Here’s a photo of George looking angelic on his new dog bed:
That happens to be the third dog bed I’ve purchased George of late. I’m sure you’re thinking, “Why is George on his third dog bed? What happened to his other two, Joy?” If so, you’re an astute reader to wonder. Bonus points if you deduced that George attempted to eat his two previous beds.
Many people are unaware that pugs have a certain agenda they adhere to in life. One of the items on the pug agenda is to consume dangerous materials, items, and/or substances in an attempt at one-up-pugship for who can eat the most expensive thing. Aubie is winning in this department, having ingested a $3500 peach pit. Really, we should’ve gilded the thing after the ER vet removed it from his guts.
But George often seems determined not to be outdone by his older counterpart. He thinks dog beds have a shot at racking up a massive vet bill. As I just ended employment at a local vets and no longer have my hefty discount, he knows any surgery bills could become astronomical. When George heard Aubie received cooked chicken for days after his surgery, all bets were off.
Lately I’ve fished out more fluff from his gullet than I care to recall. Foolishly, I believed the first two beds were flukes. The bed in the above photo had a durable bottom, which had been his favorite target area to weaken his bed prey before disemboweling it. And let’s face it. George isn’t a Rottweiler. He’s a small dog. It should be fine this time, right?
How ironic I quit my vet job to have more time for writing and it was that very writing that led George to make another attempt at needing veterinary surgery. Because George thinks I’m very boring when I’m writing pug fiction in my office. He has to make his own entertainment. So there I was, feverishly typing a story inspired by the beast himself when a ripping noise drew my attention to the floor. George, like a wolf with its head buried in the carcass of a caribou, was rooting around in the innards of his dog bed, muzzle dripping not with blood, but polyester bedding.
Well, George, three strikes and you’re out, buddy. I downgraded him to a pet mat, advertised as durable. Quite pleased with myself, I presented it to George on my office floor with much fanfare.
No polyester bedding inside. No fluff or bits of non-slip rubber coating to lodge in his intestines! Not only that, it’s super soft. Even softer than George’s ears, which are quite velvety.
George pawed it, sniffed it, even gave it a test bite. This is it! I thought. I’ve found George a safe dog bed on which he can happily slumber while I write.
I made myself a cup of tea and returned to my office. What do you think I found?
That’s right. George found his own dog bed. The custom-upholstered chair in my office. The thing I splurged on when I redid my work space. The comfy, yet tasteful reclining chair where I can sit and think about my writing.
It’s now a several-hundred dollar dog bed.
You win this round, George. You win this one, buddy.