Worth A Thousand Words

About two weeks ago, Sonny the Pug – the inspiration for this Web site – was discovered by my husband unable to stand up from his favorite lounging spot atop Stinky Pillow. Poor Sonny appeared to have lost complete use of his back legs, as they hung limp and weak behind him. We watched him for a couple of hours and his condition did not improve. He just struggled to try and stand up and wined loudly when he'd fail. Naturally, this scared the bejesus out of me and the hubs. We prepared ourselves for the worse – that STP was finally just giving out.

We called the vet and I rushed him over. I carried Sonny – all 28.6 pounds of him – through the front door of the clinic. On the other side of the door, crouching down, wagging his gigantic tail was the LARGEST DOG I HAVE EVER SEEN. I think he was a boxer, but he might have had some elephant in him. Regardless, he was largest creature I've encountered outside of a zoo. Luckily, the pitiful thing was scared of his own shadow and very sweet. Otherwise when Sonny the Pug experienced a miraculous recovery and charged the 150-pound critter to show him that HE was the Alpha Dog, the enormous animal might have swallowed the pug whole. Aside from the embarrassment of having my dog be THAT ASSHOLE ANIMAL, this episode made me look like a BIG FAT LIAR.

After Sonny chased the mega-beast into a corner and made him poop on himself, the doctor was finally able to take a look at his backend. Two x-rays and $250 later we were told STP has hip displasia, which is pretty common in short, fat bulldog-types. He also has arthritis in his knees, just like his momma. In fact, we are taking the same anti-inflamitory drug, except mine costs $10 and his costs $50. (Where's the logic in that?! He's a dog and way smaller than me! Shouldn't that cost less?!)

For now, the pug continues to truck along, one wobbly grunt at a time. We know that he's a 12-year-old, toothless, obese pug with epilepsy, ear funk and bum hips, but at the same time I don't know if I have ever seen a more alive animal in my life. Rescuing Sonny has been the most expensive YET rewarding decision of my life. You can never know how much an animal can change your life, or open up your heart. If you want to see an example of this, just see my husband.



This is one of the pictures I snapped from inside the vets office. In this shot, I think you can tell that Sonny is particularly proud of himself for the degree of fear that he was able to put into that boxer. A good dog owner would probably be ashamed at such behavior and offer up some form of discipline. But really, how can you not appreciate the joy that STP is experiencing after making another animal literally shit themselves. No, there was no punishment from Momma Pug. In fact, when we left he hiked and peed on the water cooler in the waiting room just to hammer in his point. And I? Secretly thought it was pretty funny, especially considering the amount of money I just given the vet to tell us he fine.

An Open Letter To The Upstairs Toilet

Dear Toilet,

I has come to my attention -- as I type this from the couch, I am watching what you are doing to my husband and father-in-law -- that you are being a bit touchy. For some reason you refuse to just FREAKING INSTALL ALREADY. I know that this "remodel" isn't going as smoothly as hoped. (I use quotes because "remodels" are usually something you "plan," but what the heck, we're playing fast and loose with that concept, as well.) Anywho, this is just a friendly little notice to request that you get on-board with what's happening around Casa de Pug. My poor father-in-law is tired of having to walk down stairs and into the master bedroom to take a dump. Its annoying, to say the least. And, frankly, I am tiring of the gaping hole in the ceiling at the foot of our bed that can't be patched until YOU ARE FIXED. Its been four day, toilet. That is long enough. Get your shit together and stop being so damn disagreeable. Just so you know, I don't blame you or myself for this. We are both innocent here, toilet. However, we have to play the best game with the hand we've been dealt. And exposed piping leaking toilet water IS NOT DEALING WELL. So please, I beg you to SUCK IT UP, SWALLOW IT LIKE A MAN AND BOARD THE POTTY TRAIN because she is pulling out of the station.

