I Do Stairs Better Than Scarlett O'Hara

I do stairs better than Scarlett O'Hara.

I have much the same survival instinct as the aforementioned cinematic heroine.* We both are very demanding and use our charms to get what we want. I, Poppy, am very flirtatious.

In the movie, Miss Scarlett is always on the stairs. You could say that the stairs are the setting to so many of the dramas of her life.**

Unlike Miss Scarlett I do not hang out on stairs. This is how my dramatic expression trumps hers.

In my life, stairs are a conduit of action -- especially of downward action. What happens at the top of the stairs is more important that what happens on them. They and gravity exist only to punctuate my emotions.

You could say that the stairs in my life are like the stairs in The Red Shoes.***

For example, today I remembered that I left a chewie in the bedroom. I went up to get it. My audience was in the dining room at the bottom of the stairs and unsure as to why I went up. I made some noises to add to the suspense. At just the right moment, I appeared at the top of the stairs, my eyes wide and full of fire, and with the very large chewie in my mouth. I paused just long enough to let the potential energy of my excitement and triumph settle on the audience, and then I ran at full speed down the stairs toward them.

It got their attention. Just what I wanted.



*I call her a cinematic heroine because I have not read the book. I have only seen the movie. I do not read.

**At this very moment, my mommy is urging me to discourse on the topic of stairs as a device in Gone With the Wind. I refuse. This blog is about me.

***Miss Vicky is a match for Miss Scarlett any day in the drama department.

My Christmas List 2009

A Merry Christmas to all my fans out there. Please know that my love for you will last forever, or as long as some one else does not pet me or give me a treat, or as long as you don't pass by the front window unannounced.

As such nearly boundless love suggests, I, Poppy, am a very giving pug. In fact, I love to give more than to receive. Mostly I love to give kisses. My kisses, much like this blog, are bottomless. Unlike this blog, they are also very wet.

But since this is the season of giving I thought that I would take this blogging opportunity to tell you about what I am going to give to my friends this Christmas Day. Here is the list:

For my cousin Lucky: Chewies. Delish.
For my cousins Bear and Lucy: Chewies. Delish.
For my cousins Bear and Lucy's other grandparents' new dog: Ditto.
For my cousin Tucker. Ditto.
For my cousin Penelope: A new collar. (That is right. I have a cousin called Penelope. Apparently, ours is a popular name for pugs and pug-mixes). Don't tell my cousin, but I have noticed that she is getting a little round, hence the need for a new collar. However, to avoid hurting her feelings, I will tell her that I am giving her the collar because its pretty purple flowers would look so nice next to her Puggle fur.
For my brother Duncan: Nothing. He will get me nothing, as well. It is very important that we maintain the charade of indifference toward each other.

Tear

I miss you when you are not here. I am so happy when you get home. Nothing can come between you and my love for you -- not even your warm, soft, cashmere-blend leggings that now have a big tear in them from my extra-sharp claws.

Evening Rest

The humans are reclining on the sofa. The Big Guy is working, and Mommy is reading. Duncan is sleeping in his favorite spot.

I would like to be on the sofa next to the Big Guy and Mommy. Since I have no concept of other beings having feeling in their bodies, I jump straight on to the Big Guy's tummy. He cries out. I ignore him. I step on him for a while, doing a little turn to get the layout of the land, and the leap onto the back of the sofa, from which I walk, catlike, to the arm next to Mommy. I lie down for a minute.

I have an itch. I get up with a snort, and start scratching my ear. My tags jangle. I climb on top of Mommy and, with really no purpose or reason, begin licking her face. She pushes me away, so I start licking her hand. I don't miss a beat. She holds me still. "That's enough," she says. But when have I, Poppy, ever been satisfied with "enough"? I start licking her hand again. She holds me still.

My toes are itchy, so I sit down on Mommy and begin several minutes of manic toe-biting. I sound like a scavenger gnawing on a carcass.

No longer itchy, I start to sneeze. The sneezing fit goes on for about thirty seconds. Everybody is looking at me because when I sneeze I sound like I'm on a ventilator about to go kaput. The sneezing fit over, I climb back over the Big Guy to sit on the pillows behind him.

For a minute, there is peace.

I am looking out the window. I see a dog, or a child, or a jogger pass by the house. Such a challenge to the integrity of our territory cannot go unanswered! I leap from the pillows, and run to the window to scare away the already out of sight intruder.

Then it starts all over again.

