Pugs not drugs: of dog days and drug withdrawal

So, yesterday was eventful. If I’d sold the story to the Sun, the headline would have gone Shady horse-race fixer in Rolls Royce roadside rescue. But the drama of our rescue from the hard shoulder of the M25 by Maurice “Fred” Simes, shamed racehorse fix ring leader and caravan park intimidator, according to this article in the Telegraph (he was a perfect gent to me and Ava who had been entertaining ourselves by blackberry picking on the verges of motorway awaiting the AA after the aged Alfa experienced total system failure in the fast lane following pug pickup. He took us to Clacket Lane services in his bulletproof Rolls Royce, worried that we might get hit on the hard shoulder. Thanks, “Fred”, you’re a diamond geezer…) was eclipsed by other events, namely, getting poor Johnny through his arduous journey home in a box covered in his own excrement (we cleaned him up but still…)

Getting home on a pick up I paid dearly for, towing a useless car with a broken cambelt and a hefty bill for its repair had not been factored into this month’s expenses. The lightheadedness I’ve been experiencing since I chose the cut down on Citralopram is increased in parallel to my accumulating costs.

I am poor. The new house and it’s total renovation ate up the last of our savings and the credit cards that we had paid off by extending the new mortgage are starting to accumulate once again. Oh well.  It’ll pay for itself in the end.

But Johnny’s acquisition, a frivolous purchase decision made after a  weekend spent chatting pie-in-the-sky pug babies with Sam and a livestock birthday present promised for kitteney Ava (she wanted a cat, but dogs are just better) followed by a Monday morning pug offer from a work colleague. So we joined forces, Sam and I and reached deep into our little pockets to buy into a pug share, and thus John ‘Johnny’ Milton came to be part of our weird, wonderful family.

Sam reckons he’ll pick up chicks with Johnny slung round his shoulder in a pug bag (I think boys, more likely).My reason for getting a pet was more altruistic. Namely, I wanted a pet to teach Jonah about the importance of caring for little things – (his efforts with hamster and goldfish have been abysmal – but the dog seems to have done it – the training aspect – the fact the dog will do as he says – seems to have piqued his interest in little John).

But also, having a little warm body depending on me for food and warmth, is great for my own mood, withdrawing as I am off SSRIs now the house sale is sorted and I no longer feel like a failure to provide my kids with a good enough roof over their heads. Johnny’s a good enough substitute for synthetic serotonin for now, and may quell those baby hormones that are inevitably increasing in intensity as I head closer to 35. At least for another year. And maybe, just maybe, having a pup round the house will save Tom from himself on a Friday night.

Pugs not drugs, innit.