Regards,
Momma Pug

Epic Fail: The Bathroom Edition

Hi all! Sorry for the delay in writing. We are still dealing with a bit of a "situation" at the PUG OFF World Headquarters. The scene unfolded at about 1 a.m. Sunday morning. Whilst a wee bit intoxicated from an evening of fun at Catfish's house, the hubs alerted me to a potential problem in our bedroom by screaming expletives loudly. He and Sonny the Pug had just experienced a raining sensation at the foot of our bed and they were concerned that the shy was falling. Turns out it was worse than that – the ceiling of our bedroom was stained with large water spot and appeared to be sagging. While I stood clear of the collapsing area, the hubs ran upstairs to try and pinpoint a cause for this little foray into home ownership disaster. I knew he was in the upstairs bathroom and that there was a problem when I could hear him clearly through the floor screaming launch into his second run of expletives.

I think it's important to point out that the Aggie and I operate very differently during crises. The Aggie is a reaction man. He sees the problem, appreciates the severity of the situation and then immediately does something about. I, on the other hand, remain freakishly calm, pull out a notebook and pen, and determine who/what I can contact more information/educated advice. In this type of "situation" – with your toilet trying to drown you while you sleep – the reaction man is in his element. While I brainstormed and made a call list, the hubs had the stroke of genius to turn off the water to the offending toilet. Luckily for us, this stopped the flooding, as we were unable to immediately locate our main water switch-off valve. (Side note: If you can't find that fucker anywhere, go check your damn neighbor's yard. I am not even kidding a little.)

After making a call to his dad at 1 a.m. (you know us, waking people up from a dead sleep to spread the panic), the Aggie decided we were okay for the night and could proceed to bed. Sunday morning the situation seemed brighter after we called in reinforcements (Hi Madge's crew!). Let me just say here in official public record that if it hadn't been for the love of my long-suffering best friend and her willingness to sacrifice her husband (Hi Razorback!) for the good of my plumbing, then we would have been up Shit Creek without a paddle. Within an hour of having called for help, Madge and her family were helping rip up Sheetrock, tile, flooring and MOLD.

As it turns out, the previous homeowners fancied themselves amateur home interior designers and contractors. None of the "remodel" – and I'm using that word loosely – was done by professionals. In fact, pretty sure the previous owners – Todd and Carrie for those of you keeping score – did not even bother reading Remodeling for Dummies. Safe money is on them basing their home improvement techniques on that of Tim "The Tool Man" Taylor. The atrocities we have encountered in the last 48 hours include but are not limited to: an absence of all sub-flooring, bolting/gluing/caulking/stapling/welding a toilet together from the inside out and to the pipes, and gluing carpet down on top of laminate flooring. (By the way, that last one is my personal favorite.) This was one of those repair jobs that shouldn't have been too involved. Unfortunately, our bathroom turned out to be one of those girls that looks all right n the dim lighting, but after you see her take the makeup off you realize you've been dancing all night with the ugly girl who has warts. That's how the whole experience feels -- like we went from a simple toilet replacement to rebuilding the flooring and mold eradication.

Here's what the place looked like at 8 p.m. Sunday:


Here's the view above the ladder:


I'm thinking of making a pair of feet dangling from the ceiling one of the features of our master bedroom.

Here's Madge yelling at me to hurry up and take the damn picture before Home Depot closes!


And here's Madgette hanging out the sunroof of our Trailblazer while we waited for her mommy outside Home Depot:


Why, you ask, is Madgette screaming at the top of her lungs and flailing her arms wildly? Because it was our sixth trip to that particularly inept housing supply store and we were a bit exhausted. Plus, that's just how we roll.

Today marks Day Three of the Plumbing Disaster of 2008 and I am told that we are very close to having a new toilet installed. Now that we've broken not one, but two bolts and unsealed some ring-a-ma-jig while attempting to secure the commode into place, hopefully, tonight I have a date with tiles and grout. And while right now tiling couldn't seem like easier task, I'm pretty sure that I will have an entirely different story to tell you in the morning.

Word

From The Desk Of Madge

Editors note: This is a guest column by the one, the only MADGE.

