter*

But I must give credit where credit is due (read it! read it!)

And of course, the bestest explanation for pug anatomy EVER.

Swollen Face = Heart Attack for Pug Mom

This morning I wake up to a nice and bright day, full of opportunities to go to work and earn a living. I go outside, grab my pug, swing him around in the air while yelling, "Good mornin'!" - and then shriek in horror. My pug, lovely pug that he is, has a big face full of wrinkles. Today his face has doubled in size, and I detect a red undertone beneath his fur. I glance at the clock - 9:05. I've got 15 minutes to get to work. But work smork - my baby is in trouble! I don my Pug Mom cape and pack up the dog, rush to the car, and drive like a madwoman to the hospital.

Not to worry, says the jolly ol' doc. It's just an allergic reaction to something - we don't know what, but heck, he probably won't go into anaphylactic shock. Somehow, I'm not reassured. After a shot or two, I wait with the pug. And wait. And wait. The pug looks at me with red little eyes that seem to say, "Moooommm? Mooomm? You're overreacting, Mom. I'm bored, Mom. I wanna eat. Food, Mom! Foooood!"

Finally we're given the OK to go home, and we pack it up and leave. Of course, the hospital's number is on my speed dial in case the pug bloats up again like a balloon. We get home, I nearly cry from relief that his face has gone down to it's normal, un-football like state. I feel him half a chicken, he wags his little tail in greedy devotion to the Almighty Chicken, and then plops down on his bed and snores away. I stare at him. He's wiggling around in contented slumber, and my pulse is still beating away like a jackhammer. I think I worry enough for the both of us.

Pug Sugar High = Bad for Pug Mom

For all you pug owners out there, let me give you one tip from a very sleep deprived Pug Mom: NEVER give your pug too much ice cream. You WILL regret it.


Let me start by saying that my pug is rather quiet most of the time. Yes, he whines and moans and groans at me, but he almost never barks inside the house for barking's sake. He only barks when he senses someone at the door. So, at least with my pug, I've never known what it is like to hear him bark on and on and on for hours at a time. Thank God.


Last night, I'm feeling rather sorry for my pug, who's watching me eat some vanilla ice cream with sad mopey "how dare you not feed me, you fat thing, you" eyes. I decide it wouldn't kill him to have a scoop of ice cream, so I bring out the ice cream carton and start scooping something out. To my dismay, a large (think larger than humans should eat at one time) scoop flies out of the carton and lands on the floor. Babar immediately attacks it. Although slightly concerned at the magnitude of the scoop, I figure he'll be all right, and head to bed.


After falling blissfully asleep, I am awoken by a bark. And then another bark. And then another. And another. My first thought: "Someone's at the door." Which is scary when I live all alone in a basement apartment, and it's dark outside (hey, it doesn't take much to scare me). So I wait to see if there's a knock, but nothing happens. So after some hesitation, I roll over and fall back asleep. I am woken, seemingly seconds later, by another string of frenzied barking from DevilSpawn. Again I think someone's at the door... but no, false alarm. I roll over again and try to fall back asleep. Woken again by barking. Try to fall back asleep. Woken AGAIN by barking. Try to fall back asleep. Rinse and repeat. My body eventually decided it wasn't going to wake up fully each time the dog barked, and while in a semi-catatonic state, I could hear myself scream, "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Evil pug! Shut up!"

I wake up at 1 in the morning. Complete silence. My little heart clenches up and I think, "Noooo.... my pug has died from over-barking!" I know - my brain works rather oddly during the early morning hours. I slog my way out of bed, and peek out the door. The pug is lying on his bed, content and asleep, snoring away. I fall back into my bed and curse ice cream. Never again will I listen to those mopey eyes.

The Attack of the Chihweiler

This morning I was late to work. Why, you ask? Because my good ol' landlord decided to put up my apartment for sale a few months ago, and ever since, I've been barraged with visits from the realtor's office at random, usually inconvenient, times of the day. Today it was from 11:30 to 12:30.

So I'm at home, doors open, house cleaned, sitting on my bum waiting for people to drop by so I can finally leave for work. The DevilSpawn is running around outside in the patio, attacking the dragonflies buzzing around.

All is well.

Then the Pug starts screaming bloody murder. Usually, this happens when he sees a human walking by - he can't help himself. I believe his thinking pattern is: "Person! Person! Play! Play! Person! Play!" Being rather entranced playing Tetris, I ignored the bum.

Then I heard it. It was a weird barking sound, a combination between Rottweiler and Chihuahua. It started with a deep growl and progressed into a high pitched “rarrf!” I couldn’t think of any dogs that lived nearby, so I popped my head out the door to see what it was. There is my pug, staring at a little boy, maybe 4 or 5 years old, who’s on the stairs leading down to my apartment. And he’s nearly down on his hands and knees, doggy-style. And barking. At my pug. I swear upon coconut ice cream, DevilSpawn turns to look at me, cocks his head to the side, as if to say, “What in all the blazing eff is that?!”

I could have died laughing.

The little boy, not to be discouraged, ups the volume of his barking. Babar looks at him for a second silently, probably wondering whether he should stoop to that level – then barks back in reply. For the next 5 minutes while the kid’s parents toured my apartment, I could hear: Pug bark, pause for kid bark, kid barks, dog barks in response, kid barks again, dog barks. And repeat.

Just loverly.


P.S. On a side note, I want to live in Denmark. Desperately.

20 Things About Pug Mom

After long thought, I decided this blog belongs to me, Pug Mom, just as much as Babar. Therefore, I'm allowed to blog about myself from time to time. I hope. And I figured a "20 Things About Me..." list would be an easy way to start. So here goes.

