Pug Hill - Alison Pace [16]
“And then do you want to go for a walk in the park before my squash game?” Evan, as you may have noticed, is not so great at dropping things.
I exhale heavily before answering back, “Why don’t we play that part by ear?”
Right, dropping things; I might not be so good at that either.
After brunch at Columbus Bakery, Evan and I spent an hour walking around in the park before his squash game. Due to the fact that it had warmed up considerably, combined with the fact that I wore five thousand layers, it was not as cold as I was worrying it would be. During what had to be our millionth long, purposeful walk in the cold, I even briefly considered the possibility that I may envision things (public speaking excepted, of course) to be worse than they actually are. Later, when Evan headed over to the east side for his squash game, I waited until he was out of sight, and headed that way, too. Though I headed east for a very different reason: not to go to The Union Club, but to go to Pug Hill.
As I arrive at Pug Hill, there are actually five or six people here, their pugs all running around in a jumble. All the pugs are in blankets, coats, and sweaters, which sometimes makes it harder to tell who is who. Before I can really look at anything else, before I can pay any sort of attention to all the other wonderful pugs, I look over toward the pine tree. There, sitting on one hip, with his legs splayed jauntily out to the side, proudly showing off his rounded belly, is my favorite pug. Even though he’s in a bright green sweater, I recognize him. He’s a black pug. Black pugs, just so you know, are my favorite kind of pugs. Black pugs, if you ask me (and really, at this point, who else are you going to ask?) are the very best kind of pugs. When I get a pug, I often think, it’ll be a black one. This pug, my favorite, he’s also so much smaller than the other pugs; his name is Kermit. Kermit, as much as he reminds me of happiness, reminds me of my parents’ dog, Annabelle, whom, by the way, I also adore. Annabelle is a French bulldog, but secretly I think she might be a magical black-and-white spotted pug. Just like Annabelle, little Kermit, this little black pug that I adore, is very rough-and-tumble and always looking for an adventure, though he always manages to hold his own.
But right now, Kermit isn’t cruising with the other pugs, all of whom are running in circles around each other at the other end of the clearing. Right now, Kermit is just sitting peacefully, right by the pine tree, in this way that makes me think he’s waiting for me. I walk toward him.
“Hi, Kermit,” I say, leaning down to pet him. He tilts his head to one side, a bit of his pink tongue slipping out the other side. He looks up at me and fixes me in his mesmerizing gaze. I like to believe he’s smiling at me, just as I like to believe that sometimes he waits for me, right here by the pine tree. I tilt my head in the same direction as Kermit’s and smile back at him. Kermit snorts at me jubilantly, wiggles his curled piglet tail, and dashes off. And just like that, just as I always do when I see a pug, I feel calmer, better than I did before. I feel free.
I watch happily as Kermit’s tail bounds in the direction of his owner. I watch, still happily, but also a bit enviously as Kermit’s owner reaches down to clip a leash to Kermit’s harness. Kermit flattens his ears and coyly shrinks away from the leash, compacting himself into a much smaller pug than he already is. Kermit, you can tell, doesn’t want to leave. But even though Kermit’s owner, at present, is taking him away, it should be noted that Kermit’s owner is one of the cool owners, one of the owners who rarely yells after his pug, who respects that Pug Hill time is important in so many ways, and that pugs need lots of things and that those things do not always include its person braying after it all afternoon.