A Girlie Pug No Longer

When we moved in with the boys, I was a girlie pug. When the Big Guy would throw pieces of cheese in my direction, I would let it bounce off of my nose and then look for it on the floor. But I have gotten better. Now I am an athletic pug. My timing and eye-tooth coordination is much better. Now I can catch the cheese in my mouth.

Winner

Apparently I have come in dead last in the Jon and Donna's 12th Annual Academy Awards Contest. This means that I am to receive the "Happy Gilmore" Prize, a batch of chocolate chip cookies made by my friend Lucy's daddy. I do not know what Happy Gilmore is, but I am very pleased to win this award because I would very much like to eat chocolate chip cookies. My mommy will have something to say about that, however.

I am also pleased because the Jon and Donna's Annual Academy Awards Contest is where I got my start as a commentator in cyberspace. I have come far.

Resolutions

Happy 2009 to all my fans! I don't really know when 2009 started, but it must have been recently, because I have lately been subjected to several new regimens in an effort to make me the Best Pug I Can Be.

Note that I have been subjected to such regimens. I, Poppy, am not an introspective or spiritual pug, and do not really care if I am the Best Pug I Can Be. I live, resolutely, in the material world. As long as you give me treats and tummy rubs, I am okay.

Self-improvement is not a part of my philosophy of life. If you don't give me treats and tummy rubs, it is your problem, and I will tell you that. Loudly.

My parents are the introspective and spiritual beings in the house. (Duncan is spiritual, but not introspective). They are about self-improvement and dog improvement. (Read pug-improvement -- Duncan is being made to do nothing). I am really not crazy about human self-improvement, as it causes my parents to be away a lot, thus making my feeding schedule erratic. I am okay with part of the pug-improvement plan, and not okay with the other part.

Two resolutions have been made for me: 1. More walks. 2. No accidents in the house.

I have to have more walks because I am a round pug. My mommy figures that if people at risk of obesity can improve their health by taking more walks, then pugs at risk of obesity will also improve by walking. I don't care why we go. I like to walk. Sniffing is good, too.

The second resolution requires making me change some habits that I acquired when we came to live with the boys. This is not so fun. Where I used to get the run of the house at night, now I have to be crated. I am a good girl and do not complain, but I don't like it. Notice that being the Best Pug I Can Be is not the same as Free to Be You and Me. I am a cunning and sneaky pug, and my parents don't trust me.

The other day one of my fans suggested that I might just be the smartest pug ever. Though I thank that fan for his faith in my abilities, my opinion of myself differs.

In fact, I really do not have an opinion of myself. That would require self-awareness, which, most of the time I do not have. I might have it at times in the morning when I have not yet been fed. However, I have a feeling that my awareness of my hunger is just instinct and that what I really am aware of at 5:30am is that you have not yet fed me. So what I am really aware of is that I am small and lacking thumbs and need some one of the primate persuasion to open the food bin for me.

But back to the issue of my intelligence, or lack thereof. It is true that I, Poppy, am a sophisticated, liberated pug who leads a charmed life even though I live in Highlands now and no longer in Cherry Creek. I would say that even though I keep a blog and am politically aware, I am not the most intelligent put ever. Indeed, my grandma says that, like Pooh, I am a pug of very little brain*, and another fan of mine has called pugs, "Brain stems on legs." (This last assessment may be a little neocortex-centric as I am a mammal and have a mammalian brain). At this point, I should say that I am smarter than the pug who lives on the corner with the McCain/Palin signs on his lawn. Any pug who is for McCain is not looking out for his own security.

It is true that I am virtually untrainable, that when you tell me to sit I just bark at you. It is true that when I am outside I sometimes and without thinking chew on random leaves and vines.

My curiosity is my strong point. I am a very curious pug. If you are doing something, I want to be right there with you when you are doing it. I want to see what you are doing, and smell the tools you are using to do it. I want to see what everything tastes like. I want to sniff at every part of the garden, and every corner of the house. I want to look inside spaces I'm not allowed. I want to go into your brief case and pull out your pens and your headphones and stuff my nose right down into the seams so that I can tell if there is anything in there that would be yummy for me.

So curious? Yes. Smart? Not so much.

*Yes, I know that Pooh is a bear. So does my grandma.

The Fiction of Being in Charge

Today Mommy came home from studying. I do not like it when Mommy studies. She does not pay attention to me. When she studies, I like to go up to her garret and look out the window. I stand on the law dictionary. It boosts me up. That is how I feel about studying. And books. I do not like books.

