Birthday

Today is my eighth birthday. I got an egg for breakfast.

I have no plans for self-improvement in the upcoming year. However, I do have some recommendations for the improvement of my care and feeding. Lately, despite Duncan's strange disappearance and my new status as only dog, I do not feel as spoiled as I need to feel. The recommendations follow:

More eggs
More walks
More treats
More and quicker responses to my demands
Fewer children playing at the school by our house. They are intruders in my territory.
A return of the security door on the front of our house. Now the mail carrier cannot reach through the door to give me a treat.
Better access to the contractors who are working on the bathroom. I need to get very close to them to see exactly what they are working on.
A return to composting and a companion who will tip the composter over.
The freedom to step on Mommy's tummy again.

As my fans will see, these are not new grievances. They represent a long train of abuses and usurpations pursuing invariably the same object, namely my health, happiness, security, and discipline. As my fans know, I, Poppy, do not care about health, happiness, security, and discipline. Instead, I care about instant gratification. And I have not suffered in patience. The course of canine events has, however, brought me to the beginning of my ninth year, and as a now older and more distinguished pug, I feel that it is my right and privilege to, again, voice my desire for greater spoilage.

Demoted

There has been a shift in the balance and order of the universe. I, Poppy, have been demoted.

Last night my Aunt Sarah had a baby, so I am not the baby of the family. I fear that I am no longer Grandma's favorite. I am afraid of what this turn of events will do to what I have come to think of as the normal rate and volume of doting and treat disbursement.

I know that this means that I will have to start facing up to the responsibilities and obligations of being an older cousin that I eschewed even though Lucy and Bear are younger than I.

I know this is expected of me. But I prefer not to.

Got Hope?

Where is Mommy going?

She is walking toward the closet where she keeps my leash. I am so curious that I stand there behind her with my right paw raised in a gesture of expectation. Dare I hope? I am wearing my as-soon-as-Mommy-says-the-word-"ready"-I-will-express-the-sweetest-joy-with-shrill-and-unsupressable-yelping face. This face is much like my your-actions-have-caught-me-by-surprise-and-they-would-fascinate-me-if-only-my-mind-were-not-such-a-complete-blank face, only I tilt my chin just slightly higher for the former.

Mommy reaches into the closet. The suspense lasts for maybe a second but it seems to me like a lifetime.

Disappointment. Mommy keeps my leash in the same closet as the vacuum.

The closet gives and the closet takes away.

French Philosophy

It is 5:40 on a Sunday morning. You are lying awake and wondering whether existence precedes essence, or the other way around. You discuss this. Neither of you can remember, so you consult Wikipedia via its iPhone app.

I am also awake. I have been awake since 4:30. I do not need to consult an oracle on existential issues because my stomach has already made them clear: I am hungry, therefore I must remind you that I exist.

I rise over the side of the bed like the great pumpkin in the most sincere pumpkin patch around and cry. You deny my existence by telling me to go lie down.

Duncan wakes up. He also proclaims his existence/hunger by body-checking the bed. I cry again. Now there is a flurry of activity on the floor disturbing your quiet attempt to remember what you learned in college about Jean Paul Sartre.

Down below your comfortable bed, the slaves are rebelling against the elitist overlords.

Popcorn

Mommy made popcorn. I know about popcorn because some of it fell on the floor, Mommy stepped on it, and then I ate it. Popcorn impresses me very much.

Mommy takes the popcorn into the room with the television. I follow and settle down right next to her. Mommy and the Big Guy watch Full Metal Jacket. I watch the popcorn.

With my eyes I follow each piece as it travels from the bowl to Mommy's mouth. I bark when the Big Guy takes some for himself. I move closer to Mommy, now resting right next to her. Now I am very close to the popcorn. The popcorn continues to move between the bowl and Mommy.

Mommy finishes the popcorn. The bowl is empty. Mommy sets it down. I crawl over Mommy to follow the bowl. I peer deeply into the empty bowl. It is the story of my life.

Tomato

Mommy has left the tomatoes on the porch while she waters the garden. Neither Duncan nor I have ever been close to a tomato. They usually travel and rest well above our heads. But here they are now.

There is a tomato in front of me. I lie on my tummy and sniff it. It looks like a ball. I push it with my nose. Next to me, Duncan is pawing another tomato. Mommy tells us to move away from the tomato.

Then she turns her head.

When she turns around, I have the biggest and juiciest tomato of the bunch. I have torn open the side and am lapping up the juice. Mommy tells me no, that tomatoes are not for dogs. But she is too late. I have tasted the forbidden fruit.

I move away from the tomato. I sit at a distance of three feet from it, and gaze at it, guiltily. I am a good girl and want to please Mommy.

Mommy turns back to her watering.

Duncan has been in the house, and does not know that eating the tomato will displease Mommy. When Mommy turns around again, he is finishing up the last of the tomato. He has even licked up the seeds.

Hamburger

Mommy is making hamburger patties. I lie on the kitchen floor like a sphinx and watch her. My eyes are glistening, my mouth slightly open. I see nothing by Mommy's hands shaping the hamburger. If she would give me some, I would be the happiest dog in the world.