I must say, time can be a girl’s best friend. After a childhood of being picked on because of your parents horrifying choices, you become a little disillusioned with other children. I know you have all heard about how Momma Pug and I have been best friends since kindergarten, and how I supposedly was the strong one. I hate to inform this vast readership that I was only strong when Momma Pug was not. It was our odd way of taking turns. One of us would run off all the terrorist children on the playground, then the other would run them off the next day.

This trend continued on throughout our school career. Now you must understand that we have each gone through phases of not liking the other one, but in the long run our friendship held. In today’s world, we talk frequently and make sure we see each other in person at least once a month. Which brings me back to my opening thought- time can be a girl’s best friend. Momma Pug, Catfish, and I all decided that we would not be in attendance for our ten year high school reunion. I mean- come on! These people made our lives miserable for 12 years. Why in the world would we possibly want to spend even one more moment with them?

However, through the wonders of the internet, we have been able to check out the reunion pictures. It has been an absolute joy to see how many of the small town royalty have gained immense amounts of weight, had hideous children, been divorced (sometimes repeatedly), and generally had a miserable existence. Time has given them payback, and in turn been this girl’s best friend.

So let’s all give a little respect to the power of time, and to the power of true friendship. Love ya, Momma Pug! (And Catfish too!)

My Lap Dog Weighs 75 Pounds

Me: Rippy, come give Mama some sugar!

Rip: (Wag, wag, bounce, bounce.) Wooof! (Jumps squarely into my lap.)

Me: (Cooing gently.) Oh! My! You are sweet boy.

Rip: (Licks, kisses and nuzzles.) Ahhhh-woof!

Me: (Rubs his belly.) Does my baby like to have his belly-welly rubbie-dubbied?

Rip: (Rolls onto his back in lap and presents his stomach for easier access.) Woof, ahhh-wooof!

Me: (Scratches his tummy.) I love you, Rippy-dog.

Rip: (Licks and kisses my face for what seems like an eternity.)

Suddenly Ripken freezes mid-lick and his ears perk up. My underdeveloped human ears don't pick up on any sounds, but Ripken is motionless and at alert. He. HEARS. SOMETHING.

Me: Ippy Dippy Dog, give Mama more kissies.

Rip: (Remains frozen in place, save his right ear which rotating above his head like a NORAD satalite.)

Me: What is it Rippers? (I pause to listen, but again hear nothing.)

Rip: Sniff. Snort. (Begins to wag his tail gently.)

Me: Oh, you DO love your Mama!

The front door swings open and the hubs steps through. Ripken – all 75 pounds of him – swivels in my lap to face his Daddy then pushes against me as hard as he can to get enough traction to propel himself toward the hubs. Ripken flies through the living room dropping at his Daddy's feet in a fuzzy ball of excitement, love and devotion. Meanwhile, I have been knocked to the floor and trampled by the Silky and the Pug.

The three dogs encircle the Aggie, each offering their eternal affection. And just ask I'm about to pull myself up from my positions of having just been stampeded across, the freaking cat comes running toward the three-ring circus at the door. On her pilgrimage to greet the hubs, she literally walks over me like I am a piece of carpet.

Me: Not you too!

Gert stops, turns to face me then looks at me as if she's really truly seen me for the first time. A smile crosses my lips and I offer a tender rub across her face. She, in turn, reaches out, takes my hand in her mouth and bites the shit out of me.

Me: Traitor.

Gert: Suck it, fucker.

Bang!

The hubs sent me a video that was so funny I nearly choked to death at my desk on a cracker when I watched it.


Wife Will Never Touch a Gun Again - Watch more free videos

After I calmed myself from laughing so hard I got a case of the vapors, I watched the video two more times.

All I could think was: If I were that had been the Aggie, throwing firecrackers under my chair while I held a loaded gun, I probably wouldn't have dropped it ran screaming. My knee jerk reaction would have been to spin around and return fire. Then I would have spent the rest of the day explaining to the cops why I just shot my husband at close range 17 times.

Then they would have confiscated the video, watched it at the station (and at the subsequent Christmas parties) and concluded, "The dude had it coming." But because shooting someone 17 times can't be an accident, I probably would have been sent before the grand jury for indictment. Thus, I would have spent the next months in the county jail because with busy caring for his gunshot wounds there would be no one to bond me out.