So, Mommy came home and I was happy. I barked. I smiled. I looked at Mommy lovingly. She also brought food.

But Mommy left again. I didn't like this new development. She went out the door. She told me, "I'm just going to the car. See, you can watch me. I'm not really leaving."

I don't get this "I'm not really leaving" idea. So I barked with urgency. "Don't leave! Don't Leave! Don't leave!" My voice is very shrill when I bark with urgency.

But Mommy left. I watched her go down the stairs. Duncan watched her, too. I scolded her as she walked down the stairs. "Bad Mommy!" My voice is rather imperious when I scold some one.

But Mommy did not pay attention. So I turned around. I trotted back into the house and I scolded Daddy, because, with Mommy gone, who else is left to scold?

2003 Pug

Last year the Onion, America's finest news source, reported that breeders were issuing a recall of the 2007 model pug. It was a dark day for pugs everywhere. You can read about it here and see a slide show of chronic pug problems:

http://www.theonion.com/content/news/dog_breeders_issue_massive_recall

I, Poppy, am a 2003 pug. I have not been recalled. Unlike the 2007 pug, which apparently is like a car engineered and manufactured in in Detroit in the 70s and 80s, I am more like a fine, Italian race car that demands frequent maintenance and almost obsessive upkeep. My quirks include:

• Frequent ear infections
• Frequent reverse sneezing
• Frequent itching, especially after grooming
• Allergies to all vaccinations, causing me to have preventive cortisone shots
• Pleasant plumpness
• Difficulty breathing without sounding like a distant train engine
• Snoring (see above)
• Compulsive shedding
• Delusions

Unreliable

It has come to my attention that some of my fans think that I am an Unreliable Narrator. In fact, I, Poppy, am a very reliable narrator. When am I inconsistent? Indeed, when am I inconstant? When am I not There For You? I am always standing guard at the door. I am always watching closely to see if the cupboard with the treats will be opened. I am your Boswell; I follow you everywhere. I am like the "flourish" in a Shakespearean play, announcing you when you enter a room, or when we get out of the car. When we are in the car, I bark so that you know we are close to our destination. What other narrators are so loyal?

Apparently, I am not the only narrator in American letters who has been slandered as unreliable. The others include, but are certainly not limited to

Huckleberry Finn
Holden Caulfield
Benjy Compson
Lemony Snicket

This list is particularly distressing because none of these characters in unreliable. In fact, you can rely on them entirely. Huck Finn decides to "'go to hell'" for Jim! Holden is just a lost boy, trying to find his way home. Like Holden, Benjy loves his sister. (Do you notice anything suspicious in the connection between the name of this character and the name of a famous celebrity dog?) Snicket? He's just trying to help those poor children.

I am appalled by the narrators you generally think are reliable. They deliberately attempt to lead you away from the truth, like the narrator of The Scarlet Letter. Do you really believe all of that Custom House bosh?

What about Ishmael? We don't even know his real name! Was he falsifying information on his tags?

And Scout Finch? You call her reliable? She's six, for heaven's sake. And I don't want to remind you what happens to the poor dog character in that book. If Miss Jean Louise is so reliable, why don't we see that whole episode from Tim's point of view instead of all of that praise for "One Shot Finch?"

Unreliable, indeed! Now I am going to leave the keyboard for a while, as I have quite a bit of sound and fury to disseminate to passers by our house.

Liberated

I, Poppy, am a very liberated pug. I do not discriminate on the basis of species, breed, race, creed, gender, or sexual orientation. My choice of veterinarian is an example of this openness and tolerance for all. He is a man.

I know. Male veterinarians are an endangered species. Not only did the number of female veterinarians move past male veterinarians in 2007, it seems that veterinary schools are now 75% female. No one knows why that is. Moreover, most of these ladies are opting to become small animal veterinarians, not large animal veterinarians.

But I am not concerned with why; I am more of a what pug. Dr. K is just like any girl veterinarian. He still lures me with sweet talk, sticks me with needles, sticks the thermometer into my ear, checks out my teeth, feels my sides, gives me a treat because I am a Good Girl. Such actions are no different from the women who have examined me. In fact, Dr. K may be even more sensitive than the ladies. He has never suggested I lose weight. Moreover, he leaves the anal gland expressing to people in the office who have smaller fingers. Such a gentleman.

