We had a pug. Her name was Sassy. **SPOILER ALERT** she’s dead.
I’m a dog person. But I’m also one of those close-minded people who can’t like one thing without hating another. It’s how I balance out the Universe. You’re welcome. So I love dogs and reaaaaaally dislike cats. I’ve explained my thoughts on cats before. But let me add—unless they taste really good or you own them to keep the rodent population in check, I see no reason for them to exist.
All that said, a pug is not technically a dog. It’s a pig-cat-dog hybrid. How do I know this? Examine the name: they took the first letter from PIG, the second letter from PUSSY, and the last letter from DOG. What more proof do you need? Also, look at it:
THERE’S NO WAY this animal is the descendent of a wolf. NO WAY.
It’s fat, with a curly-q tail, and snorts. Like a pig. OH HOW MANY TIMES, IN THE DEPTHS OF MY DEEPEST BREAKFAST HUNGER PANGS, DID I WONDER—EVER SO QUIETLY TO MYSELF—IF THIS ANIMAL CONTAINED WITHIN ITS HIDE THE MAGIC OF BACON.
It’s fickle like a cat. This beast will be treated as royalty and nothing less. The floor is for peasants and un-pugs. Bring your softest pillow, upon your finest sofa, by a window with an acceptable view of greenery—but no direct sunlight are you trying to blind your pug?!!—and then this majestic creature will consider maybe letting you pet it.
It’s adorable. Like a dog.
BUT here’s the worst part: it oozes. FROM. EVERY. POSSIBLE. HOLE. I dare you to wear shorts around one. Dare you. Let it approach your ankles. Go on. What’s the matter? I thought you liked pugs? When they see you in shorts, they trundle over on their abominable stubs of legs and immediately spray your ankles with a fine coating of mucous. A misting of snot. It’s how they say “Hi.”
Sometimes they’ll nudge you, rubbing their heads against you or your clothing. That’s not your pug playing or asking for attention. That’s your pug rubbing off its eye boogers. On you. It thinks of you as Kleenex. (BTW: Is this how I get paid? By mentioning Kleenex? Kleenex.)
Oh that’s nothing? OK. Let it sit in your lap, then. I hope you have white pants on. Never mind, you’ll see. Touch the pug. Pet the pug. Scritch it behind the ears like you would any dog. I said scritch it! Good, now put the pug on the floor. Look at your leg. See that spot? YOU MUSN’T TOUCH IT. But then you do touch it. And then you smell it. And then you know and you can never unknow. And all the while you’re connecting the dots, the scream building, the realization dawning, figuring out just exactly how that new spot on your pants lines up with where the pug was sitting, the pug is watching you from the floor. Studying you. It might look like it’s panting, but it’s not. It’s laughing.
At this point, a very keen reader will have noted that I’ve dedicated a lot of words to bashing pugs—but none bashing our pug, Sassy. That’s because we loved that little bitch. And after she died, there were many tears and regrets about how I could have been a better dad to Sassy. She came into our lives when Ian was just 3 months old and we were never able to give her the amount of attention she deserved. She was a wonderful part of our family but not long enough.
We miss you, girl.
Hope you got a nice spot by the window.