Yesterday I awoke at 6 am from my usual spot nestled underneath a stack of pillows to the sounds of cursing, heavy sighing, a constant stream of “Whhhyyy?! Whhhyyy?” and other sounds of disbelief coming from the entryway of our little house, about thirty feet away from where I was dreaming about falling out of airplanes.
“Are you ok?” I whimpered, poking my head out from under the covers, holding my breath for a reply from my dearly beloved. “What is going on?”
To which dearly beloved replied with a stream of curse word combinations that I am quite sure had never been used together up until that morning.
“#@$%$, #$#@@!, #$#@! Whhhyy?! WWhhhyy? %*#&@!”
Well, 6 am is pretty damn early and as I stretched out and rolled over underneath the covers I took a quick inventory of the situation, trying to decide if it would be worth sacrificing the last half-hour I was allowed in blissful sleep to get my butt out of bed and check on the poor man I promised to have and hold until death due us part.
Surely he wasn’t dying. But after husband got it together enough to utter the answer to the sounds of misery coming from his body as he attempted to lace up his boots for a work day, I decided that perhaps the best choice for the planet would be to pull those pillows back over my head…maybe just until I heard his pickup door slam and pull out of the drive.
Because I might need a while to figure out the question I am going to pose for you today. I have been contemplating it for a good full day and haven’t come up with the answer yet.
I am not sure I ever will.
But if I can find an answer, a solution, a good therapist, or even a decent excuse, it might mean that the pug will be allowed to live to see another day.
And so I ask you, what turns a (relatively) good dog bad?
What switch flips in the mind of a perfectly innocent animal that converts a lazy, grunting, face-licking pet into an all out delinquent?
What traumatizing experience knocks the already crooked halo off of the dog’s head to make way for the devil horns that have sprouted between his floppy ears?
I can’t pin-point the event that turned my lovable clown dog into a deviant werwolf, but I think yesterday morning made it official: he’s acting out.
I should have seen this coming, I should have sent him to the rehabilitation center before it came to this, but I thought I could handle it. I thought I could keep him from running away to the oil location behind our house. Or if I couldn’t keep him home, at least I could understand that a dog follows his nose, and you can’t blame him if his nose smelled beef jerky and Gatorade. But I could have saved myself dozens of trips to retrieve him if only I would have called the pet therapist when he first packed his bag and ditched us.
But no. I had a solution. More food, comfortable kennel lockdown and long walks at night.
I love my dog. Surly he would behave and stick around on this program.
But I’m beginning to think he doesn’t love us in the same way…
Oh, I know we all have our quirks. We all make mistakes. And although I have not quite forgiven his runaway antics, I have full intentions of reconciliation after he has decided to discontinue the reckless and disrespectful behavior he has recently displayed.
But it hasn’t happened yet.
And neither has his affinity for digging in the garbage when my back is turned, shitting on my floor at 4 am after his one meek attempt at waking us has failed, consuming and digesting my pens and the heel of my favorite black pumps, and jumping on the forbidden couch and hiding under husband’s favorite blanket as soon as he leaves the room.
The pug. He’s slippery and slimy and knows exactly how to use that look (you know, the one that Puss N Boots gives on Shrek?) to his advantage. Only the pug’s look is even more pathetic, because, well, he only has one eye.
But I am working on forgiving him because he’s part of the family. He’s pretty much good for nothing, but I admit, he makes us laugh.
But nobody was laughing yesterday morning when he committed the most heinous, disrespectful, criminal act of his short (and I fear, nearly complete) life.
Nobody was laughing when husband got showered and dressed for the day, combed his hair, filled up his coffee thermos, pulled on his nice new socks and stepped right into a sopping wet puddle that had somehow formed on the inside of his work boot.
“WWWHHHATTT THEE HELLLL?!!!” (I think that’s the part that woke me up from my terrifying skydiving dream…right before I hit the ground…)
And after much pacing and more cursing and arm waving, husband assessed the situation and the stale odor that had wafted its way up to his nostrils.
He came to only one conclusion.
And now again, for my question: What would posses a pug to piss in the boot of the one man on the planet who could destroy him, make his life miserable, keep him off the couch indefinitely and ensure that he spends the rest of his days in that dreadful Santa suit and trapper hat?
And most importantly, how can a wife, a wife who had the brilliant idea of bringing a pug puppy home to the family in the first place, the same wife who has been similarly tortured by her pet throughout the years, find a way to adequately channel her anger while stifling her hysterical laughter at the despair and contempt laced with curse words flying out of her husband’s mouth?
I mean, I will eventually have to come out from under those pillows and deal with the situation…
But you have to admit, that $#!t’s funny…
Anyone know of any pug rehabilitation centers?