Home
Gail MacMillan
Culture: Stories & Lit
The Pug Who Came to Dinner
Perky, pesky and utterly unflappable, a new neighbor makes himself at home
Pug

When I opened the cottage door to call our dogs—Molly, the Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever, and Barbie-Q, the little no-name brand—in for dinner, I recognized him immediately.  New neighbors had moved in across the road two days earlier, and the Pug was part of their family; I’d seen him playing on the deck of their cottage.He looked up at me, big brown eyes round and appealing above the black mask that covered his snout, and wriggled his curly pig-tail.

Beside me Molly paused and looked up. I knew that expression. I glanced over at the neighbors’ cottage. No one was around.

“Okay,” I answered Molly’s silent request. I looked down at the Pug. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

He wriggled his tail again, then pranced up the steps and past me.

He proved to be an appreciative guest, his enjoyment of our doggy cuisine obvious as he burrowed his little black mouth deep into gravy-laced kibble. He even gave a lusty burp and licked his chops with gusto when he finished.

“Bruiser! Bruiser, where are you?”

He cocked his head to one side, then trotted to the full-length screen door and looked out, tail wiggling. His reaction left no doubt. He was Bruiser.

I opened the door for him and followed him onto the deck.

“He’s over here,” I called across the lane to the young woman in shorts and tank top. “He stayed to dinner.”

“Thanks.” She jogged across the road as Bruiser rushed to greet her. She introduced herself as Nancy as she lifted his squirming body in her arms.

“Bruiser’s an unusual name for a Pug,” I said, as she tucked him against her side.

“I named him after the dog in the movie Legally Blonde,” she grinned. “Hope he wasn’t any trouble.”She waved and headed back across the road carrying the Pug.

“Any time,” I called.

The trouble began soon afterwards. The next morning, in fact, when Molly dashed out as usual to fetch the morning paper at the end of the drive. At the corner of our cedar hedge where the carrier normally tossed it, she stopped short. No paper. She lowered her nose and began a serious investigation of the area. After a few minutes of watching my dog’s unsuccessful attempts to find the daily news, I scuffled into my moccasins and went to help her.

As I was opening the front door, I saw my new neighbor running across the road in slippers and PJs. She was waving something in a blue plastic sleeve. Under her left arm, Bruiser hung ignominiously.

“Sorry,” she said as she ran up the steps.

“Bruiser’s been watching your dog fetch the paper for the last couple of days. He must have thought it was a good idea, so he brought your paper to us.”

“No problem,”I replied taking the paper and giving Bruiser a little head-pat. “Shows initiative, right, guy?”He licked my hand, snuffled a Pug sound and wriggled his tail.

It’s been said you can’t outfox a fox. Molly soon proved that the cliché also applied to Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retrievers. Bright and early the next morning, she posted herself on our front step.

The Pug proved to be a worthy opponent. As I glanced out the front window, I saw a small, black-masked snout peering out from the hedge.

I got my coffee and drew up a chair. This was going to be interesting.

A few minutes later, the carrier’s car appeared over the crest of the knoll. Instantly, Molly was on her feet, alert and ready. In the hedge, a small beige-andblack body also came to attention.

The car slowed at the end of our drive, an arm appeared through its open driver’s window and the morning news flew through the air. Simultaneously (or so it appeared) both dogs lunged.

The collision occurred at the corner of the hedge. A yelp, a squeal and Bruiser went flying. Molly paused a moment, shook to regain her dignity, then picked up the paper precisely in its middle and triumphantly trotted back to the cottage, the obvious winner in this war for words.

By then, Bruiser had scrambled to his paws. He too shook himself vigorously, paused a moment (I assume to make sure he was still intact) and proceeded to prance behind Molly toward our cottage.

When I opened the screen door for Molly and accepted the paper she carefully presented “to hand,” Bruiser, his joie de vivre apparently unabashed, trotted inside behind her, the corners of his mouth curled up in a good-natured grin.

The following morning, it bucketed rain and Molly opted to watch for the paper from the front window. Surely, she may have speculated, the Pug wouldn’t come out in such inclement weather for a fetch he now knew he couldn’t possibly retrieve.

Molly would soon learn never to underestimate the tenacity of a Pug.

I’d gone back into the kitchen for a moment when I heard the carrier’s car approaching and Molly’s excited whines. “No rush, girl,” I assured her as I headed toward the front door to let the now yelping, prancing dog out.

Then I saw the reason for her distress. Bruiser darted out of the hedge and lifted his leg. His aim perfect, he peed on her precious blue-sleeved paper.

