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.

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.

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.

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.

Style

Governor Jindal gave me a very nice compliment last week. His speech to the country entitled, "Americans Can Do Anything" was written in my style. It had simple words, was easy to understand, found no room for abstraction, and came off as naive.

He also delivered the speech in my style -- sort of in the sound you might use when reading a children's story to a kindergarten class.

The Governor probably borrowed my style because in politics, a human wants exactly what a pug wants -- to be liked. Pugs know what politicians know -- that if you wag your tail, smile, pander, and beg -- just a little -- you can get what you want.

Crate

My chewie was in my crate from last night when Mommy put me to bed. During the day the crate is open, but I don't like going near it. But with the chewie in the crate, I had to take desperate measures.

First, I barked at the chewie. Then, I leaned forward, gingerly, my back legs stretched out at behind me, and tried to grab the chewie. I jumped back. The gate didn't close automatically.

I leaned forward again, careful not to put more than one forepaw into the crate. I growled a little in frustration and jumped back again.

When the crate didn't suck me in and the gate close itself behind me, I barked again and lunged forward. I grabbed the chewie, and ran away from the crate. I tricked it.

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.

Me, at the table

As a pug, I am always trying to find the highest spot in the room. We also like food. We are very busy dogs, always looking for crumbs.

I have recently made it a habit of climbing up on the chairs and sitting, as if I were a human child waiting for a meal.

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.

Delivery

The postal carrier and delivery people all carry treats with them.  This fact is one of the reasons that I am very excited every time they come to the door.  When one of them comes, I sit to tell him that I would like a treat.  If one is not forthcoming, I stand on my hind legs and extend my long, stick-like, pug legs through the bars of the security door, reaching for the delivery man, in case he hasn't seen me.  

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.

Why I Reject the Creation of a PLO (Pug Liberation Organization)

My grandpa has heard my cries for more treats and has promised that he will help create a Pug Liberation Organization for me. However, I think that my grandpa, however sensitive he is toward the plights of the oppressed peoples of the world, does not understand the particular plight of the pug. I will endeavor to explain.

First, the pug understanding of liberty is in marked contrast to the human understanding of liberty. For humans, the state of nature is a state of war, in which to protect himself and his property, an individual must be constantly struggling against the incursions of other individuals, thus making human life in a state of nature, nasty, brutish, and short. However, pugs in a state of nature are part of a pack -- our nature is to be part of a group. Thus, pugs do not need social contracts that require us to give up some of our liberties in order to protect others. In fact, as creatures who do not see ourselves as individuals, but as members of a pack, we see liberty, security, and the pursuit of happiness as one entity.

For example, when I try to get out of the house -- what humans might call liberty -- I am not trying to run away, I am trying to do one of two things: go with the part of the pack that is leaving, or play a game with the pack, to bring us closer together. Based on these examples, pugs might define liberty as "that which gives a pug unlimited access to the pack." This is why Duncan and I get very excited when our leashes come out. (Duncan is not pug, but he is useful for this argument). We know that we are going to get to go along. That is why I scream with fear and fury when I get left in the car when the humans go into Safeway. I want to go to. That is why when a human would drop Shadow's -- may he rest in peace -- leash, he would simply sit down and wait, letting the human walk ahead and waiting for him or her to come back and get him. (Shadow was also not a pug, but his example still works in favor of my point).

If we ran away, who would feed us? Petsmart is a long way away, and the bags of food are high up on the shelf. Would we be expected to be the hunters? It has been widely noted by my pack members that I really don't pay attention to squirrels. The squirrels call to me, and then I look at them with an expression devoid of curiosity and continue to sniff around for crumbs on the floor. Sometimes I point, but usually it is at statues of large pug-like creatures (see my previous blog).

So you see, what we want (liberty) is to be with you. Being with you makes us feel secure and happy. You complete us.

