The Contents of Our Pugs Stomach

The Contents of Our Pug’s Stomach

We have a fat, old pug named Bennie.

He’ll be 14 years old this year, so we don’t really give him shit about being husky.

I’ve heard that Pugs cannot eat chocolate. That it’s poisonous to them. No one sent that memo to Bennie. He’s eaten chocolate, literally by the pound. He’s also eaten a pound of fudge from Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, hunks of soap and bath bombs from Lush, glitter, an entire bunch of bananas, brownies and a loaf of bread. Not all at once, mind you. He does have some restraint.

My favorite story about Bennie is when he stole the brownies. They in tin foil and up on a kitchen counter. Pug owners will know that this presents a problem as Pugs are verticals, ally-challenged. Bennie is prevented from entering the kitchen by a baby gate. How then, did he get to the brownies?

My wife found out one day, quite by accident. She locked him behind the gate as always and left for work. A minute later, she realized he had forgotten her coffee and headed back inside. Bennie was scaling the gate like a Green Beret. He turned, saw Lizz and froze mid-step with a, “Oh, this? How did I get up here?” expression on his doughy, wrinkled face.

So we know how he scales baby gates. Bennie also pushes stools up to the counter, which explains why our bananas were always missing. After stealing food, Bennie has the presence of mind to push the stool back, and creep back over the gate, hiding all evidence.

Clever bastard.

So, fudge. One day, he pulled his usual wall-scaling maneuver after smelling a pound of cinnamon fudge in the kitchen. Wrapped in tin foil. Which itself was shrink-wrapped in plastic. In a paper bag. No problem.

Slipping over the gate with the stealth and grace of an arthritic hippo, Bennie nabbed the fudge and devoured all evidence of its existence. Fudge. Tin foil. Wrapper. Bag. All eaten.

When Lizz came home, she found Bennie sprawled spread eagle on the ground—no simple feat for a Pug—making a low, moaning sound. He also appeared to be several inches thicker in the midsection, like an anaconda that recently swallowed a feral pig.

Lizz looked at Bennie, and he belched cinnamon in her face, giving himself away in the process. She put him out in the yard to poop but he just lied there in the snow, a miniature, beached whale. Hours later, his business done Bennie was back to business.

The following day, it snowed again. Our neighbor Margaret told Lizz that our snow looked “especially shiny, glittery and beautiful, more than anyone else’s yard!”

“Oh, that would be Bennie’s shit,” Lizz replied calmly. “He ate a pound of fudge and pooped tin foil all over the yard.”

Stay classy, Bennie.

asshole cats

My Asshole Cats

My Asshole Cats

  1. …Refuse to chase their toys until I’m in 4th stage REM sleep.
  2. …Only get nauseous when the floor is clean. And only on the hardwood.
  3. …Are responsible for 99% of all poltergeist activity in the lower 48 states.
  4. …Inform me their claws need trimming when they are sitting on my crotch.
  5. …Allow my baby to pull their hair, slap them and bite their heads. If I so much as pet them too close to their tails, I lose a vital organ.
  6. …Love our cranky old Pug, but are plotting the slow, painful death of our gentle Italian Greyhound.
  7. …Want to decimate every wild bird outside, but have no interest killing indoor spiders.
  8. …Can pick locks with the skill of a hardened ex-con.
  9. …Shit next to their litter box.

I have a quwestion

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My easily attainable 2014 New Years Resolutions

I make resolutions with the bar set really low, so I can attain them.

  1. I resolve never to purchase a Perfect Polly™ this year. Or any year.
  2. I resolve not to eat my fellow travelers if we’re stranded in the Arctic.
  3. Expanding on that last one, I resolve not to go anywhere I could possibly fall into a canyon (alone) and be forced to saw off my own hand.
  4. I resolve not to defect to a Communist nation.
  5. I resolve not to use my spit to hold my daughter’s hair in place.
  6. I resolve not to punch a Great White Shark in the face.
  7. But I do resolve to throat-punch anyone who plays What Does Fox The Say in my vicinity.
  8. I resolve not to learn Hungarian this year.
  9. I resolve not to vote for Rob Ford.
dirty diapers

Parenting: What no one told me

So I became a father for the first time. At 49. I had pretty much given up the hope of having children, but then it happened. No, don’t congratulate me. It was easy. What wasn’t easy was sifting through the reams of advice you’re given from doctors, family, magazines, blogs, friends and complete strangers—yes the same strangers who feel compelled to feel up your wife’s belly like she was a prize Berkshire hog at a county fair.

Most of the advice a new parent gets seems to come from well-meaning, but childless adults who are disappointingly often dead right. Other parents? Off their bloody rockers.

There are many things I found out on my own that no one warned me about. You bastards. Thanks for hiding this from me.

Defying gravity

It’s true. Babies are able to poop upwards against gravity. I was under the impression that only the esophagus could do this through peristalsis. Boy, was I wrong. The sphincter of an infant is quite capable of rocketing poop straight up their shoulder blades. While fully clothed.

Now you know why they smile at us after they’ve pulled off a power squeeze.

The Gatling Gun

Babies like to kick when you change them and one’s natural tendency is to grab their tiny feet and pump their little legs back and forth. Resist, dear reader. You will release a stream of .50 calibre poo-nition. After mentioning this frightening fact to my father-in-law, he matter-of-factly replied, “Oh sure. All babies do that. It’s like a pump-action rifle.” Thanks for the heads-up.

Oh, is that new?

Babies can sense that you have on nice clothing the way bees can smell fear. If you’ve just put on something nice—especially something expensive and dark—your baby will promptly spit up roughly a quart of milk all over it. This will seem all the more unusual when you realIze she only drank six ounces of milk and you’ve just changed her diaper. No matter. Small babies produce spit up the way Pekingese dogs produce poop 11 times on a short walk around the block.


Babies are rather like Mako sharks in that if you cut one open, you will find all manner of objects partially digested in their stomachs. Toys, cotton balls, tuna can lids, wood chips, hamsters—nothing is too perilous, scabrous or unsanitary for a baby to digest. It’s like babies have a death wish and choose to put the die in diet.


Around nine months of age, babies find their voice. And by that I mean their screams are able to shatter champagne glasses, split eardrums, deafen bats and dry up cows. And it’s not a cry of pain. That remains a “reasonable” 90 decibels. No, this is an inexplicable cry that happens with no warning, and for no reason.

My daughter generally employs her boisterous battle cry a few seconds after a good meal and prior to having her bib removed. I have no idea why she does this and I wish I could remember to brace my ears for this nightly assault on my senses. But I’m stupid, so I expect to be fully deaf by March 9, 2015.

“Do the chickens have large talons?”

The three most efficient cutting tools in the world are as follows:

  1. Lasers
  2. Diamond blades
  3. Baby fingernails

Being scratched by an infant’s fingernails requires an immediate call to an EMT. I’m not kidding.

First off, their nails are sharper than anything you can imagine. Secondly, the clippers made to trim baby nails are not worth a damn. Thirdly, they have a Shaolin-like ability for striking sensitive, high-damage zones such as major arteries, eyes, genitals or nasal passages.

The latter is my daughter’s specialty. A simple nose-honk becomes a death-grip on my nasal cartilage, her nails digging ever deeper until she draws blood. Then she adds insult to injury by giggling.

And spitting up.