pug

I hope my sister doesn't read this. I’m looking after her dog for a couple of days. I've always described myself as a dog person, but I have to revise that to a certain dog person. Certain dogs are hard to like. Her dog qualifies in spades.

Last year she has the JRT while I’m riding the bike in France for 28 days. The JRT is all personality and hugely entertaining. But by week three, of course, he rules the house, commandeering all the dog toys and taking over all the dog bed-space.

Her dog is here for three days, so I can’t complain. I will, however, give it a shot. I’ve had enough of her dog after three hours. It doesn’t have a name: it’s just The Pug. The vowel is wrong: read pig, not pug.

It grunts and snuffles and wheezes like a pig. It’s got a silly corkscrew tail like a pig’s. The Pug is deaf and comatose until a molecule of food is produced, then, like a pig, it’s likely to remove your hand somewhere above the elbow. The JRT is a model of restraint and manners by comparison.

The Pug is devoid of personality. It doesn’t engage in any way either with me or the JRT. It defies any instruction to come, go, go outside, or get in its bed. It’s crowding the small space under my desk as I try to write. It circles like a terrestrial vulture if I enter the kitchen, hoovering up crumbs and leaving snot-trails on the lino.

According to Lord Google, the pug is a toy dog bred to adorn the laps of Chinese sovereigns. My sister is an actophilist, a teddy bear collector: it’s no wonder she has a toy dog. Some people might call a pug cute; ugly is closer. They are susceptible to overheating, obesity and pharyngeal reflex. Your honour, I rest my case.

But I must not complain. My sister and her husband are toddling round Wilson’s Prom with my parents. This is good Samaritan stuff at its finest. I escort my parents round the south of Western Australia after my grand-daughter is born in Perth 19 months ago, and it’s not’s easy.

I have the pug for 56 hours. Twenty-four down, thirty-two to go. 

Rock on.