Access to treats (the stated reason for the creation of a PLO) is perhaps the only bone of contention that I might have with the alpha male and female in my pack (Daddy and Mommy). I consider access to treats a natural right. However, because it is a natural right does not mean that I have to be given treats by the alphas in my pack, I just need to have access to them. I am only oppressed when there is no access. Often access is not a problem. To get a treat, all I usually have to do is go stand by the treat jar and bark. Then, when Mommy comes over I sit and look at her expectantly. It is not beneath my dignity to lick out Duncan's empty bowl, or to try to eat out of the takeout cartons left on the coffee table when no one is looking. This is what I call "access." As this all happens often enough around my house, I see no need for mutiny or revolt. Neither is my freedom of speech curtailed -- I exercise my right to complain when the alphas have failed me.

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.

A Dilemna for One as Self-Interested as I

I am deep in thought about whom I might endorse for president. I want all my fans to be informed about the issues. However, my grandma is a rabid Hillary supporter. My grandma makes me home made treats and gives me big huge bones and lets me sleep in the bed. I want to continue my influence over her. So, Endorsing Hillary = Treats.

My parents are Subaru-driving, wine-drinking, recycling, composting, KBCO-listening, two dog-owning, French food-eating, Neiman Marcus-shopping, Mac-interfacing yuppies. Obviously, they are for Obama. So, Endorsing Obama = A Roof Over My Head.

Joh McCain is a Republican, which means he is the representative of all of the self-interested in the country. Endorsing McCain = The Supreme Rule of the Self-Interested.

Hmmmm....

Superdelegate

Many of my fans have asked me, Poppy, to endorse a candidate for president. They say, "Poppy, who do you want to lead the United States for the next four, maybe eight years?" Though I hate to disappoint my fans, I am at this point undecided. However, since you do want to know, "What would Poppy do?" I will be sure to devote space on this blog to the upcoming general election and to the rest of the Democratic race for a nominee.

As a prelude to the informed political commentary that I will provide here on Poppy's Blog, I will give you a basic summary of the dominate political theory to which I subscribe. I, Poppy, am a Reformed Machiavellian.

Those of us who are Reformed believe only in aggression as defense. Where we differ from Machiavelli's Prince is that, though we are territorial, we do not seek to expand our territory beyond that which we already have -- like the front and back yards and most of the house when the doors are not closed. And, generally, our defense is loud and manic barking rather than full scale war. Further, when we are called on to defend our territory beyond barking loudly and seemingly without purpose, we delegate that to the humans, who are bigger and rather expendable, since, as Machiavellians, anybody with treats will do as protectors. This, of course, is in sharp contrast to the Prince, who would be better off to not use mercenary armies to unite large swaths of territory, like the Italian Peninsula. However, the Prince was never called upon to defend the Homeland from such invaders as schoolchildren and postal workers. I'd like to see where deadly force would get him in those situations.

Where Reformed and Orthodox Machiavellians meet is in the principle of self-interest. Pugs are not beyond a little bit of trickery or manipulation to get what we want. Daddy fed us but Mommy doesn't know that? We look hungry. The dining chairs are pulled out and nobody's watching? It's just a quick two jumps and I'm on the table to see if some crumbs are still left. Somebody left the gate open? Well, there's some territory to explore -- a successful Prince spends his free time getting to know the terrain of his country.

It is my great ambition to be a very successful Princess. So, of course, the election of a new president is important to this endeavor, as if affects the price of treats, food, and Juicy Couture dog apparel. I will get back to you.

When Mommy Came Home From Petsmart

Today was a hot day. I spent it in the mud room, trying to keep cool. When I went outside, I saw Duncan jump over the little fence to get into the garden. I wanted to go, too, but I could only watch through the slats.

Later in the day Mommy came home with supplies from Petsmart. She brought a big bag of my food and lots of treats with her. Duncan and I watched while she emptied the treats into the treat jars. We sat very still and at attention, which is our command to Mommy to give us treats. There were Greenies and small chewies and big chewies. We got Greenies first. We took them far away into the dining room to eat them. Duncan finished his first and went back to tell Mommy he wanted more. I finished half of my Greenie and got thirsty, so I went for some water.