I am a small animal. In fact, I could be classified with Piglet as a Very Small Animal. This demographic shift in choices of profession affects me personally. I, Poppy, am going on the record as being in favor of veterinary schools doing more to attract men to the profession. They are just as qualified as women. We cannot let sexism rule the day.

Last in Line

The other night we went over to my other grandparents' house. There are dogs that live there. We were outside for a while. When we came in, we came through the door in a line according to our rank in the pack. First Duncan came in. Then Pepsi, then Cassie. Then I followed. Pepsi and Cassie are both old, blind, and don't walk very well. Even in that pack I am still Omega Dog.

The Real Me

It has come to my attention that my fans might think that I am a prima donna, or in other words, a diva. While the stories about myself that I publish on this blog often highlight my drama queen nature, I, Poppy, am really very sweet. I am as sweet as pumpkin pie. I am as sweet as pudding cake. My mommy says so all the time.

Take for example my eyes. I am watching you all the time. What are you doing? I am curious. What do you have? What does it smell like? I am not always interested in it because it may be for me, I just want to investigate.

When I see you see me, my body stays completely still, while my tail begins to wag. This exact same thing happens when I am dreaming a happy dream.

I love you, so I want to be as close to you as possible. I sit next to you on the sofa. I put my chin in your lap. When you are sitting in a chair, I am lying on the floor next to you. When you are in bed, I am a the foot, lying on my bed.

Sometimes the world is oppressive. Like the heat. It wears me out. Sometimes I sleep in the bathroom because the tile is cool.

I am Omega Dog, so in company other dogs ignore me, or even snap at me so I will go away from them. Instead of playing with them, I go to a far away part of the yard and sniff around by myself. Every once in a while I come over to you, so that you will pet me, and remind me that I am part of a pack.

Post-election White House Dog

After exhaustive research to bring you, my fans, incicive political commentary, I have discovered that the AKC is helping the Obamas to pick out a dog for their daughters. You can read about it here: http://blogs.wsj.com/washwire/2008/07/02/the-08-race-for-the-obama-dog-house/

Now, as promised, I, Poppy, am carefully considering the issues for you so that I can, at the appropriate time, endorse a candidate for president. The issue of a dog is a very important one. Remember how loyal all of the political dogs have been! Checkers stood by the Nixon family in times of crisis, and that family's love for him only kept them from being embroiled in Checkersgate. Fala stood by FDR even so much as to come under criticism and have to be defended by his master in a speech to the Teamsters. The Ford's dog, Liberty, made the Golden Retriever breed famous, and Buddy was the only Friend of Bill in the midst of a crisis. Millie went so far in her loyalty to developing a similar autoimmune disease to both her master and mistress.

And think of the controversy that dogs could get presidents into! Some people think that Lydon Johnson should have been impeached for picking up beagles by the ears.

If you want to know more about presidential pets, you can go to the web site presidentialpetmuseum.com.

So who is the most dog-friendly candidate? I am heartened to see that the Obamas are briging a dog into the family. That will be a very important step toward receiving my endorsement. However, the McCains seem to have a pet-centric household, having, by my reaserch, 24 pets, including dogs. If sheer numbers of pets qualify a man to lead the country, then this is the guy to vote for. Though I do wonder what with 24 of them, whether the pets get the amount of doting that I, Poppy, find appropriate for pets. Hmmm. I also wonder how many of them will be allowed to live in the White House.

The Obamas have young girls, so their dog will get appropriate doting, if the White House lifestyle is not the high-achieving yuppie lifestyle that I suspect the Obamas practice. My parents lead such a lifestyle and I am often disappointed by their failure to dote upon me constantly.

Grooming

I, Poppy, did not like taking baths at home. When some one starts running a bath around our house, I am on guard as I am suspicious that I'm going to wind up in it. Now that we are two dogs, we get baths at Petsmart. I do not like baths at Petsmart any more that I like baths at home. Baths are a good trip to Petsmart spoiled.

We are always excited to go to Petsmart. There are many exciting smells there, and often we go home with treats and bags of food. We are always excited at Petsmart until we go to the room behind the glass door. There is a gate in the room behind the glass door, and when a lady comes to take you through the gate you are scared and uncomfortable. Duncan knows right away that he does not want to go behind the gate. As soon as we enter the room behind the glass door, he turns around and looks back out the way we came. He turns his head to Mommy and with his tail wagging shoots her a look that says, "All right. I've had enough. I think it's time to go."

