Sonny Day

Oops. The Aggie and I made a huge mistake. We forgot Sonny the Pug's anniversary. I know what you're thinking. You're all judging us, wondering: "What kind of people celebrate dog holidays? Is she for real?" Yes, folks, I am for real.

It all started when we adopted Ripken. It was a Sunday afternoon and the Aggie and I had just returned from a bed and breakfast in Greune, Texas. We had been celebrating our first anniversary. Picking up our new puppy on the date of our actual wedding day seemed like an appropriate way to rejoice in having survived our first year together.

So every March 19, is not only our anniversary. It is also Rippy Day.

Seven months later – and after we bought a house so Ripken would have a yard to play in – we decided he needed a brother to torment. We looked around for another dog to adopt, but none of them felt right. Finally, the Aggie ran across Sonny the Pug. He was sitting in a crate in PetSmart, and the instant the Aggie showed him to me I was in love.

But appearances can be deceiving. Sonny looked adorable and healthy, but we soon discovered there was more than meets the eye. A local shelter that catered to Dalmations had found Sonny and been fostering for the past year. And they were getting tired of pumping money into a dog that didn't even qualify for their help to being with. Turns out, Sonny was what they called a special needs dog. He was over weight, had hip problems, was recovering from heartworms and was epileptic, as in seizure prone.

In other words, Sonny the Pug was a big old veterinarian money trap. Plus, no one knew if he would live two weeks or two months or two years. He was high-risk. Any sane person would have gone running in the opposite direction. Lucky for Sonny, his Momma has never been accused of being just right in the head. Something just told me that Sonny had to be ours – that we needed him and he needed us.

Two weeks later – on Oct. 5 – Sonny the Pug came to live with us, thus cementing my identity as Momma Pug. It took two weeks because the Dalmatian shelter had to actually come to our house for an inspection. I guess they wanted to be sure we weren't dog molesters. You should have seen Ripken during the home visit. He WANTED the pug, by god, and he was on his BEST behavior. Gertrude was even laid back… until Sonny started in with a low growl in her direction. That's when the shelter lady said the infamous words: OH, SONNY HAS CAT ISSUES.

Cat issues? What the hell does that mean? Oh, we soon found out. Apparently, at some point in Sonny's life, a cat had wronged him in someway. Now he hates the entire species. And I mean HATE as in Nazi-Jew hate. He would like nothing more than to exterminate the cat, but he's a fat, slow, toothless pug. Gert, on the other hand, is an agile, graceful cat and she really cannot find it within herself to be concerned with something as lowly and beneath her as the pug. Nonetheless, everyday they dance same number. He barks at her and she chases him. He runs away and she swats his amble ass. And so goes the cycle of life.

And now there is the Silkie to throw in the mix. Oh, Deuce. I could say so much, yet words really don’t do just to the little monster justice. Deuce was what you call an emotional purchase. The Aggie and I are strictly animal adopters. We don't pay money to breeders when there are slews of perfectly lovable puppies needing a home. But then we got DEUCED. The Aggie's first pet, a Silkie named Martin died recently and the Aggie's heart was BROKEN. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn't say no to Deuce. He was small and sweet and so cute. We couldn't write the check fast enough.

Now July 17 has become Deuce Day at our house.

But I digress.

With everything crazy going on, we left Sonny the Pug's Day slip by uncelebrated.

There are so many things I could say about Sonny – like how he ate an entire box of Girl Scout Cookies (Thin Mints). Or how we rummaged through my mother's purse until he pulled out a pack of Double Mint gum and chewed it. Or how he ate an entire 100-count bag of menthol cough drops, a couple of which became lodged in his shin rolls. I could tell you about the time he attacked the Weiner dog next door for looking at his daddy. Or the time he broke out of the fence and the Aggie found him three doors down eating lunch with a roofer's crew.

Then there is Sonny's LOVE for pillows. He likes to chew, drag, shake and sleep on any pillow of any form. He's addicted to bedding, and his favorite pillow is named Stinky – trust me, this is an appropriate name. Poor Stinky has been loved so hard that Sonny has pretty much had to move on to other cushions. A personal favorite of his is ripping the stuffing out of my throw pillows. He could sit for hours and de-stuff things. So far, he's ripped the innards out of three comforters, 14 pillows, countless stuffed dog toys and one pair of shoes (sorry Madgette.) He also likes to wait until you spread the blanket across your legs and drift off to sleep. Then he'll grab one end in his mouth and haul ass in the opposite direction, thus stealing your covers.

OH! And for reasons that are painfully clear if you live with Sonny the Pug, he has earned the Native American name of Shits While Running. Just use your imagination on that one, folks.

Yeah, Sonny is a tired, old, worn out pug, yet he's still got the joie de vive. There's a spark in his eyes that lets you know things might not have been easy for him, but he sure is happy with what he's got. Everything he does is with his entire heart. He lives fearlessly, and I think that's partly why he's become so important to our family.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that we didn't "forget" Oct. 5, because around Momma Pug's North American Headquarters everyday Sonny Day.