Eventually I would be "no billed" by the grand jury and able to return to my life -- a life that would consist of countless hours at home alone with dogs, which now hate me for shooting their daddy. Instead of "hussy," Sonny the Pug would call me "assassinator," and I'd spend countless hours trying to bleach the patio and sharpening the shank I fashioned while in the clink (I'd use it to cut the gauze for his bandages.) Meanwhile, the Aggie would be focusing on recuperating and trying to decide if he still could love someone who is now known within our circle of friends as "Trigger."

Yes, this video is funny, but no I don’t think it this practical joke falls into the category of Good Ideas.

Better Lucky Than Good

Last night the hubs and I were watching television. A sitcom we like ("How I Met Your Mother") came on. It was a rerun, but one we'd never seen before. The episode chronicled the wedding day of two of the main characters and featured all the shenanigans of the wedding attendees. If something could have gone wrong it did -- Murphy's Law.

Even though Aggie and I are going on into our fourth year of marriage, every time I see the misadventures of someone else's wedding, I think of our own day. The physical details (flowers, dresses, hair) were all perfect, but there were so many hurtful things that happened behind the scenes that the day has been soured to me. For nearly a year afterward, I wouldn't even look at wedding pictures or our scrapbook. To this day I have not viewed the video of our ceremony.

You see, our marriage nearly failed before it really even started. Looking back, I'm not sure we were ready to get married. We'd known each other less than a year and dated for only about six months. We were young, impetuous and passionate. But I'm not sure we fully understood what we were doing. I can clearly remember after the debacle that was our reception attempting to stomp my brand new wedding ring into the ground and wondering what exactly an annulment entailed. The Aggie, conversely, found himself walking in a tight circle, thinking: HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD, I HAVE MARRIED ONE CRAZY BITCH.

But, hey! Luckily for us, it worked out just fine. We had good friends to reason with us (thanks Madge!). So after we calmed down, realized that gravity of the commitment we'd just made to each other, we took a collective deep breath, clasped hands and charged full steam ahead. And four years later we haven't looked back. Its been the best and easiest time of my life. That's not to say we haven't been through hell. We've weathered professional, personal and health failures. We've experienced death, birth and forgiveness.

And all the while, I find myself thinking one thing: No, we didn't exactly get the perfect wedding day, but we sure did come out with a remarkable relationship. And if I had to choose, I'd rather get the marriage right than the wedding day.

Better lucky than good.

Why I'm NOT The First Choice Babysitter

(This is an actual conversation between myself and my five-year-old god daughter.)

Madgette: Hey! Our exchange student is going to be in here in a few weeks.

Momma Pug: Really? Tell me about her.

Madgette: She's from South Korea and she's beautiful and has a sister and she loves animals. She really loves cats.

MP: I bet she does love cats… Does she also happen to love to cook?

Madgette: I don't know. I'll ask.

Madge: (Bursting in quickly.) Stop! Right! There!

Madgette: (Oblivious and somewhat hurt, she turns to her mother.) What? She DOES love cats! She can't wait to see ours. She said so. She said she loves them.

MP: Yeah she LOVES them… to death.

Madge: (Turns to me, again.) STOP.

Madgette: But, Mama, she does LOVE them.

MP: Yeah! She probably thinks they are delicious.

Madge: (Momentarily ignoring me, she turns to Madgette. Her voice softens and brightens.) Oh, yes, she sure does LOVE them! (Then to me through gritted teeth.) STOP. IT. YOU. ARE.
WORSE. THAN. A. CHILD.

(Thirty second pause. I am trying. But, I. CAN'T. HELP. IT.)

MP: I wonder what type cat she prefers?

Madgette: She said she likes all cats.

MP: I wonder if its anything like chicken…

Madge: ENOUGH.

Wake Me Up Before You Go Go

In 1986 and I was in first grade, and having been in school for two years, I was very well versed in the cruelty of children. That's the year that I learned Kindergarteners could be especially horrible with their taunts… and that I LOVE George Michael.

