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Just when I’m finally starting to get over the bronchial infection from hell, the damn dog has gone and gotten sick. And her illness involves fountains of liquid shit. It’s so bad, George is on his way to Home Depot to rent a steam cleaner.

The vet has instructed me to take away Zoe’s food – it is, he tells me, just adding fuel to the proverbial fire – until the crap-a-thon has stopped.

I should point out that my vet’s dogs are retrievers or labs or something similar. One of those dignified breeds who, when deprived of food, probably lounge at their master’s feet with noble expressions of suffering.

Pugs are not known for their dignity, and Zoe is not tolerating the missed meal with anything approaching noble suffering. She’s been whining and pouting all morning. And every time I walk anywhere near the kitchen, she throws herself under my feet, vindictively trying to trip me.

The message is clear: either I feed her or she’s taking me down.

Beware the wrath of the hungry pug.


*No, we don't really call Zoe Puggy-Wug. She's far too much of an ass kicker for that; every time she sees a bigger dog out and about, she has one goal: to conquer and destroy.

Puggy-Wug is a reference to the poem by Sir Winston Churchill, an ode to his pug, Punch:

Oh, what is the matter with poor Puggy-wug
Pet him and kiss him and give him a hug.
Run and fetch him a suitable drug,
Wrap him up tenderly all in a rug,
That is the way to cure Puggy-wug.

Posted 19 December 2008 at 10:35 AM