A grumble of pugs

Johnny was the result of a fling that nearly ruined my marriage, and broke up my family. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t just me who was playing away – times had been tough for several years, and both Tom and I were at the end of our tethers. I think we both just wanted to escape, and avoid coming home, where poorly paid and stressful jobs gave way to chronic tantrums from a newly diagnosed Jonah and sleep deprivation from toddler Ava. Luckily, things got better and we realised our family was worth more than whatever else might have been going on in our lives. But, by then, we had little Johnny to consider.

 

Always envisaged as a pug share, for nearly two years the arrangement worked out well, even when things weren’t going so well between his two separated owners. For a year, I dealt only with his mother because I couldn’t bear to speak to my ex. But for Johnny, things were good. We had the odd issue over what we fed him, because pugs are notoriously prone to health issues, and so I hoped to avert problems to do with weight and breathing issues by giving him plenty of exercise and sticking to a natural diet of raw offal  – usually heart or kidneys, supplemented with Lily’s Kitchen grain-free dry food and cooked vegetables like peas and carrots or fruit like raw blueberries. Sam was happy to feed him Science Plan because the vet recommended it  – even though I pointed out the vet had probably been paid to recommend it. Yes, we had the odd emergency, like the time I ignorantly gave Johnny a small piece of avocado, which saw him projectile vomiting, and necessitating a trip to the local pets’ hospital. But by and large, he stayed in fine fettle. Of course, we had different ideas about his health too. Always averse to unnecessary medical treatments, I felt the vets tried to fleece us (and our costly insurance) on every visit, and despite having said costly insurance – £30 split between two – every trip still costs £70 a pop, without including any of the (many) treatments recommended. So I tended to avoid the vets, while Sam, my ex, who is a self-confessed hypochondriac, would see them whenever Johnny got so much as a spot on his face. As time went on, these differences built up, but we agreed to let each other do what we felt necessary, and just not share the bills if we disagreed.

So, the arrangement, such as it was, worked okay. It meant I got a few weeks at a time where my house wasn’t covered in pug fur – they shed more than you’d think, and time when I could do yoga rather than worrying about an early morning walk, or paying the childminder to pick him up before getting the kids from school. It gave me a break from picking up poo from the garden and somewhere for Johnny to go when we went on holiday. But as the handovers became increasingly tricky and time consuming – my ex moved back in with his parents, who lived on the other side of London – tensions continued to brew.

It came to a head when my ex’s mum took Johnny to the vet because she thought his eye was scratched. Pugs are prone to eye problems, so it was fair enough, but she tried to blame me for not having noticed it before she picked him up, but neither I nor Tom had seen anything either. After a course of drops, his eye continued to get  worse, and Johnny was admitted into surgery for an emergency corneal graft. But she didn’t let me know about any of this until afterwards – and knowing how paranoid my ex could be, I was furious that they’d gone ahead with surgery without my permission.

However, it seemed the procedure was needed, but the aftercare also meant that we haven’t been able to have Johnny for almost the whole of the holidays – and now there’s talk that he will need further surgery to lift his eyelids to prevent further problems. I’m grateful Johnny has had good care, and that further damage may have been prevented – apparently, he could have lost his eye. But it’s been hard not knowing what’s going on, or being able to visit him, and having any say in his care while he is away. When my ex sent me a picture of Johnny, he looked like a robo-pug, or the pugniator. One of his eyes is now permenently red, which is sad, as pugs are chosen primarily for their cuteness, although, obviously, we’re happy he’s still basically okay.

My daughter, however, was devastated. Squeamish about any kind of injury, she freaked out at the sight of his red eye, and spent the morning after viewing the picture in floods of tears. Suddenly the answer seemed to hit us in the face – the kids had been on at us to get another dog for ages. Why don’t we get her her own pup? We’d never really considered it before, but it seemed to make sense – we’d get to see Johnny whenever he came to stay, but in the meantime, we could have a new full time dog we could have full charge of, which might make the little annoyances about our pug-share not seem so important anymore.

After a slightly tipsy evening viewing lots of puppies on preloved.com, many of the pups we were interested in seemed super expensive. Anything with even half a pedigree is likely to set you back more than £400, and with Johnny likely to need further treatments over time, it seemed silly to spend loads of money on a new pug, which would be prone to the same health problems. Puggles, the cross-breed we became interested in, for their looks as well as their cute name, cost upwards of £600, and their beagle ancestors meant they might be hard to let off the lead, with the energy and nose of hunting dogs and the sluggish stubbornness of pugs, we didn’t quite know what we might be letting ourselves in for. In the end, Tom found an advert on Gumtree for a pretty little mongrel made up of pug, frenchie and shitzhu – a breed we’ve called the French pug-zhu, and we went to see her on Monday.

Needless to say, we came home with her, £550 lighter, even for this delightful mismatch of genes, as much to rescue her from her surroundings – caged, in a home that smelled of poverty, with a toothless, yet breast implanted (priorities?) mum of seven, a shaggy pug-zhu (we’re told) dam and an Alsatian in the garden. We were handed a bag of Pedigree Chum Junior and Bonios about the size of her head, as well as a pink diamante collar (priorities?) and took away the terrified little mite, who we unanimously named Mabel, for an excited journey home, where I promptly trod on her as she raced around discovering her new surroundings.

Luckily, save for the yelp, she was fine, and as she settled for a doze, she seemed to be the perfect addition to our family, although when she woke up in the morning, my sweet little Gizmo had turned into a little Gremlin, all needle teeth, and straight-to-the-jugular eyes.

So this is where we are, with a house filled with tiny wee patches (although she’s responded brilliantly to the little liver treats from Lily’s Kitchen we’ve been giving her every time to gets it on a pad), an(other) expensive vet’s appointment on Friday for her first injection, and a bundle of energy that I’m going to get off the Pedigree Junior just as soon as I can get to the  butchers, because it’s basically full of crap and which might explain why she turns into something of a loony as soon as she’s had her breakfast.

And hopefully, when Johnny’s recovered, and we’ve done an introduction on neutral turf, he will accept this tiny interloper into his territory, and they can keep each other company while I’m at work, which, if all goes well, will only be short days from September, saving me money on childminders, and meaning I’m around after school to make sure the kids honour their heartfelt (at the time) promise to walk the dogs after school.

If only it was as easy as giving them some dried meat every time they do it without moaning… Perhaps I’ll try them with Pepparami…