Pug Problems

"If the kindest souls were rewarded with the longest lives, dogs would outlive us all."

---Unknown

If you're not a dog fan, stop reading. If you are, you'll get it. I've always loved dogs. We could not have one growing up because of my father's allergies, but we had neighborhood dogs that we would play with and pretend were ours. The first dog I had of my own was a flatulent yellow lab we named Flash, short for "Jumping Jack Flash" because he was, quite literally, a "gas, gas, gas." Still, he was adorable and fun. Eventually. When he was a puppy, he was a pain in the neck, but he was our pain in the neck. When my oldest was a baby and tooling around the house in a wheeled walker contraption and upended himself under the dining room table, Flash went right over and tried to right the walker and pull Andy to safety. Good dog.

After Flash, we adopted Dingle, another yellow lab, a female this time and older. She was fat and slow and smart as a whip. She loved to swim, well, OK, she mostly floated, and you could put a bone on her nose, and she'd balance it, then pop it up in the air and catch it. I miss her.

When she died, we were dogless for a while, and it was awful. That's when I became what is known as a "crazy pug person." While every breed has their fans, pug people are a particular kind of cuckoo. Think about it. Pugs are often overweight and smelly. They breathe so loud you'd think a Harley was in your kitchen and some people believe they are ugly. Those people are stupid.

Pugs are not really dogs. They are magical creatures that you'd think would be repugnant (har har) but are truly delightful. Do you see the crazy yet? Oscar came along as a rescue pug, and the die was cast. Someone once asked me, "Does that mean he can save people?" Well, he saved me, so yes, I guess he was a life saver, in a way. He knew when someone wasn't feeling well and he'd sit with them, resting his chin on their lap and letting them know, through snorty breaths and big yawns that he was there, no matter what. Losing him was one of the saddest days of my life. After a time though, there needed to be a dog in the house again, so of course, we found another pug. Miss Penny, all eleven pounds of her, makes me laugh every day. She also makes a mess of some kind every day, from ripping open and eating an entire loaf of bread once, to shredding a pillow into thousands of bits of fluff all over the living room.

Lately, Penny has had herself a bit of a struggle. She has chronically infected ears. They are oozing and have sores, and it's been miserable. This is where a pug parent goes into full-blown lunacy. Vet visits, of course. Multiple medicines. New food. It sounds simple enough, but it's not. Pug ears are like little pockets of velvet, but not Penny's. Hers are swollen and painful, and it's making this pug mama go to new lengths. I don't usually cook that much. I don't enjoy it, and I'm not that good at it. However, to lessen the allergy triggers that are causing poor Penny's trouble, I made dog food. I cooked beef, selected veggies, added fish oil capsules and concocted a mixture of custom nutrition. After an afternoon of chopping and simmering and roasting, I had 14 snack food containers filled with precise portions of pug pate. I have refused to make a child a sandwich, but that dog? She gets cooked to order specialty dinners.

Medications are involved too. Ever chase a dog around the house, hold her down and try to shove a nozzle into her ear, that squirts out gooey foam that smells like rotten eggs? Try it sometime; it's wicked fun. Her pills have to be wrapped in chevre goat cheese because she won't eat them any other way. She's supposed to be wearing a cone of shame, but I can't bring myself to do it, it's so sad and pathetic looking on her. She's agreed not to scratch her ears if we skip the cone.

All this nonsense for a dog? Yes. Because dogs love you unconditionally. If you have a dog that has made you their person, that's everything. Of course, you'd go to extremes. Dogs don't live as long as people, but they love more than most and give more too. Make the food, buy the cheese, and get them a new toy while you're at it. Where else can you find a warm bundle of love and loyalty? Penny will be on the mend soon, but in the meantime, she's getting anything she wants. Told you pug people were nuts. In the best way possible though.

Children Learn What They Live

"Children learn what they live."

----Ron Finley

My mother was never one to quote experts, especially as it relates to parenting, but this was a quote she fully believed. Even if she did insist that she said it first. As for parenting, she knew it all; which is to say she knew everything she thought she needed to know. There's a difference; anyone who has spent time with children understands that no one knows it all, we are all just winging it.

Anne Taintor

This quote does ring true, however, because what children "live" is often entirely different than what we attempt to teach them. I'm in my 27th year of parenting (Happy Birthday, Andy, I love you, and I am a bit surprised you got this far, because honestly, I did want to put you up for sale now and then) and I still don't know what the heck I'm supposed to be doing. On the one hand, I've read everything there is to read about having kids. If there is a child-rearing book that's been published in the last 30 years, I've either read it, or I'm familiar with it. You'd think that would make me, like, the best mother ever. Not even close. I'm the mother you don't want to mess with, but somehow that isn't quite the same thing.

My mother couldn't decorate, never cared much about taming the clutter, and had the vocabulary of a well-educated sailor. Being Irish and spending three years in the United States Navy will do that. I am her daughter, entirely and without regret. While I got my red hair and green eyes in a lucky break of genetics from my father's side of the family, my attitude is all her. 

Because I lived through a childhood that, while safe, secure, and loving, was peppered with feistiness, true faith, and more than a few words that cannot be printed here, I am stronger today. At the same time my mother was teaching me not to slurp my soup and always to say "please" and "thank you" she was also cursing the driver in front of her in traffic and screeching out the window at us while we hunted for bugs, "For Cripes sake! Put that down and get in here, do you not have the sense God gave a feckin goose?" Good times.

