I haven't been doing much. Aside from going to class for two hours every day, I've hardly left my house. I haven't even been grocery shopping and when supplies get low, meals get interesting: elbow macaroni with a can of Rotel, for example, or a plate of scrambled eggs with a side of Stove Top, or canned jelled cranberry sauce and protein powder.

It's a good thing I'm teaching this class, though it ends on June 17. So it's a good thing I have the Pug or I'd probably never leave my house. It's a problem I've always had, this never leaving the house. If I'm not careful, I'd stay inside the house so I could stay inside my head. It'd be just me and the Pug.

I'm trying to keep a limit to how much I blog about the Pug.

If I'm not careful, I'd write about him all the time. I already talk about him too much. But my friends are more than polite about it. They indulge me. They listen to stories about my dog's adventures and misdeeds, they bring him treats, they rub his belly, they hold very still while he rests his head on their foot, they agree to become A Fan of Bo on Facebook, and no doubt just to appease me, they respond to the dog's frequent status updates in which I speak for the dog, reporting his doings, channeling his innermost desires and concerns (Bo Augustine Joseph got hollered at for licking the rug in the kitchen so now he's licking the kitchen floor; Bo Augustine Joseph loves La Choy Chow Mein noodles; Bo Augustine Joseph went byes byes this morning, and after, instead of coming straight home, the lady tied him up outside Cub Food and left him there while she went inside to buy a dozen eggs. Bo did not like this. He went ape-shit batty, howling and howling and howling until the lady came back out. Everyone was looking at them and the lady was embarrassed but Bo didn't care. He's back home now, resting comfortably on the couch.) I even include links to the songs he likes--Black Dog, I Wanna Be Your Dog, Nelly McKay's The Dog Song.



The Pug is my first experience with a dumb dog (Bo Augustine Joseph got hollered at for digging a hole in the nice lady's garden; got hollered at the biting the heads off the nice lady's flowers; got hollered at for licking the couch; got tricked by the nice lady: she held up the leash like she was going to take him bye byes, and she said c'mon, Bo, let's go outside, and then when he ran out the back door, she closed it. Now he's in the yard, feeling sad and surprised, even though he falls for that trick every time.)

The Pug is also my first experience with a dog that's been just mine. And now that the Boy is home less and less, and I'm by myself more and more, I'm developing this weirdly intense co-dependent relationship with the Pug. I took him to the vet yesterday to pick up his Frontline, and when they weighed him, he came in at 52 pounds. When he came to live with me back in October, he weighed 42 pounds. I knew he'd gained, but I'm still sort of stunned by how much, and I feel a little defensive about it, mostly because it's in part the result of my own disordered eating. I've got my own winter weight that's not coming off as easy as it used to, and to keep myself from eating cookies, I offer cookies to the Pug, only my cookies are Oreos and the Pug's cookies are dog cookies that I buy at PetCo, selecting them from their assorted dog treat buffet. The Pug's cookies are vanilla sandwich cookies with vanilla cream centers (there's also a strawberry cream) that taste (yes, I took a nibble--but only after my friend D. did) not half bad (D. says they remind her of a Newman's Own, and I will have to take her word for it since while I love the Paul Newman Italian salad dressing, my processed-food-loving heart belongs to Nabisco.)

After our trip to the vet, I told the Pug we could take a ride out to PetCo to get him some cookies since we were out (D. ate the last one when she was here on Friday night. Because that's the wild life my friends and I have. We sit in my kitchen, wondering what dog cookies taste like, then we dare each other to try them until one of us breaks and the other squeals in horror, admiration and disgust.) The Pug seemed pleased to be in the truck: he'd been confined to the back, but somehow he wiggled through the gate and heaved himself to the front seat where he fussed until I rolled down the window so he could hang his head out, let his wide obscenely pink tongue flap in the breeze.

When we got to PetCo, there was the frantic frenzy of getting out: the open driver's side door, me, my purse, the Pug, all tumbling out at once. Then there was a moment for him to sniff the grass beside the parking lot. I wanted him to pee before we went in, which he did, squatting like a girl.

Then there was the mad dash to get through the doors which opened as we approached.

We rushed through.

We rushed past the gerbils, the rats, the hamsters and guinea pigs. We rushed past the rack of dog clothes--all of which are adorably cute but none of which are big enough to fit the Pug's girth. We rushed past the Kongs, the Frisbees, the rows of chew toys. We stopped at the bin of clearance dog beds and the Pug squatted, like a girl, then peed. An enormous yellow puddle that spread and he stepped in.

I didn't know what to do. We seemed to be alone in the store. No other customers. No PetCo employees within sight. To be honest, I considered just leaving, hauling ass right out of there, but I worried there was a surveillance camera, we were on video, they'd know it was us. So the Pug and I went to the cash registers and waited until a PetCo employee finally sauntered out and asked if she could help us. I told her I was really sorry, but my dog had an accident (though his "accident" seemed to me quite deliberate) and he peed over by the bin of clearance dog beds. She said no problem in a chipper little voice, grabbed a mop and headed off in that direction.

So the Pug and I headed off, too, toward the aisle of dog-shampoo. I thought I just might spend the afternoon tying him to the fence pole in my yard, hosing him down, then lathering him up, then rinsing him off. I was thinking oatmeal shampoo or strawberry-scented when the Pug squatted again. Only this time he didn't pee. He shit. A pile.

Once again, I didn't know what to do. There was still nobody around. The happy-go-lucky pee-mopping employee was on the other side of the store. I thought screw that surveillance tape, we are out of here. I thought what's the worst thing that can happen? We're never allowed in PetCo ever again? But then where would I get his cookies? Could I just start feeding him Newman's Own? But as embarrassed as I was, I also felt guilty about leaving a soft pile of dog shit on the floor at PetCo for a customer to step on or an employee, fresh from lunch or a cigarette break, to find. I needed to behave responsibly, I needed to 'fess up.

Finally, another PetCo employee appeared, only this one didn't take the news of my dog's "accident" quite so cheerfully as the first. She seemed dour about it, and it was hard to blame her. But she did something I didn't expect: she showed me where the cleaning supplies were and the unspoken meaning behind this was this: your dog's shit is your problem.

And she was right. Even though I was still dolled up in my school clothes--a skirt and high heels, and even though the Pug was being a complete spaz--his four legs moving in four directions, and even though I could barely hold onto his leash, the paper towels, the disinfectant spray, and my purse, I cleaned it up.

And afterward, I once again didn't know what to do: my dog has pissed and shit all over this store. Can we continue to browse? Are the employees watching us? Will they replay the surveillance tape over and over for their own entertainment? Should we leave?

You! I said to the Pug. You! You! You!

I felt obligated to buy something. So I bought the cookies that we went in there for to begin with. Luckily, the employee at the cash register was a different one yet, one who knew nothing of the pissing and the shitting. But for some reason, I told her all about it. I opened my mouth, and the whole story came out: how the cookies taste like Newman's Own, how we came here from the vet specifically for them, how I made sure my dog peed BEFORE coming inside but he peed inside anyway, how he then crapped inside (I said "crapped" instead of "shit" because I didn't want to be anymore offensive than I had been already.) I talked and talked and talked and I couldn't seem to stop and after the PetCo employee interrupted to ask if I had a PetCo card, and I dug it out of my purse then handed it to her, I talked some more. I was still talking as I gave the Pug a cookie right there at the register. He bit it into a million scattered crumbs which, when we left, we left on the floor.