Beer Summit

I have heard on the radio that there was a beer summit at the White House yesterday. It seems that the president borrowed one of my mommy's leadership techniques. She calls it the "Do You Guys Want a Disgusting Lamb Treat?" technique. Mommy uses this technique when Duncan and I are in dispute over something, most often a toy. When we won't come to a compromise on the toy dispute, Mommy says, "Would you guys like a disgusting lamb treat?" Now, Duncan and I know that when Mommy says we are going to get a disgusting lamb treat, we are going to get a delicious piece of greasy, smelly lamb jerky. Yummy. As soon as Mommy suggests the treats, Duncan and I forget about the toy, the dispute, and the rest of the world itself, and very quickly sit by the cupboard with the disgusting lamb treats. Mommy gives them to us, we eat them, and then we sleep.

Left In

Mommy and the Big Guy are painting the garage. They will not let us out of the house to come and watch. I am very distressed. I am crying softly. I do not know why they won't let us come out.

Earlier, Duncan was outside. He was standing next to the garage. Because he is a happy boy, he was wagging his tail. When he stepped away from the garage he had Behr Apple Crunch in satin on his tail.

Water

It is a hot day. The water bowl is empty. I am thirsty. Mommy and the Big Guy are watching Battlestar Galactica. They are engrossed. I agitate for water. I stand in front of Mommy and look at her. I send her psychic messages communicating my thirst. She pats the sofa to invite me up.

But I am thirsty, and Mommy is silly. Doesn't she know that if I wanted to be on the sofa I'd get up there without asking permission? Frustrated, I go away.

I am still thirsty. Mommy has not heard my psychic message, so I bark at her. She pats the sofa again. Why is she doing this? I can get on the sofa anytime, but I'm too short to work the faucet. I bark again.

If I were an introspective pug, I would be frustrated by my canine inability to alter my bark to indicate the nuances of my needs. I am not an introspective pug, so I am frustrated that you don't know what I want when I want it. I bark and humans say, "What do you want, Poppy? Is Timmy down a well?" Well, shmell. I'd like a well, a whole well full of water.

Cheese

I like cheese. The Big Guy started giving me cheese for treats, and Mommy copied him. Whenever the cheese comes out of the fridge, Duncan and I go over to the counter and wait patiently for the cheese ritual. First we get one piece, then another. Just two. We are so happy.

But now, the emergency vet said that my tests show that I might have kidney stones, and that I would have to have a special diet. On the way home from the vet, the Big Guy asked Mommy what might cause kidney stones in dogs. She said, "I don't know, but an overabundance of calcium causes them in humans."

Then they Googled "calcium kidney stone dog." Indeed, foods high in calcium are discouraged for dogs who have had kidney stones. There is now an anti-cheese for dogs policy at our house.

Knowledge is a dangerous thing. That is why I, Poppy, am against it.

I am hungry, but it isn't time for dinner. Mommy ignores me. I lie at her feet and whimper soft, plaintive whines like soft, far-off sirens.

Yes We Can

Mommy is making a snack. I want some, too. She says,"Pugs don't eat walnut butter." I respond. My message is clear and articulate. "Pugs will eat walnut butter if humans feed it to them."

When Mommy makes eggs she gives us the yolks.

Today she brought out the eggs but then left them on the counter for a little while. I barked at them. They did not automatically crack and empty themselves into my bowl.

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.

Wrapper

Sometimes food comes in wrappers. I, Poppy, have seen the ones with thumbs eat food from wrappers. I have stolen the wrappers from the trash can.

Food in wrappers can be found in Mommy's handbag. There was some food in wrappers in there the other day, but I found it difficult to open the handbag with my teeth. I chewed on it a little and then gave up.

Again the other day, when I was up on the table where I am not supposed to be, I found wrapper with something in it. I tore open the wrapper. I shredded the wrapper. But there was nothing in the wrapper. Just a printer cartridge.

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?

When Things I Find Are Not Toys

I have found very interesting chew-toy shaped objects in Mommy's study room. They also have a very attractive smell. They are perfectly shaped for my paws and jaws -- so easy to chew! I took one out of the room and left it by the stairs, with the little marks from my sharp, little teeth on the end. Later, I found another one on my Mommy's bench. I started chewing on it. It was very satisfying. But Mommy took it away. She said she needed it for school. She said it was the color she uses to highlight the precedent.

The Good One

Today, when there was no one in authority in the room, I climbed up on the dining room table. Mommy's handbag was sitting there. It was open. Because I am a dog and can get away with such things, I, Poppy, ignore the unspoken admonition against reaching into a purse that is not your own. This is a useless rule when there is an empty food wrapper in the purse in question.

I took out the wrapper and began to chew on it. Somehow Mommy knew that I was up to no good. She called from upstairs, "Poppy, stop whatever you're doing." It is interesting that Mommy assumed it was me playing with the wrapper. After all, Duncan was in the dining room, too.

It is a waste of breath to command small, willful animals such as I from out of our lines of vision. I continued to chew on the wrapper. From past experience, I knew I didn't have long.

Mommy descended the stairs. "What are you doing?" She demanded. I dropped the wrapper and ran under the table. I peered out from my hiding place to assess the situation. I witnessed this: Duncan, smiling and gazing into Mommy's eyes his tail pounding the floor in happiness, saying, "It wasn't me. I'm the good one."

The character of my anxiety changed immediately from anxiety based on my fear of Mommy being mad at me, to anxiety based on my fear that Duncan will receive a greater amount of attention than I. I ran out from my hiding place -- the fear of being yelled at trumped instantly by the fear of never being petted again.