Recently, some parents I know were talking about their concerted efforts to teach their children "life lessons." Things like writing a check, cleaning a bathroom, making a meal, basic car maintenance, and all that. I fully agree kids need to know these things. At the same time, one particular parent was crowing about how well the kids were picking up on these lessons, he also used a term which could best be described as "tone deaf" if we're nice, but was, without a doubt, a racial slur.  I was mortified. When I mentioned the term was #NOTOKAY (and seriously, it's an obvious term that is best not repeated here) the response was, "I am teaching my children not to give in to political correctness." Ummm….no. Not really. You might be teaching your children to do things like iron a shirt or a pay a bill, but they are also learning something else. I guarantee if this term had been used around my children, they would know exactly what was meant by it, and they would know it was wrong. Did I teach them this? Not that I remember, but they know it.

There are parents that do this child-rearing gig way better than I do. There are people I know who are raising beautiful, intelligent, caring, sweet, amazing children and they are my heroes. Not because they spend time teaching their kids how to make burgers or fix a flat. But because they showed them, in their actions, how to live. They demonstrate grace and dignity and class. The make sure that race is discussed rationally, that politics are viewed from more than one angle and that slurs are not tolerated, ever. When children live in an environment of acceptance versus an atmosphere of judgment, they learn to treat others with respect. It's quite something to see these parents in action, many of whom I am blessed to call friends and family. It's also sobering to look at the ones who are not aware that a lesson isn't just something from an instruction manual or cookbook, but rather from behavior. Forrest Gump said, "Stupid is as stupid does" and that is true. Our children are always listening, always watching. There's so much for them to see. Just remember that while you might be trying to show them a necessary skill, what they are actually noticing is who you are, what you do, and the words you choose. Keep an eye on that.   

Baby You Can Drive My Car....Yes, I'm Gonna Be A Star...

“The cars we drive say a lot about us”

--- Alexandra Paul

If this is true, then my car says I’m old, dented and have been around the block a few times. Which would be correct, so, mission accomplished. Once upon a time, we were both shiny and new, and we smelled different. The human equivalent of “new car smell” is probably wearing the nice lotion that smells like flowers and sunshine, whereas now I’m lucky if I take the time to slap on some Jergen’s once a week.

The first car I ever owned was also the first car I ever drove. My mother had a 1978 Toyota Corolla wagon and I learned how to drive in it, starting off in empty parking lots, moving on to the small roadways in the cemetery and finally to the open road. It was a fierce little car. It didn’t have air conditioning, power windows or front-wheel drive, but it had two studded snow tires that never failed to get me through bad roads and blizzards. 

Picture it in Wild Strawberry Red

Eight years later when I graduated from college, the car was still going strong, even if it did refuse to start every now and then for no reason.  My mother gave it to me as a graduation gift and said I could have it painted so it would seem a little newer. She said she would prefer that I not paint it red since she believed red cars were more dangerous.

I painted it red.

What I thought I looked like (so not even close)

Even then, the car said a lot about me; it looked dangerous but really wasn’t and it would occasionally refuse to do as it was asked.

Looking dangerous, Senior year at SMC 

I was smart enough to spell AUTOBAHN

 I drove it for another four years and in that time it earned a few dents and dings, but it carried me safely and securely through so much.

The cars I have had since then have mostly been serviceable and chosen for practical reasons. When I was commuting long distance I had a Camry because it got excellent mileage. I was never about luxury or status in a car, mostly because I couldn’t afford to send the message that I was a well-heeled suburban housewife that cruised around in German engineering but couldn’t spell Autobahn. I also never liked big cars. Being short is hard enough without needing a set of hydraulic steps to slide out so I can get into the front seat. Those are extra and with my balance issues, dangerous. It also seems like a waste of space to drive a car that can carry the first string of a major league hockey team and their equipment, when all I was hauling were some groceries and a couple of baby seats.

There was one car, however, that was not entirely practical, but that I had to have. My shiny, jet black, 1998 Volkswagen Beetle. At the time, I had two kids and the back seat held exactly two people. That’s where the practicality of it ended. The trunk wasn’t really big enough for a stroller so poor George had to walk a lot, but hey, he was a hardy three-year-old, it was good for him. It didn’t get great gas mileage, which surprised me, but it had a bud vase. Literally, the car came with something to hold flowers. If that’s not a slice of happy, I don’t know what is. I’d wanted a Bug since I was little and my favorite aunt had one. There were adventures in the V-Dub, for sure. One Halloween I put a witch hat on the roof, secured a broomstick to the back, and had a few yards of black cloth streaming out of the windows. I cruised around Salem hollering, “Surrender Dorothy” and it was the most fun ever. Even the cop who pulled me over was laughing.

I will never sink, never surrender. 

Then, without warning, came my defeat. A lovely surprise, now known as Devin. Three kids meant my beloved Beetle had to find a new home. My new ride was safe, secure and boring. I caved and went for the family van. Oh, and for the record, I have seen a minivan around town with the license plate “ICAVED.” To whoever owns it? I’ve been there, but it gets better. Once the kids were older, I found the car I have now, a lovely gold Toyota RAV 4, circa 2008. The color is actually called “Beach Sand” and it’s perfect. It holds kids and dogs and furniture and while it might not be sporty it’s not a minivan or a land yacht and there have been some good times in that car. A few shall remain untold tales, but trust me, it’s been a sweet ride.

Cars will come and go, and for me, it’s not about muscle or mechanics, but rather choosing a car that suits who I am. Think about all the driving most of us do; anything you’re spending that much time in should make you happy. I added one of those family stickers on the back window, only mine has the little cartoon kids being gobbled up by a T-Rex and says, “Your stick family was delicious.” Someday I will have my dream car, a red 1964 ½ Ford Mustang convertible, but for now, my dented and rattling RAV will keep me rolling down the road to the next adventure.

My Dream Car