Boundaries

I, Poppy, welcome you to become codependent with me. Drink too much? Go ahead and have another. Gamble? Double down. Are you a sex addict? I will lie at the foot of your bed. I welcome emeshment and triangulation. Just look at my relationship with my mommy. I agree with everything she says and tell her that yes, she deserves all of that cake; in response, she speaks for me and tells me what I am feeling. I have no boundaries.

Except for the baby gates. When Duncan was around, he'd just crash through them. He was like my own personal battering ram, though he only did it for himself and I enjoyed mostly collateral benefits. Now they are here and he isn't. They are at the top of the stairs, the bottom of the stairs, and the entry to the kitchen. Often, when the Hairless Puppy is eating a food that I am not allowed to have, say raisins or grapes, I have to be locked in the kitchen. I lie on the floor and look through the bars at the raisins and think, "What's a little kidney damage when you can have the pleasure of gobbling up a food so fast that you don't even taste or chew it?"

I Roll My Eyes at What You Think is Amazing

So you are excited that the Hairless Puppy is about to crawl? What's so amazing about that? Nobody had to lick me constantly for 9 months until I started to walk.

Have Pugs Jumped the Shark?

A few years ago, I Poppy, was walking by Metroboom, the salon and clothing store for men on Platte Street, when in the window I saw a baseball hat with a silhouette of a pug. I began to wonder if we pugs were overexposed.

Overexposure is dangerous for a breed. If we are not careful, we pugs could end up in the same position as poodles, who enjoyed the zenith of their popularity in the 50s. Poodles should have known that once all of those poodle skirts were vintage, so was their image. Even a good PR campaign really wouldn't be able to save them. Really, if you have to make a comeback, you will always have to face the fact that you were once over.

Last year's Superbowl commercial with the pug breaking down the door made me worry more, and this year's Superbowl commercials confirmed my fears: there were no pugs, but there were French Bulldogs. Could Doritos be to pugs what sharks were to Fonzie?

Lately I have been seeing Frenchies everywhere. Where are they all coming from? Who knows? Yet they are winding up on the streets of North Denver, and in advertisements for Target. Now Urban Outfitters, who eight years ago sold a t-shirt with the image of a pug and the phrase "J'aime mon bebe" has no pug paraphernalia. Instead, UO is offering a throw pillow in the shape of a Frenchie.

I am distraught. Frenchies have become the new pugs. Pugs have become the new poodles.

If you don't want me to kiss the baby, stop smearing sweet potatoes all over his face.