Well, it’s official.
Chug the Pug has outgrown his Santa Suit.
He’s full grown now after all.
An old man.
Five years old.
As you can see it hasn’t stopped me from forcing him to wear it.
For all of the times I’ve chased his ass out into Prairie Dog Town, down the road to a rig, over to Mom and Pops where he’s visiting his girlfriend, for all the barf I’ve cleaned up and farts I’ve endured, and for that unmentionable time, you know, with the cat… this is his yearly penance.
That and the Halloween Pirate Hat.
So I suppose it’s no wonder his chest got a little too broad, his belly a solid barrel of meaty muscle pushing the hem of that funny little suit I bought when he was much younger, cuter, had two whole eyeballs and was less defiant.
It’s all that damn running around. Those hills and coulees. All that death defying has created quite a physique.
So stand still pug. Don’t look at me like that. This is the least you can do for me for all the trouble you’ve caused.
For all the leftover bacon I fed you.
For pug sized muddy footprints you leave on my newly mopped floor, miraculously in the middle of winter where there’s no mud in sight.
For that weird, unidentifiable animal you drug to my doorstep just in time for the UPS man’s delivery.
Because this is your Christmas suit montage.
You’re welcome world.
Peace, Love and Christmas Pugs!