I was sweet, naïve and chubby – in other words, a perfect target for my young classmates. There are few things as scarring in this world to the psyche of a six-year-old as being that kid, the one chosen to be picked on. I can recall now – 22 years later – with crystal clarity the day I first realized I was different (or, at least, different to those children.)

It was early September of my second year in school and I had just discovered the glories of recess. My best friend, Madge, and I were on the merry-go-round. We'd worked out a method of first running in a circle at maximum speed then jumping on and spinning madly for 45 seconds before repeating the process. After about 15 minutes of this activity we were exhausted and ready to puke so we took a break and laid back on the merry-go-round and waited for our world to stop spinning. I don't remember what we were talking about that afternoon – something very important, such as my dance recital that night. Madge didn't take dance lesson and she claimed she didn't want to, but Madge lived with her father and his second wife, who I did not trust or like. Even though Madge said she had no desire to dance with the rest of us, I suspected she wasn't interested only because her stepmonster wouldn't allow it.

As much as we liked each other (and we did and still do), at first Madge and I were friends out of necessity. I was short, fat and had fuzzy ringlets. Madge was skinny, tall and sported a boyish haircut. We weren't the best or most perfect of children, but we were loyal to each other. We learned early on that if we united in our shared awkwardness that together we were a force to be reckoned with. When we were children, I was the sensitive one. My heart was easily bruised by hurtful words. Madge was the tough one. She would clinch her fists, raise her chin and smile in defiance. "Don't listen to them," she'd say. "They're stupid." It was hard to ignore mean things that were said. At first I'd just mimic Madge's courage. I'd act like I didn't care and that the words weren't painful. If I didn't let them bother me, then they would walk away or shut up.

My mother was also a force. I can remember looking at her when I was a little girl and wondering how something so strange as me came from something so graceful and beautiful as her. She might not have had anything in common with my five-year-old self – she wasn't awkward or goofy looking and picked on – but she did embrace me. She loved and was proud of every ounce of me. Like, Madge she taught me toughness. And that, and I quote, "Honey, they are all jealous of you! They make fun of you because they want to be you and they can't because they are just ordinary." She was so smart and pretty and said ordinary like it was a dirty word. She'd tell me, "You are the smartest girl in your grade, baby. The smartest. Don't let them trick you into thinking they're better than you. You are smarter and better than them, so act like it!"

I figured that if my mother – an honest-to-god beauty queen – said it then it must be true.

Thus my unusually high self-esteem (and love for George Michael) was born. I think you'll agree it comes out in pictures of my dance recital. I might have been the fattest 6-year-old shaking it that night, but I had what you call stage presence. I smiled and pointed my toes and fully extended my arms in time with the music, Wham!'s "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go." Twenty-two years later, I still remember how the routine started (with the Jitterbug.) And I was spectacular – just ask my mother.

Monday night George Michael played a concert here in Houston. I did not attend. As it turns out I don't have a single friend that loves me enough to go see the better half of Wham! perform. The hubs wouldn't even entertain the possibly of attending with me. As it turns out he does not love me THAT much either. Its all for the best, though, it might have been embarrassing to see a hobbling, fat lady attempting to climb her way onto stage and show the Toyota Center how to break it down dance recital '86-style. As cool as it would be to have a restraining order against me from George Michael, frankly, we just don't have the bail money right now.

I'll take irony's bitch for $1,000, Alex

Alex Trebek: Congratulations, that's the daily double!

Momma Pug: (Nods absently.)

Trebek: The answer is Momma Pug AND Sonny the Pug.

(Cue music: Da da da da ta tatatata.)

Trebek: Okay, Momma Pug you have wagered everything. Lets see your answer.

Momma Pug: What is good-looking, smart, funny and happy?

Trebek: Oh, no, sorry. The correct answer is, What mother-son duo have exactly the same kind of arthritis?

Sonny the Pug: Suck it, Trebek. I liked hussy's answer better.