I walked over to see what Mommy and Duncan were doing. They were pouring the bag of food into the big bin where it is kept. Oh, the bin! How tantalizing! Each day we sit in the mud room, next to the bin, but cannot open it! If only we had thumbs! One time, when we first got the bins, the Ones With Thumbs left the top of one unlatched just a bit. When they abandoned us for the day, Duncan pushed over the bin and the food spilled out. My eyes got wide, and we set to eating the spilled food -- all of the little pieces of food that travelled to all of the corners of the room -- it kept us busy for hours!

Mommy told me to rescue my Greenie, as she said it would disappear if I did not eat it right away. I looked at her. I saw that there were chewies. I saw that she was feeling like she might obey me. I sat at attention. Good Mommy! She gave us chewies, and we ran off with them. My Greenie disappeared. Later, I went for more water and my chewie disappeared. I found it with Duncan. It was sitting a few inches away from him while he finished his own. Mean Duncan! I began to complain of his meanness. I scolded him for his meanness. I told him to give me back my chewie. He kept right on chewing.

Cold Weather

I, Poppy, do not like to go out into cold weather. The humans open the door and I stand there, twenty feet away, and look at them like they're crazy. They call to me. They clap their hands. They enlist each other to help get me outside. I will not go. Sometimes I sit, and stare at them, my lips pursed in protest. Sometimes I run under the dining table, where it's hard to catch me. It is cold. Who wants to go out there?

Tails

My tail is curly. It looks like a cinnamon bun when it is rolled up tight. It stays rolled up tight when I'm barking furiously at the neighbors who have the nerve to let me see them out the window. It stays rolled up tight when I'm eating my dinner, and when I am sitting at attention. When I want something from you and you are looking my way, I crinkle my forehead to look a little alarmed and a little worried then I twitch my tail, just barely, to indicate my intention. When I am lying down, and you walk toward me, I stay perfectly still while I look up at you with wide, liquid eyes and wag the cinnamon bun side to side in a slightly wider arc. In your peripheral vision my tail wagging looks like a butterfly.

I am only aware of my tail when you try to straighten it. Then I give you a dirty look.

Duncan has no tail awareness. He thumps it, rhythmically and with force, against walls and doors and cabinets. Lying down, he thumps it against the floor in the morning when our daddy asks him if he is hungry. Lying down, he thumps it against the floor when the Ones With the Thumbs talk about him, or say his name, or lean over to rub his tummy. They can pull his tail and he doesn't mind.

His tail is as long as me. When I stand behind him and he's excited, his tail thumps against my face.

Curiously, the Ones With the Thumbs have no tails. I wonder if these phenomena correlate. Does giving up a tail mean getting thumbs? Sort of like the Little Mermaid who got legs but lost her voice. But who wants thumbs when you can use your tail to coerce someone into getting your treat for you?

On Agitation and Alarm

The other day Duncan went outside and no one was there to let him back in. The Ones With the Thumbs were elsewhere in the house, not paying attention. Duncan, who is patient, waited for a long while at the door barked to get back in. Silly, silly Duncan. Doesn't he know that the way to get what you want is to agitate for it? I, Poppy, am often agitated -- many times for no apparent reason.

On this occasion, alarmed by Duncan's exile behind the big, oak door, I began to agitate for his reinstatement back into the house. I began to bark with conviction. "He's outside! He's outside! Someone curtail this disaster! He's outside!" Inspired by my cries for help, Duncan began to bark, too. My Mommy appeared. I looked at her with wide eyes, full of concern that we were inside and Duncan was Out There. I looked at the crack under the door, where I could see the shadow of Duncan's paws. I kept barking. "Look! Do you realize he's out there!"

Oh happy day! She let him in! As he came rushing through the door, I jumped up on him. Standing on my hind legs I put my forepaws up by his face and gave him a kiss. Sweet victory. If it hadn't been for me, I am sure Duncan would have been outside forever.