Why Ava Is Easier Than Pugs

Why Ava is easier than pugs 

We used to have pugs.

As far as dog breeds go, they're way up on the top of my list.  They possess layers of squeezable fat rolls (even when they're skinny, they still manage maintain a few).  Their personalities are commonly gregarious and agreeable, and they know no better than to believe that the whole world is their friend.  They expect nothing more than foo from the table and pats on the head.

But there's a dark side, too... Which is why I have officially decided that raising Ava is much easier than raising pugs.

To illustrate, I will present a few examples in which to compare our two cuddly subjects:

Situation #1:  Mommy's muscles are aching and her head is pounding from a long day of taking care of Mommyish things.  What do you do?

Ava's answer:  Allow Mommy to place me in a buzzy bouncer seat next to the tub where I will play contentedly with the toys that dangle from the bar above my head.  Occasionally I will babble something cute to signal to Mommy that I am still happy to be doing exactly what she wants me to do.  

Pug's answer:  Slam the flat of my head against the jammed bathroom door until it comes flying open, then take a flying leap onto Mommy while she's slumped in the water.  She will then perpetuate the game by springing from the tub, rolling up a magazine and tearing around the house in hot pursuit of me until she breaks down in tears because you're like "having a four-legged toddler who can run under furniture".

Situation #2:  Daddy has set out a decorative bowl of Holiday Hershey's Kisses on the coffee table.  They are shiny and presumably yummy.  What can be done about this?

Ava's answer:  Rake my fingers across the bowl and gingerly pick one up and flap it from side to side by its little flag.  Receive praise for honing my fine motor skills, as I learned in therapy.  Remain blissfully unaware that this item is edible...at least for a few more months.

Pug's answer:  Wait until Mommy and Daddy are away, then stand on the glass coffee table and consume every single one of the kisses (being careful to spit out the foil wrappers somehow), as well as a few Christmas tree ornaments for good measure.  Spend the rest of the evening soaking up their attention as they prepare for your imminent demise....which surprisingly, considering how much caffeine you ingested, never arrives.

Situation #3:  You have to take a whiz.  

Ava's answer:  Let loose in your Luvs, then keep playing.  Mommy will catch a whiff and change them soon.  

Pug's answer:  Go pee outside.  Let Mommy see you pee outside.  Then save up just enough piddle to pee on the rug, the formal living room sofa, and the pile of clothes in the closet.  Wait for Daddy to ask Mommy why she didn't just let you outside to pee.

Situation 4:  You've just finished dinner, and Mommy scoops the remainder of your baby food and her and Daddy's spaghetti into a scrap container which will eventually be scraped clean outdoors.  You might still be a bit hungry.  

Ava's solution:  Flap your chubby little arms and declare "Bah!" until Mommy sits you down with a bottle.

Pug's solution:  Wait until Mommy puts you outside to attend to your business, then track down the pile of food refuse that's been dumped at the edge of the yard and whork it down as fast as you can.  Run inside and find the lightest shade of carpet in the house, then commence to act as a firehose of twice-eaten tomato sauce and spread the love.  Really project while Daddy is running you out the door like a quarterback on fire.

As you can see, both child-rearing and pug ownership come with their own unique set of precious memories.  And believe it or not, for every palm-to-the-forehead moment we had with Jarmo, Amos and Delilah, there were ten others filled with snuggles and fun to make up for them.  

When we became pregnant with Ava, I swore that we wouldn't be THOSE people who dumped their animals as soon as we had a new baby to focus on.  I knew I could make it work, somehow.  

And then, after weeks of hospital stays and grating stress, I knew that we couldn't be the attentive owners that we needed to be.  It was stupid of me just to hold onto them for the sake of pride, knowing that they'd never understand why they were locked up so much.

So they went to live on a farm.

NO, not the proverbial farm.  An actual goat farm in Texas.  One I found through a local pug rescue.

Maybe one day in the far future when Ava is much older and Mommy and Daddy's nerves are sufficiently mended, we might consider giving Ava a pug of her own.  They're so sweet and patient with kids.  Or at least ours was.  

But one Sqwoosh is enough for me right now.