1. I'm addicted to ice cream. My stomach starts eating itself alive if I don't get a scoop once a day.
2. I'm half Mexican, half Ecuadorian. But I've lived in good ol' US of A all my life.
3. I used to change my diapers when I was a toddler. I kid you not.
4. I start drooling when I think of asparagus.
5. I love having my feet kissed. Not massaged, KISSED.
6. I bite my tongue and cheeks every single night when I'm asleep. I've gotten used to seeing the pools of blood on my pillow when I wake up.
7. When I was very little kid, I thought my caramel skin color was just dirt, and if I scrubbed hard enough with a loofah, it would turn white like my friends'. Boy was I wrong.
8. I once actually thought Justin Timberlakes hair from the N*Sync days was hot. Shortly afterwards, I saw the light and shivered in disgust.
9. If it's a kid movie in CGI, I will go watch it.
10. The first time I thought I fell in love, I felt nauseous, lightheaded, and feverish all day. Turns out it wasn't love - just bad food.
11. I'm a sucker for baths. I also yearn for the day when bathrooms will be encased within soundproof walls.
12. I'm scared of my pug.
13. Although I love trying different foods, I can't stand lots of spicy-ness. It might have something to do with that bowl of guacamole in 1995 with large chunks of extra-extra-extra hot chili floating around, that somehow managed to end up in my spoon, and 2 seconds later, my mouth.
14. I'm a law student. But I'm not evil. Don't hate me.
15. My first kiss was with fella from the Navy in Rome. Rome, Italy. On the escalator at the Termini subway station.
16. I love having my back kissed. Not massaged, KISSED. And scratched too.
17. I have a bottomless tummy. If I feel full, I just need to wait 5 minutes, and I'm ready for another meal. It's rather bothersome when you're trying to lose 20 pounds.
18. I make feline animal sounds at random moments of the day to express different emotions. I once barked at my boyfriend. I'm not crazy, believe me.
19. I love Vincent Cassel - and I don't know why. I don't think he's a great actor, I don't think he's attractive. Maybe because he's married to Monica Bellucci, my ultimate lesbian dream date.
20. I think anacondas and boas are beautiful creatures.

Squirrels, Bunnies, and Pugs

I've always wondered - how does the squirrel and bunny hierarchy work? Perhaps I should explain.

I live in a suburban neighborhood, filled with screaming children and grass that's just five minutes away from dying a slow painful death. Here, I see squirrels and bunnies who have overcome their natural fear of all beasts much larger than themselves. They wait until said beast is only five inches away, and then take one heavy hop to the side, as if to say, "What? The sidewalk too small for you, you fat thing, you?"

I like to sit in my car sometimes after getting back from work and stare at the little fellows, digging for imaginary treats on my lawn - completely ignoring my recently parked car. Because they work in such close proximity, I always wondered - who's the boss here?

Although some would say that the precocious squirrels are at the top of the corporate chain, I would have to disagree. Yes, bunnies look gentle, sweet, and stupid. Bunnies become roadkill a lot more often than squirrels.

But I say this is all an act. Bunnies are smart, conniving little chaps. They know they look innocent and harmless, and they exploit this knowledge to its full potential. Squirrels, being ruthless loud little furballs, are recruited into the bunny fold, with promises of nuts and Pug Mom’s trash, to warn and protect the bunny population.

How else would it explain the fact that whenever I let the DevilSpawn outside, bunnies are completely absent from the picture, yet squirrels are hanging from every branch and twig, staring relentlessly at my pug? They’re the bunny security system, I’m telling you.

Unfortunately, the bunnies have overlooked a key factor: my pug doesn’t want to attack bunnies. He’s AFRAID of bunnies. He jumps in alarm whenever they appear out of the brush. After all, his only prey is the chicken in my fridge and the ants that crawl around outside. He’s such a pussy.

And so begins this woeful tale...

I have a pug. His name is Babar. He's fawn with black sprinkles, and he's the son of Satan.
Technically, his father is a massive rolly-polly mound of fawn-ness called Sherman, but I know, and Babar knows, that evil impregnated his mother that fateful day.

Before Babar entered my life, I was carefree. I enjoyed long naps on my couch (which, at that time, was located in the most logical place - the Living Room). I walked barefoot around my apartment. I left the front door open so my friend, The Breeze, could come in and chat. I ate ice cream and homemade chocolate chip cookies while sitting cross legged on the floor. I played music and danced around naked at 2 AM in the morning.

Then it all changed.

I decided, probably during a sugar high, that I wanted a dog. And not just any dog - a pug. Why did I want a pug? They seemed cute. Had I ever met a pug before? Nope. Did I know how to take care of a pug? Nope. Had I any clue in all frakkin' hell what I was getting myself into? Not a dang clue. But being the sometimes brainless gal that I am, I launched into my search for the perfect pug.

I found him.

Once his big buggy eyes stared at me in confusion, and he attempted to climb up my cleavage, I was gone. I spent the next hour drilling The Boyfriend's ear about how ah-I-can't-speak-because-I-just-wanna-scream cute The Pug's nose was - all 2 indented-into-his-skull millimeters of it.

Since then, I have been living in the Bowels of Hell. To those of you naughty enough to eventually drop by, let me tell you - the Bowels of Hell isn't all that bad. I can live with extremely lethal poo, a makeshift carpet of dead leaves and twigs, and dog toys placed in military strategic positions in order to render the most damage to the enemy (usually me, and sometime The Boyfriend). But I have been cursed. And this week I realized how controlled I have become by this DevilSpawn: I went to visit a breeder to buy myself another pug, so Babar could have a playmate.