Pug Hill - Alison Pace [75]
“Pleeease,” I say, stretching it all out, waving my pretzel in the direction of Pug Hill.
“Alright,” she says, shrugging, “but I just don’t see what it is with you and pugs.”
Together we cross over the drive that loops through the park, and when we get to Pug Hill, we sit on a bench. I notice that the ground looks wet, but then, the next thing I notice is that there are two, quite stunning if you ask me, pugs right over by the pine tree.
“Oh, wow, Pamela,” I say, “right over there, see? Pugs.”
“Yeah?”
“I just always think it’s a good sign when they’re here on weekdays,” I say.
“Cool,” Pamela says, noncommittal, and as if on cue, one of the pugs (this one’s name is Lucerne) runs over and looks up at us panting. I reach down to pet him, listen to his snorting, and take in the look of utter sweetness in his eyes.
“They look like fruit bats,” Pamela announces. “I just think that if you want a fruit bat, why don’t you simply get a fruit bat?” Oh, I think, Pamela.
“I think you just have to give the pugs more of a chance,” I suggest, even though I don’t think that’s quite true. Pretty much, I think there are pug people in the world, and then there are not-pug people. And I’ve learned that there isn’t a lot you can do with not-pug people.
“Hey!” Pamela yells loudly in the direction of the two well-dressed older women sitting a few benches over. “Can I pick up your dog?”
I shudder at Pamela’s brazenness, shake my head. But then, as one of the women nods her approval and Pamela reaches down and gingerly picks up the pug, I wish I were a little more like her. I mean, think of all the pugs I would have held on my lap by now. Pamela holds her arms out straight in front of her, and the inspected pug Lucerne squirms gingerly, suspended as he is, in midair.
“His name is Lucerne,” I tell her.
“How do you know?”
“I just know,” I offer by way of explanation. Pamela shakes her head; I think it is in disbelief. Lucerne looks at me lovingly.
“I don’t know,” she says, bringing him in closer. “I still think he looks like a fruit bat.”
Lucerne sneezes triumphantly in Pamela’s face.
After much squealing and gagging (Pamela’s) and snorting and then even some ever-elusive barking (Lucerne’s), I manage to get Lucerne away from Pamela, tell him he is simply gorgeous (with the hope that this unfortunate encounter with Pamela has not left him with any self-esteem issues) and watch as he charges over to his person. Once things have settled down, Pamela and I sit for a while in silence, eating our pretzels; Pamela continually wipes at her face. She doesn’t look very happy. Pug Hill, one realizes at times like this, means different things to different people.
“So,” I say eventually, banishing the fruit bat comments from my mind as much as I possibly can. “I have this assignment for my public speaking class, and I’m hoping you might be able to help.”
“Oh, sure, shoot,” Pamela says, leaning forward on the bench, her eyes widening a bit. Whatever bad thoughts I may secretly harbor about Pamela, she really is always willing to help.
“Well, we have to give a speech titled, ‘The One That Got Away,’ and I don’t really know what my speech should be about. And the thing is, looking back, I’m not so sure if anyone could be called ‘The One That Got Away.’ ”
“I see,” Pamela says, and I can tell she’s doing a quick calculation in her mind, thinking back, as I have, over the boyfriends I’ve had, all of whom are now, well, away. “Interesting,” she adds and nods.
“Also I think that maybe I haven’t been able to dive into figuring out exactly what I will talk about when I talk about ‘The One Who Got Away,’ because I’m still caught up in the interpretation.” Pamela furrows her brow in concentration. I think I’m confusing her. Understandably so; this is nothing, if not confusing. I try to explain, “See, we talked about it and someone pointed out that ‘The One That Got Away,’ it didn’t have to be a boyfriend.