Thrown Under the Bus

More correctly, I nearly threw myself under a school bus yesterday. I -- being the vision of grace and poise -- slipped in the rain while crossing the street on campus and fell. Thank god the bus stopped. Because I was actually injured it took me a few moments to collect myself and become restored to an upright position. The bus driver actually got off the bus to come see if I was okay. Her exact words were: "I can't believe you got up by yourself!"

In stunned silence I proceeded to my car where I sat and cried for a few minutes then pulled it together long enough to determine that I might actually need the emergency room. So I drove myself, in rain and traffic all the way home. Why would I do such a thing when I work in the Texas Medical Center? BECAUSE I work in the Texas Medical Center! The last thing I wanted to do is set in a massive waiting room with thugs with stab wounds, 12-year-old mothers-to-be in labor and children with the flu. FOR SIX HOURS. So I opted to make the seven-mile drive home in crazy traffic and rain so the Aggie could cart me to the local emergency center.

Turns out that going home was the best idea I've ever had. The ER center was soooo nice -- complete with immediate attention, kind staff AND flat screen televisions. You see, I am very particular about certain things. Hospitals and health care are one something I am very, very peculiar about. If I am not absolutely comfortable and at ease with what's around me I will totally freak out. (And after what I experienced with my Tree, I am horrified of ending up forgotten by mean nurses in the rattiest ward on the 22nd floor of a monolithic hospital.) No one was more surprised than me at the quality of care AND my ability to NOT LOOSE MY SHIT.

In less than one-hour, I was admitted, reclined in bed, saw three nurses, a radiologist, a trauma doctor, had x-rays, filled out paperwork, been diagnosed, treated and discharged. It was a delightful experience. Except for the aching knee, which I'm told by the GREATEST EMERGENCY MEDICAL DOCTOR IN THE WORLD that is riddled with advanced arthritis. He says I have the knee of a 50 year old. And that the sprain is going to hurt worse because of all the bad cartilage. I have to go to an orthopedic surgeon in the next couple of weeks and Trauma Doc (who didn't even try to hurt my feelings when he said I was fat) said that I might can postpone it for now, but eventually I'll have to have surgery of some sort. For now, probably to just clean out all the crap, but in the future I'll eventually need a knee replacement.

He said this is an old injury. Something I've had for a decade. Immediately I knew what caused this. (Madge tells the story with so much more animation than I.) The short of it is: About ten years ago, I walked off a stage wearing spandex and twirling a flag. Yes, ten years ago I was still fat, and yes, I still wore the spandex. In addition to incredibly damaging my pride by turning myself into a giant, Lycra spectacle, I really messed up my ankle. I remember having the knee pain then, but my ankle was in such a mess the doctors ignored the knee issues. And my ankle hurt so much that I didn't really care about anything else on my body. I'd fallen hard and most of me hurt in some way.

So I'm not shocked I did this. I mean, its not like this was my first incident falling. Actually, I'd tripped in the same spot crossing the same street about a year ago. My office mates want to erect a historical marking commemorating my hijynxs. If they only knew! Once I fell down an entire set of bleachers. But alas, that is a story for another day, and one Madge also tells much better.

Cake Thief

What kind of person steals a birthday cake? SERIOUSLY?

Apparently, the kind of person who work on the third floor of our building. Yesterday the office threw me a birthday party, complete with tres leches cake topped with strawberries. It was delicious. And we saved an entire half of the cake for a secondary celebration today.

However, when Texas Barbie went to retrieve our delicious dessert from the fridge, she discovered that only a mere slither of our once grand cake remained. Someone(s) on the third floor had eaten my birthday cake!

Seriously, who takes other people's food? What if that had been poisonous cake? Or what if it had been intended for orphans? What if that cake was the cure for cancer and scientists hadn't had time to analyze it yet? What if the meaning to life was hidden in that cake?

I'm pretty sure I'll be in a baking mood tonight. I'll whip up some gooey brownies and then tomorrow I'll leave them in the third floor fridge. It'll be like Mardi Gras, but instead of getting a small plastic baby, everyone who takes one uninvited with end up with a mouth full of laxative.

