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.

New Puppy

I returned from a stay at my summer home in Littleton, O she of the lush lawns, heavy shade, and doting grandparents,

The Last to Know

So much has changed in this house in the last six months. Duncan disappeared in January, leaving me without a companion. He just left with the Big Guy and didn't come back with the Big Guy. His collar is hanging from the lamp on the Big Guy's desk. the Big Guy showed it to me, and I was excited, because even though it has been washed it still smells like Duncan. I looked for Duncan for a minute, but he wasn't there.

I used to hang out with Duncan, but now I follow Mommy around a lot more. Some days I won't let her out of my sight.

Mommy smells different and does not let me step on her tummy any more. Her belly is big so it is harder to sit on her lap, so I wind up sitting next to her on the big chair or on the sofa with my chin on her knee. I don't have much of a chin, so its position is precarious and I wind up moving my chin anyway.

Shortly after Duncan left, the Big Guy demolished the upstairs bathroom, including the old drywall and the lath and plaster that it hid, opening up the house to the attic beyond. It would have been so exciting to explore, but I was never allowed in there because I am small, curious, and do not wear shoes.

Lately, the house has been full of workmen who come in and out and up and down the stairs all day long and I wonder what they are doing up there, but I am not allowed to follow them, because I am curious and like to get really close to the action so I can see and smell exactly what is going on. So, I am a good girl and I stay downstairs on the sofa and bark at the people as they come in and go out.

I, Poppy, am usually a very adaptable pug, but lately I have been visibly aware of feeling displaced. The upstairs smells like new paint, so I only like to stay there for a few minutes. Mommmy and the Big Guy are now sleeping in the front room, and although my bed is in there, too, it is much farther away from the big bed than it is when we sleep in the other room because the new room is small, and Mommy does not want to step on me when she wakes up in the morning. I have had to be crated twice in the last week while Mommy runs errands and the workmen go in and out of the house.

Even my food bowl was broken. Baby Cousin did it. Now I eat out of bowls from the cupboard, like some sort of vagabond dog.

All I can do now is lie here on this rug in my winter position -- not my spread-eagled, superpug summer stance, with my hind legs out behind me and my forelegs in front as if I am flying through the air. No. Now my hind legs are under me, sheltered, and my chin is resting on my forepaws. I look up at you with wide eyes, as if asking when all of the chaos will end.

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.