"He's ruining our lives and eating all our steak".
Napoleon Dynamite lamented over the misery unleashed by Uncle Rico. Too bad for us that his pithy observation applies in our home as well... In our case, however, the culprit isn't a washed-up high school football player from the 80s. Far more menacing, our foe is a smelly, slobbering, gas emitting soul crusher names Winston. And he's a pug.
I'm told he belongs to us but I'm still having a hard time wrapping my mind around that particular condemnation. Anyway, the point may very well be mute. Looking at the matter from his perspective, I'm sure this canine playah is assured we're all HIS...His bitches, that is.
At the moment, I'm not convinced that we're dealing with a force of this world. That possibility was explored in Men in Black. Call it a movie, call it fiction if you will. I say it's prophecy. If a creature has the ability to move both bulging eyes simultaneously, in an opposite trajectory, you do start questioning the validity of his earthly origins. My Irish breatheren dismiss the phenomenon as one eye lookin' at ya and the other lookin' for ya. Some call it the east-wester affliction. I, on the other hand, am not so sure. The wandering, googly eyes may be a manifestation of something far more malevolent. Stay tuned.
Oh, by the way, did I fail to mention that if you squeeze his neck, even slightly, one or both of those glassy orbs will pop right out of his head? Here's the kicker: If you insert the displaced eyeball back in its socket, sight resumes in an instant. And you think your retriever's play-dead trick is impressive! Then again, your Rover was sired by a shelter mutt. Maybe even by a show dog. But make no mistake about it. Winston is spawn. Of who or of what is a notion too chilling to fathom.
G.I. Tract of Steel...or Some Unidentifiable Alloy
We're told that there are a host of ingested substances that can kill a dog. Reportedly, pugs are susceptible as any other canine. Uh huh. How then, do I explain Winston's consumption of all manner of flora, fauna, animal, vegetable, and mineral? My friend Eileen once told me that her rotweiler ate two-by-fours like they were potato chips. Not chewed on them, mind you. Gobbled them whole. Long ago, our beagle devoured an entire orange tree. Roots, trunk, branches and fruit. Still, these doggy chew-fests pale compared to Winston's misadventures. Books, computer wires, conduit, drywall, nails, legos, Polly Pockets, pens, crayons, socks, shoes, boots, houseplants, cleaning supplies, dolls, roof tiles, seat cushions. These household items have simply vanished. Poof. And that's just the beginning.
Winston has what appears to be a potato. One of an entire sack that "just disappeared".How about underwear? Another pug owner mentioned she's convinced that her four legged ham hock positively levitates when he encounters a pile of dirty laundry. I believe it. Around here, Dad's hummin' Calvin's are pug-manna-from-heaven. And my undergarments...Let's just say he can pass bra under wire through the backend while gobbling up some other equally delectable morsel up at the bow. In the bat of one cattywompus, misaligned eye. Two minutes later he unapologetically nudges me for his dinner.
E's Nintendo DS is rumored to have fallen prey although I'm hesitant to mention it. E's yet to complete his grieving process and it's a very touchy subject. To say the least. On a slightly more positive note, my Blackberry was rescued from the mini-beast's slobbering jowls moments before it vanished into his black hole of a gut. But the gelatinous, malodorous goo that remains on the device has rendered it unusable. No solvent nor solution known to man has the ability to decontaminate this phone. May it rest in peace.
To use my friend Monica's favorite phrase, I now present you with the pièce de résistance. There's no way to say this without inducing nausea, so I apologize in advance. Winston's all-time favorite delicacy is cat poo. For him, freshly acquired cat poo is the equivalent of a sublime French truffle. If it's straight out of the cat box, all the better. The added texture only heightens his gastronomic ecstasy. Meanwhile, after recovering from a family barf-o-rama, I concede that this thing, this purported animal, is slowly, insidiously robbing me of my humanity. Surely, Saint Francis himself would give me a high-five if I somehow mustered up the courage to oust hell dog from our semi-peaceful home. But who am I kidding?
Our stick-of-butter-on-four-legs has somehow worked his way into our hearts. Maybe he trampled and pillaged his way there. I don't know. Let's just say we love this incredibly destructive, sometimes amazingly stupid animal. Somehow we overlook the odors that instantly clear a room. His ability to shed like a buffalo--well, that's also part of the deal. Surely, we use sublimation as a way to cope when it comes to his daily frenzy of destruction. Yes, we throw our hands up in total acquiescence. The "dog" is here to stay. As for our family, if we all just disappear, you know who (or what) is to blame.
