Some of you have asked what has become of the pug, noticing his absence from the spotlight on these pages.
The truth is, I have been wondering the same thing for a few months now.
Because a few months ago, the pug went missing.
And I’m afraid that this time it’s for good.
Now, you’ve heard the stories of Chug the Pug’s tendencies to hike to Mom and Pops’ to visit his girlfriend, or to the nearest oil rig to see what the guys have cooking in terms of food and a warm cushy spot in the campers for him to lay and receive an unlimited amount of belly rubs from nice guys who think he’s been orphaned.
The pug, with his one eye and all, was really good at convincing those who didn’t know better that he was pathetic. But he wasn’t. He was self-sufficient. A big dog in a compact body, tortured by the limitations of his physique.
He was a pooch on a mission to sucker you into letting him on the couch, right after you witnessed him dragging a dead squirrel into the yard.
He was a wish granted to me from my husband after a particularly tough year where things appeared to be coming together, but I was falling apart.
And so he found a flyer on the bulletin board of the gas station in a small town as he was passing through. A picture of a dozen tiny black pugs in the arms of woman.
He was sold.
And so he brought him home to a woman under a quilt on the couch, recovering from a surgery that was meant to help her become a mother, the first of many experiments that have dissected and disappointed.
The pug was a way to take the edge off.
And he did.
Get home from a shit day at work? Watch the pug steal the stick from the lab.
Sick on the couch with the flu? The pug’ll keep your feet warm.
Grumpy because the world is annoying? Laugh at the pug barking at the dogs on TV.
Frustrated on how some things just don’t go as planned? Howl it out.
When I was a little girl we had a cow dog who had puppies and I rescued the runt. And then the runt went missing right as winter set in. I was a kid fresh out of Bible Camp and so I prayed every night that the tiny puppy would come back.
I searched for her in every culvert, old building, tall grass and hole on the place.
I cried and worried and wondered where she could be
And then one day the snow kicked in and I had sort of given up hope, dragging my sled to the hill up the road, and that little puppy jumped out from behind a rock, right toward me. A prayer answered.
Now, that puppy was sick from the start, so a week or so on her own didn’t do her any favors and she didn’t make it much longer, no matter how hard my dad tried to warm her and medicate and bring her back to life. But regardless, I sort of held on to the memory of that little border collie running back to me for the first month of our search for the damn pug, because, well, you just never know.
Every night on his way home from work, Husband would stop at a rig asking about the little black dog. We called the neighbors to keep an eye out. We drove around, up and down the roads, checked the ditches, hollered his name.
I would come down the drive expecting that one of these days he would decide his adventure was done and it was time to take his place on the rug on the floor by my chair.
He hasn’t come home yet.
And I don’t think he will now. It’s just been too long.
The pug is no longer mine. I say that, but I don’t suppose he ever really was. A creature is his own creature, we just take care of them the best we can when we decide on the job.
I’m glad I had the job. I wish I had done better.
I miss the little guy, but I can’t help but think of him tucked under the arm of a tender hearted roughneck, a guy who found a stray and took him home to lay at the foot of his daughter’s bed.
Or maybe he’s running with a pack of coyotes, howling at the moon at night, being wild inside that block of an unfortunate body.
Or he could be riding shotgun with a trucker along these backroads hauling water or crude, a bandana around his neck, his head hanging out the window, ears flapping in the breeze.
Or maybe he’s out saving stray and wandering cats. He’s always been good with cats.
There’s no evidence to the contrary on any of these scenarios, so I’ll just leave it at that and say goodbye now pug.
You helped me through. I’m gonna be fine now.
So off you go…
My heart be still. Tear 😥
Cute little guy. I hope and pray he is as you say, making someone else happy too. Love the pictures.
Reblogged this on El Noticiero de Alvarez Galloso.
This post just gave me goose bumps, a tear in the eye and a lump in my throat.
Will shed a tear for the one-eyed Pug and also for yourself and the dark hole that shadows your words. I, too, have seen that dark hole.
Blessings to the pug, where ever his journey takes him. Whether it’s rolling in the foulest thing he can find, engaging in a good heartfelt howl at the moon, or rubbing his dirty little butt on someone else’s upholstery. He was one of my favorite subjects in your stories and I will miss him! Peace.
Oh, I am really sorry to hear this. He is one special little dog. I’ll miss hearing about his exploits!
I’ll say a prayer for Pug, Jessie. Hopefully he will come home, or you will at least get some word regarding your friend.
I have been wondering. I choose to believe he’s found his grand adventure and is living life big.
Perhaps, the call of the wild has won out. Pug is in good territory,JS
Awwww Jessie. I’m sorry. Consider yourself hugged.
Jessie, I’ve written before and told you I have a one eyed black pug, too. Odd that Chug should go missing now because ours, Boo, has a bad eye infection and we’re afraid she’ll lose her other eye. She get’s around the house fairly well, and our yard is fenced. She had breast cancer last spring and made it through that so hoping she can fight off the eye infection. Does Big Brown Dog miss Chug? I’m so sorry he didn’t even say “good-bye”. Hoping our girl will be ok. It’s hard to think we own our dogs… I think they own us, their humans. Thinking of you.
What a beautiful story…I’m going to picture him curled up with a little girl who needs him now:-) ❤️
Maybe Chug was kinda like Mary Poppins…
I’m so sorry. Having lost two dogs over the last two years, I know hard it can be to let go.
I hope he is well and I wish you’d be fine on your own. Brave little adventurer that he is, probably he’s having the time of his life.
Love. Love love.
Oh honey. My heart hurts for you, both because of your sweet little pup and because I’ve been the woman under the quilt on the couch, too. That road is exhausting and brutal and I just wanted you to know that you’re not alone.
ouch. That hurt. Let’s hope he’s snuggled up on a little old lady’s couch with plenty of cats, his favorite snacks, and dogs barking on the TV.
very nicely said! Not knowing is tough, but I like your scenarios!
Reblogged this on Mrs. Laird's Science Blog and commented:
so sweet and so sad. beautifully written.
That’s very sad. Fine writing though. I hope that one day he might come back.
Please hold and love your precious lab the entire while you see the vet for the last time. My tears are streaming. I am so sorry.