What it feels like to own a pug.

I never planned on becoming one of those obsessed, slightly senile pug owners. You know the kind. They’re always covered in dog hair, dress their pooches in rain coats, and try to slip mentions of their darling pug into every conversation. Their median age hovers at around 75.

My pug ownership came about quite unexpectedly. I was fifteen years old and my brother had just left for college. I decided to use his absence as excellent reasoning for me to acquire a new friend—particularly, a new furry friend.

I coaxed and wheedled my parents for over a month; finally, their spirits were broken and they gave in. One summer afternoon, during an “antiques trip” to San Antonio, we randomly stopped at a pink stucco house on the way down. It turned out to be the happy home of a backyard breeder and her roly-poly pug puppies. I chose the runt, thinking she’d turn out petite. But it turned out to be a mistake. A very big mistake. Pookins Eloise (who answers only to Pooky) now weighs a whopping 32 pounds at the ripe old age of seven. She’s a barrel on toothpick legs, and moves as gracefully as that description sounds.

Including a pug in one’s life is no light matter (no pun intended), and should be taken very seriously. One can’t just leave their house for twelve hours and hope the pug is still content when you get back. My parents have an abject horror of leaving our pugs alone for more than five hours at a time. Pugs? As in plural? Ah yes, a second pug was acquired when Pooky was three. Our household had come to a mutual agreement that Pooky was lonely during the day and needed a playmate. Through Pug Rescue (a private animal shelter just for pugs) we found an older lady pug looking for a new home. It was a match made in heaven. Except for the small fact that Pooky and Macey (new/old pug) detested each other. After a few catfights in the beginning, the pugs agreed to mutually hate each other from afar.

Going out with a pug is an event in itself. People point, laugh, gawk, and generally make the pug either self-conscious or vain. I don’t dress my pugs in costumes, mostly because they don’t make pug jumpers in XXL. But I do take them to “pug play dates” in Bull Creek Park, which occur the first Saturday of every month. It’s a day of costumes, kiddie pools, and liver treats for the old and young alike. All pugs are welcome, even the mixed breeds and wheelchair-bound. During the pug parade this summer, upon spotting a pug in a luau costume (complete with coconut bra), I realized there’s only one breed of dog—and one kind of person—crazy enough to do this.

currently reading: Boomsday by Christopher Buckley. It's making me angry/fearful of when all the Baby Boomers retire and we young folks have to shoulder their Social Security golf-playing days. Oh god, the terror. The terror!