Two weeks later, Nancy crossed the road to ask a favor. She and her partner were going to visit non-dog-fancying relatives for a couple of weeks. Could we keep Bruiser? No problem, husband Ron and I readily agreed. By then, Bruiser had become a frequent and welcome visitor. Barbie-Q and Molly enjoyed him, and so did we. So the Pug who came to dinner gathered up his collar, leash and bowl and moved in.

“He’s housebroken and doesn’t chew things,”Nancy said as she placed him on the kitchen floor. “There’s only a couple of tiny problems. He steals and he parties.”

“Oh?” we replied in surprised unison, although the former came as no surprise after the newspaper incidents. And as for partying. A Pug? Really?

The first couple of days, nothing untoward occurred. The three dogs played happily on the deck, in the yard and at the beach. On the third morning, however, things changed.

When I went to call the dogs in after their morning ablutions, I found a pair of pink plastic flowers, a few of their fake petals missing, on the deck. As I recalled having seen them on a neighbor’s lawn, I looked at Bruiser sitting beside them, a grin plastered across his pushed-up little face.

“Did you take those?” I asked pointing at the posies.“No, no! Bad boy!”

The black ears dropped repentantly… for a moment. Then he blinked an eye at me and wiggled his tail.

An hour later, when our neighbor went grocery shopping, I furtively stuck the two worse-for-wear flowers back in her garden. That was easy, I thought, as I trotted home. And now that he knew better, our houseguest wouldn’t do it again. He’d looked so contrite.

Apparently I hadn’t learned anything about Bruiser’s persistence during his paper-pirate days, I realized later that week. Each morning, our deck sported new booty. A tennis ball, a toy truck, a plastic shovel, a baseball cap, a deflated beach ball (I refused to reflect on how it had gotten into that condition) and, most alarmingly, what looked like a doll’s amputated arm.

But worse was yet to come. The next morning, a shoe appeared on the deck. Obviously new, obviously expensive.

“Oh, Bruiser!” I breathed, turning the slender, high-heeled strappy sandal over in my hands.“What have you done now!”

For a moment, my tone of voice made his ears droop and his tail straighten. For a moment he looked almost ashamed. Almost. And only for a moment. Then his tail re-knotted, his ears went up and his wide mouth widened in that now familiar roguish grin.

Ron joined me on the deck. “There’s only one thing to do about this,” he said. He took the shoe from my hand and, like the prince in Cinderella, set off down the road to find someone with its mate.

“That’s it.” On his return, Ron picked up the Pug and looked him squarely in the eyes.“No more stealing, understand?” For a moment, black ears drooped and the broad mouth sagged. For a moment one could almost believe he was truly sorry. Almost.

The instant Ron replaced the canine culprit on the deck, his entire body flashed back to perky exuberance. He turned to Barbie-Q, who’d been dozing in the sun, and began racing around her, barking and daring her to play.

“When did Nancy say she’d be back?” Ron asked as they made circuit after circuit of the cottage, barking and yelping.

That evening marked the beginning of a long weekend in New Brunswick. Shortly after 6, the air grew rich with the smell of barbecuing beef and pork from our neighbor’s barbecues. All three dogs—lying on the deck, bellies full of supper—sniffed deeply. Leaving them to savor the aroma, I went inside to clear away our dishes.

I returned to the deck 20 minutes later and found Bruiser missing. When 9 o’clock arrived and he hadn’t returned, I set out to look for him. Yes, most of our neighbors informed me, he’d visited their parties but he was no longer around. Finally, as darkness and mosquitoes gathered around me, I headed home. I hoped to find him on the deck. No such luck.

When the rest of our household settled to sleep (“He’ll be along,” Ron said confidently as he headed off to bed). I curled up on the couch with a book to wait… I awoke with a start when I heard paws on the deck. Stumbling to my feet, I switched on the outdoor light. There Bruiser stood, a big T-bone thick with meat clamped in his jaws.

“Where have you been?” I scolded, opening the door for him.

He glanced up at me disdainfully, then staggered up the steps and past me into the cottage, clutching his booty. He reeked of fat and barbecue sauce.

He looked up at me again, gave a weary sigh, then walked toward the kitchen. There, with a tired grunt, he climbed onto the couch that had become his bed at our house. It took the last of his energy to bury his booty under a pillow. The task completed, with another sigh, he settled himself on top of it and closed his eyes. His belly, bloated with the results of foraging from party to party, stuck out beneath him.

Nancy arrived home several days later. With big news. And a request. She’d decided to join the armed forces. Could we keep Bruiser while she was away at boot camp and basic training?

“Well…okay,”we agreed. For some reason, Molly chose that moment to demonstrate a trick I’d been trying to teach her for several days.

She lay down on the deck and covered both eyes with her paws.

Bruiser, sitting beside her, grinned.