Now excuse me while I go teach some folks from accounting a lesson.

Cooking Up Crazy

Yesterday was glorious. I spent the entire day with my two oldest friends – Madge and Catfish -- cooking, laughing and gossiping. We watched as Madgette (the first in our second generation) “helped” us crack eggs and stir batter. We misread recipes, made enormous messes and one of us (surly not me) splattered boiling strawberry Jello in her eye. By the end of the day we were loopy from a combination of physical and emotional exhaustion -- but it was totally worth it. Not only did we make six casseroles and two desserts for our recovering friend Tree, but we also got to spend an entire day together.

We had the kind of magical time that makes you realize that you WOULD actually be best friends with these ladies even if your parents had made you play together 25 years ago. It feels so nice to be all grownup, together in a big city and still enjoy and value each other’s company. They’re not only the friends you’ve had forever, but they are actually friends you would choose from Sear’s 2008 Friends Catalog. And I can not even begin to explain how convenient this is! I mean, now – more than two decade’s later – they know all my family secrets so I couldn’t just break up with them. I’d have to have them killed and murder is messy business so we’d probably have to stay together anyway because with my college loans and credit card debt I would never be able to afford a good hitman. Actually having each other and loving each other is a great alterative to having someone whacked.

It was during this foray into cooking that I found myself eyeball-to-eyeball with a teary eyed five-year-goddaughter.

“What’s a matter, sugar?” I asked.

“It’s my hamster. He died yesterday,” she said, looking awful pitiful with tears forming in her big doe eyes.

“Oh,” I stammer. “Oh.”

I am choosing my words carefully. You see, I have what you might call an aversion to rodents. Truth be told, I absolutely HATE all things rat-like – this includes mice, squirrels, chipmunks, gophers, beavers, hamsters, gerbils, guinea pigs, chinchillas and degus. (And I don’t even know what the last two are, but I hate them anyway.) The only exception is porcupines. I think they’re okay because they are prickly and would rather stab a human than be touched by one, and that is exactly how I feel about hamsters and their ratty cousins.

Madgette, however, is young, innocent and a lover of almost anything furry. She has yet to be knocked down life so she is still optimistic about many things, including that allowing a rodent to share her princess bedroom is a very good idea. She is looking at me the way a young genius studies a defiant Rubick’s cube for the first time –her brain’s struggling to not only comprehend how the puzzle works and why on Earth people would mix it up to begin with. I am silent so she takes another approach.

“On the way home from the grocery store we are going to stop and get me two other ones! Mama said I have to ask you if that is okay,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Is it okay? Is it?”

“Uhhh…” Again, I’m choosing the words carefully.

“Well?” she presses. And with that one-sylable word I AM BROKEN.

“NO!” I said, a little to loudly.

“Why not?” she asked, so thoroughly confused that she thinks she must have misheard me.

“Because I hate them. I hate hamsters. I hate all rats and rodents and fuzzy things like that. I’m very scared of them. They are mean and aggressive and dirty. They are yucky and gross and I’m glad yours is dead.”

She stares at me unable to comprehend what I said.

“Ahhhh…” Now she is answering me in grunts. “Ahhhh that’s a little…Ahhhhhh….”

“WHAT!” I demanded.

“Silly. That’s a little silly,” Madgette said then turned and went back to her mother. She is completely unfazed. Her mother instructs her to go play in her room for a few minutes then turns her glare to me.

“What!?” I said. “I can’t help it, but I hate them.”

“You just told a child that you were happy her pet died. GLAD! Your exact words were ‘and I’m glad yours is dead,’” Madge said. Her hands are on her hips and I can’t tell if she is shocked or angry. “They are fuzzy little pets…”

”NO! They are rodents. DIRTY rodents! They started the plague!” I scream.

“Hamsters did not start the plague,” she says calmly.

“I’m sorry, but I hate them. I can’t even pretend. I have a phobia.”

Madgette reappears before us, Madge turns to her and speaks to her in a soothing voice.

“Auntie is sorry she said she hated your pet,” Madge said. “She’s not glad he’s dead.”

