Tag Archives: dog

Free the pugs! Free all pets!

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There was quite an interesting post on FB recently by two Rutgers law professors, Gary L. Francione and Anna E. Charlton, that has stimulated my grey matter to no end. (See how somber and thoughtful I look in my picture.) The piece was called “The case against pets,” and its subhead–“A morally just world would have no pets, no aquaria, no zoos. No fields of sheep, no barns of cows. That’s true animal rights.”

Basically, the argument is that humes consider animals property and therefore, as slaves, with whatever nasty connotations that conjures up. I would say this is what seems to be the case. Now, I don’t recall the professors acknowledging any traditions countermanding this, but the King James version of Genesis does say that after God created Adam and Eve, he said, “Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.”

I guess the real key is what dominion means. Many theologians agree there is a component of stewardship implied. That means my hume must care for me responsibly: clean my nose folds, my ears and my elevated butthole (can’t reach it myself). The only way I could see disallowing domestication of animals and freeing them all, would be if there were no humes around. And that would spell disaster for toy dogs such as me and my ilk. (“Dog eat dog.”)  For better or worse, we have a symbiotic relationship with the two-leggers and besides, my credit is bad and I couldn’t get a bag of chicken tenderloins on my looks alone….

 

 

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Never say “Never”

I have done it. Finally. Heretofore I would turn up my nose (such as it is) at any “treat” other than cheese, meat, fish, chicken or a Dentastyx. And I am nearly 10 years in human terms. In recent weeks, however, my mistress hume has dangled vanilla ice cream and yellow cake in front of me. I know she knows she shouldn’t, but she has definitely bought into the current ethos that canines, especially pugs, are sentient, feeling beings. Of course, we always have been and some humes of higher intellect have known this, but now it has become de rigueur for the masses… .

At any rate, the ice cream and the cake were so delightful I could not restrain myself. I slurped and nearly gagged on their scrumptiousness. Every morsel I consumed like a starving beast. Now what? I’ve opened the proverbial Pandora’s box or can of worms or whatever, and there’s no going back. There is only one foreseeable outcome: She and I will grow old and fat–but happy–together. Word.

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Catching up

Since last I posted, I have aged. My whiskered pug mug is going grey and I am a little paunchier. But my mind–when not fried by the searing Florida sun–is still sharp and shows no signs of plaque formation.

We (hume and I) have suffered the slings and arrows of sling-shooters and archers, and are holding up as best as can be expected. Hume is always in the throes of self-doubt, superstition and dissatisfaction with recent gainful employment, but what matters that to me? My chicken tenderloins appear with regularity and I still sleep in her bed. So, what else is new?

 

 

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Pugging away

It’s a little-known fact, but pugs can talk…. and read…. and now, with the advent of voice to text, we can write. Of course, we rarely speak when around humans–or humes as we call them–though sometimes we slip–making sounds guttural but somewhat intelligible. And sometimes humes THINK we are talking to them because they have some rudimentary psychosocialintuitive abilities. There are always the self-aggrandizing pugs, too, like that grizzled old thingpug who purportedly says “I love you” and appears on various talk shows, etc. I find that tawdry and a bit self-serving, but perhaps he is contributing to the household income of his humes. If you listen closely, he is really lisping “I wuv you,” and therefore cannot be a serious pug.

At any rate, it was only a matter of time before pugblogging began. Perhaps other pugs are blogging, too, but I can’t be bothered to check, because I am only interested in what I have to say.

As you may have surmised, my name is Jack. Not Jacques, or Jac, or Ga-ayk, or any other contrived spelling that appears to be quite popular nowadays. My main hume called me Jack, as in Jack be nimble, or pirate Jack, or Jack ‘n’ Jill or the Jack of Hearts. Quite simple, but elegant. I shall always treasure her for that.

And now I must nap. A quick paw lick and a yawn. Ta-ta!

 

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