Relearning the Pug Life
I just spent 10 minutes in the front yard in a stare-down with a 15 pound dog. I moved slowly and put on my high-pitch-happy fun-play voice. Every step I took toward our 18 month old pug was a win. Until that last step, where — every time — he playfully darted 90 degrees to other side.
And the dance starts again.
I propped the door open to drop my Costco packages in the porch and — boom! — Ham is outside, without a leash or a collar, and he’s not coming back in without a fight. In this moment, we are adversaries. I’m frustrated and want to get inside, and he wants to play. I feel that I can’t trust him not to run away if I turn away to try to grab his leash, but there’s literally nothing else I can think to do in this moment.
When we parked at the pug breeder’s adapted barn home, Sheila stepped out and told us flat out “Well, you’ve got a spitfire on your hands!”
The little pug puppy sitting on the stoop alone couldn’t have looked less like a spitfire. He was curious, and probably wondering where his brothers and sisters had gone. We lucked into a puppy in this litter; since we didn’t have a gender or color preference, and the people in front of us wanted a black or a fawn, we got a late call asking if we were interested in a puppy.
