The Ollie Chronicles — random entries from the diary of a middle-aged pug dog.
May 18 — Sunday, mid-morning. My manservant takes me to the Second Annual Great Victoria Pug Walk. About 30 pugs congregate at Dallas Road and Cook Street.
I note most pugs in attendance are of a leaner (dare I say it spindly) variety. Few can match my impressive girth or the masses of magnificent furry folds around my head, which I’m told recall the ruffles of an Elizabethan aristocrat.
A young pug approaches me and bends down in the “play-with-me-now” pose. Not wanting to be rude, I oblige by partaking in a vigorous game of chase-me-Charlie. The pug’s owner gives me a treat. I detect elements of ranch-raised elk and perhaps a hint of cage-free quail. I show approval by rolling over like a good boy (an undignified business, but humans seem to enjoy such side-show antics).
The organizer of the walk is a pleasant fellow who cuts a bold figure with his Spandex tights and brightly painted toenails and fingernails. He provides dishes of water for us all. I partake of this communal refreshment sparingly, as I don’t know where these other pugs have been.
Returning home, I fling myself upon my manservant’s new French chore jacket and fall into a deep, restorative sleep.
He had this pretentious piece of clothing imported from the U.K. My shedded, fawn-coloured dog hairs show up impressively on this garment, which is a dark navy blue. My manservant makes loud noises upon discovering this. Happily, my slumber is disturbed but little.
May 12 — I have resumed my old practice of licking my manservant’s legs when he gets out of the shower. Judging by the peculiar noises he makes, he is surprised at having his legs vigorously tongued. The shower water on his legs is delicious, providing a bracing start to a new day.
May 2 — My manservant has, of late, been too lazy to give my daily brushing. So he takes me to the groomers.
A stranger gives me a bath, which I dislike, as my body’s natural odours are highly pleasing to me. My smell also recalls of past adventures, such as rolling on a dead, squashed mouse.
The groomer cuts my nails and cleans the wrinkles in my face. I protest such indignities by struggling mightily and vocalizing. Then she brushes me with something she calls “the Furminator.”
Her efforts cause the room to be filled with clouds of my fur, recalling a Christmas snow globe. These pleases me. Who else could produce such mighty clouds of fur? At the same time, I dislike being raked with a crude metal implement.
The groomer tells my manservant she’s never seen so much fur come off a single dog. She says he “sure has gotten his money’s worth.”
My manservant, seeming ashamed and apologetic, lays a sizable tip on the groomer. Surely he should be proud of my unmatched fur-producing abilities?
April 23 — My manservant, complaining of a bad back, visits his physiotherapist. He returns home in a strange state of exultation clutching sheets of paper which he says contains “back exercises.”
Now in the mornings, instead of playing with me and my stuffed squirrel, he studies these bits of paper and does sit-ups, push-ups and so forth.
For some reason, the sight of my manservant lying down on the bedroom rug is tremendously exciting. I fetch my toy squirrel (bearing a rich, ripe scent from years of saliva-filled gnawing) and lay it upon his back. Then I climb on his back and chew happily.
When he raises his back as part of his exercise, me and my squirrel both rise miraculously into the air. However, for some reason, my actions cause my man servant to (1) make loud noises, (2) fling the squirrel into the hallway and (3) push me brusquely off his back. Puzzling behaviour — then again, humans are peculiar beings.
Next week: Why did the vet remove most of my teeth?