Though we are usually friendly and trusting dogs who will come when a human calls us, we stay put when the gate opens and the ladies call us to come through. We just stand there and look at them. It takes Mommy and two ladies to push and pull us through the gate. Duncan is just big and hard to maneuver while I place my forepaws out in front of me like I'm putting on a break. They finally get us through the gate. We watch with sad eyes as Mommy turns and abandons us in the black hole of Calcutta.

Daddy calls this my sky-diving pose.

Activity Next Door

When there is something going on on the block, like city workers filling a pothole, or fixing the sprinkler heads in the schoolyard lawn, I like to add a running commentary on the action. I sit in the doorway or on the end table by the window,* and woof quietly but regularly as the workers go about their jobs. I have been doing this all day, as landscapers are working next door.

I, Poppy, am what trainers of human young call an "active reader." Though I am not actually reading (see my profile if you want to know how I feel about books), I am participating in the story unfolding before me. As the people outside go about their business, I am using in higher level thinking strategies to understand their actions, how they relate to each other, and what they have to do with me. At my mommy's school, such thought is labeled, respectively, literal, interpretive, and evaluative thinking. For example, on the literal level, I am thinking, "There are men working outside!" On an interpretive level, I am watching what the men are doing with each other -- how the text relates to itself. On an evaluative level, I am waiting for it to have something to do with me. Will the men come over and give me treats? Will they cross the property line and thus make me bark at them? Each little, gentle woof is an annotation in the margin.

*Mommy does not like this, but I am so engrossed in what I am doing that I don't pay attention to her, even when she comes and physically removes me.

Frogs

I, Poppy, have been asked by one of my fans to comment on frogs and stories about frogs.

I have never seen a frog. However, I have been told that I look like a frog. I, Poppy, am not vain. I do not care what I look like. My mommy and my grandma try to dress me up in pretty collars with matching leashes, but I am not particular about what I wear.

I am also not particular about who I kiss. I might like to kiss a frog. But I am thinking that I would rather play with the frog than kiss the frog. A frog might be like a toy. It might smell particularly yummy from having been in the water for so long. I have been told that frogs hop. This might be fun to hunt. The frog would hop, and I might scootch after it. It might hop further, and then I would bark and do the play bow. Once I have caught the frog, I might have to clutch the frog between my teeth and shake it, like I do with my other toys. I might have to locate the squeaker and remove it. The frog might wind up in pieces with its stuffing removed, much like the toys Duncan and I got for Christmas.

Opportunity

Last night, while we were eating, Duncan had a seizure. You, my fans, wonder why I, Poppy, would write about such an event. You wonder, "What does this matter to Poppy?"

Of course, I have really no sense about how serious certain physical ailments are. I am indifferent the need for veterinary care, even when I myself feel terrible. An ear infection is simply a time when I will squeak with fear and discomfort because I am being held down by my mommy and at least two vet techs while the doctor cleans out my ears. I do not see a correlation between such an unspeakable violation and my ears feeling better. (See previous posting on the presidential health care plans and their relation to treats). Seizures need to be paid attention to, but it is not for me, Poppy, to do that. That is why you have humans. Humans pay attention to such things, so that if you are a dog your day will be exactly like the one yesterday and the one the day before. In the case of Duncan and his episode, the humans made sure that Duncan was back with me in the mud room today.

However, when your companion has a seizure during dinner, he can't eat. Just as important, the humans are busy taking care of the afflicted to yell at you when you just, say, walk over to his bowl and eat up his whole meal. So, as Mommy soothed Duncan, I polished off two bowls of food -- mine and his. I am, after all, a Reformed Machiavellian. The ends justifies the means.

Now, you are thinking that I, Poppy am heard-hearted, simply because I practice self-interest. That is not true. Duncan is my brother and sometime pillow. Before I knew Duncan, when my mommy and I were single girls living single girl lives, I was very lonely. Now I have a companion. It is in my interest to have a companion, therefore, it is in my interest to have Duncan. It is not my fault if I am a dog and have a dog psychology. Everybody at my house is bigger than I, which means that I am the Omega dog* in our pack. As Omega dog I must seize opportunities as they present themselves.

*"Omega dog" should not be confused with "Omega Man," the Charlton Heston film about Zombies. I have never seen it. Mommy can't remember if there is a dog in it. I am not interested in movies without animals or that wonderful character, Gollum. But I digress. I have seen "I am Legend," and I barked very hard at the Zombie dogs in that movie. They went away. I am confident that if a Zombie horde attacks our house, I will be ready.