Pug Hill - Alison Pace [93]
“Who’s this?” I ask her.
Chloe throws the doll in the dirt and says proudly, “Ho!” “Hi, Ho!” I say, and turn to my bag and hand out our muffins.
As soon as we’re done with our muffins, or rather, as soon as Kara and I are done with our muffins and Chloe has thrown her muffin in the dirt, gotten end-of-the-world hysterical about it, and miraculously regrouped at the appearance of an Elmo sippy cup, we all get up and walk over to the scraggly pine tree and sit right in front it. Right away, Roxy runs over to us, snorting: a first for Roxy. Roxy, so fiercely independent, rarely displays any of the emotional sluttiness found in other pugs. Thinking of emotional sluttiness, I recall, of course, Annabelle, my parents’ French bulldog, who is as good an example as any of an emotionally slutty dog. Annabelle, I think, is as about as close as you can get to being a pug, without actually being one; I’m happy for that, that all next week on Long Island, Annabelle will be there.
Roxy jumps up and puts her front paws on my shoulders and begins slobbering wet kisses all over my face. I lift my chin up to take my face out of the line of slobber, and as I wipe my face with my sweatshirt, I tell her what I always tell Annabelle, “We don’t have to make out. We can take it slow.”
And Roxy, like Annabelle, is nothing if not respectful of my desire to take things slow. Within moments, Roxy trots off. I try not to think that she trots off in search of better action. Chloe squeals and claps her hands, and screams, “Lalo,” which I think means “Elmo.”
And then, just like that, like a good omen that’s always been there, and has simply been waiting for the right time to happen, Kermit, the little black pug, comes bounding up the hill.
“Oh, Kermit!” I say, and Kara smiles, because I’ve mentioned Kermit to her before, and I think she understands. Chloe squeals as Kermit sits down right in front of us, positioning himself so as to best display his rounded belly, and opens his mouth wide for us, and sticks out his tongue. As if all that wasn’t a good enough display of all the wonderful pug behavior, he cocks his head to the right quizzically and then to the left.
“Chloe,” I say, “this is Kermit.”
Chloe squeals and claps, and Kermit, as if on cue, jumps up and spins around.
“Chloe,” Kara says, “do you remember the song we sang that Kermit sings?”
“Ah,” says Chloe and I think she really is trying to remember. Kara helps her and sings the first line,
“Why are there so many songs about rainbows?” she sings. And I know this song, I love this song, and so I join in, too.
“And what’s on the other side?” I sing.
As Kara and I sing together to Chloe about rainbows being visions and only illusions she is rapt with attention, as is Kermit. I have to say I think Kermit is quite enjoying the song. When we get to the part, Someday will find it, Chloe lets out one of her higher-pitched squeals, and Kermit trots off. Before he does so though, he throws me a quick look, and I smile right at him.
Right as we get to the last line, the lovers, the dreamers, and me, I think how such a long time ago someone had said to me, “A girl can dream.” I hadn’t listened because I believed at the time that the person saying it to me was being annoying. I wonder though, if maybe I didn’t listen, because I didn’t think it was true. It occurs to me right now, as I sit on a beautiful spring day, surrounded by so many pugs, that a girl can dream, and more importantly, that I can.
Chloe continues squealing and clapping, so for the next half hour, none of the other pugs run over to visit us. But even so, it’s so nice to sit in the sun with an iced coffee and admire them. I can’t help thinking that as long as you have a place like this to come to, the bad things, really, truly, aren’t as bad.
I think of Holly Golightly and her “mean reds,” the feeling she used to get that was worse than the blues, and always sent her