Madge looks to me for confirmation, but I am physically unable to give it to her. This is one thing I can’t play off. So I rush off to the bathroom and hope she believes her mother. As I close the door I hear her say: “Mama, hamsters are great. She’s crazy.”

And this folks is how young Madgette has her first lesson in what she will one day categorize as “Coping With The Mentally Ill.”

What's Worse?

Accidentally finding yourself in the middle of the Houston Pride Parade or accidentally finding yourself in the middle of Ikea's annual 60 percent off sale?

(Here's a hint: It ain't the Pride Parade.)

Well, its been a long week for us here at Che' Pugge. Lots of travel, lots of sleepless nights in the hospital, lots of prayer. And lots of excitement! Baby Phoebe was born July 1 and on July 4 we found out that my sister (Diet Hussy) is pregnant! Its been one of the most taxing, yet exciting, vacations of my life.

The phone has been ringing off the hook with thoughts, prayers and well wishes and I would like to thank you all very much on behalf of Baby Phoebe's family for everything you've done. Phoebe's mom was released from the hospital today and finally was able to meet her baby, who's earned the nickname "Nails" (as in she's tough as nails.) Nails has a long road head of her, but she is a FIGHTER and I have no doubt that with everyone's thoughts and prayers on her side that she will be home soon. Lots of people have asked what they can do to help Nails and her family. If you want to send a card, food or anything email me and I'll get you touch with them.

Now, as for Diet Hussy (Sonny the Pug refers to me as Hussy and all my friends/family get a Hussy-nickname.) Well, Diet Hussy is doing great. The spawn, dubbed Darth Vader Cater, is due in February and we couldn't be more excited. Its the first grandchild for my side of the family. Life is full and we are so grateful.

As for Ikea? Yes, today the Aggie got on a cleaning spree and we de-dog-smelled our house. We did everything from scrubbing the baseboards to stripping and washing the couch cushions. One source of Puggy Stink turned out to the the throw rug in the living room. So we thought: Yes! Lets go spend our Ikea gift card! YEAH!

We were so naive that we were excited to see giant banners proclaiming: 60 PERCENT OFF TODAY!!! That was until we couldn't find a parking place. NOT A SINGLE PARKING PLACE. We're talking parking lot space equivalent to that of Disney World -- and we couldn't park. Housewives were ramming each other's Lexuses (Lexi?). Young hipster couples were fighting to the death for shopping carts. Old ladies were throwing elbows just to get through the front door. As much as I love cheap Euro-trash furniture that frustrates you to the point of homicide to assemble with Allan wrench, I just couldn't bring myself to fight with other would-be bargain hunters for the privilege of buying Swedish crap.

So we left empty-handed but with what's left of our sanity in tact.

Babygate 2008

Thanks so much for all the prayers! Baby Pheobe is doing GREAT! She's a fighter and has earned the nickname "Nails" -- as in tough as nails. Its going to be a long road but so far she is going in the right direction. Please keep praying for her (she'll be in NICU until September) and her mommy, who is still in the hospital recovering.

In unrelated baby news, the Aggie and I got quite a surprise phone call today. My sister rang to say she is PREGNANT! Talk about fireworks on the Fourth of July! This will be the first grandchild for my mom and dad. Needless to say we are all very excited. She is due in February and STP thinks Sonny is a great name for either a boy or a girl. I agree with the pug.

Emergency -- Prayers Needed!

Hi guys, late this afternoon a member of the Momma Pug family went into premature labor. My dear friend Tree has given birth three months early to a 2.6 pound baby girl. Her name is Pheobe and she is a fighter. But she needs all the prayers she can get. Please pray for Baby Pheobe and her sweet parents, Tree and P.Daddy. They're great people, having already survived Hurriane Katrina and relocating their family to Houston. They deserve a break, folks. Lets all pray they get it. I'm still on vacation in Mississippi and the Aggie and Texas Barbie are giving me regular updates. When I return home tomorrow the first thing I do will be go to see Pheobe. Here's a picture of the little angel you are praying for.