Gordon the Jurassic Pug is still with us.
How do we know?
You just need to follow the trail of poo.
He's somewhat incontinent, you see, so he poops when nature calls, usually while Scott is carrying him out to the back yard. It's like he's a tube of toothpaste; you squeeze him in the middle and it comes out the end.
We've been worrying about him, as many of you know, because he's blind, arthritic and somewhat mad, and lives mostly a still life moving only to get a better stop on the sofa. So we've been thinking that it's time for him to take the long walk, but he seems to have perked up.
Maybe it's spring.
The pooping is a worry of course, and a nuisance.
A few weeks ago, he got up, toddled around the bed, turned his back on me and shit on my shoulder.
There is nothing, believe you me, more disturbing than to watch a 20 pound pug pinch out loaves directly under your nose. And you know what? You're helpless. You pretty much have to let him finish.
But pooping, as Dr. Oz would tell us, is a sign of health.
So we were concerned last week that Gordon was filling up like a Good Year blimp and nothing was coming out.
We checked the font of all knowledge -- the Internet -- and discovered that the people who show dogs use a little trick using a matchhead (unlit). The sulphur apparently irritates the a-hole and brings on the Hershey squirts.
Presumably so the dog doesn't shit on the judge's shoes.
Scott refused to try this, so we chose the second Internet option -- pumpkin.
Gordon has been gobbling down spoons of it and it seems to have worked.
It's kind of like a lube job.
So once again, he's pooping in front of company.
Friday, it was my friend Jennette who watched in horror as Gordon left a small trail of pebbles in his wake.
Last night, Marissa and Jeff were here for our bi-weekly Sunday dinner.
Scott pick up Gordon because he was farting, took him out, waited in vain and brought him back in.
"Maybe I should just shake him," Scott chortled, giving Gordon a little swing.
With that, Gord dropped a load right there on the coffee table.
To the horror, then hilarity of one and all.
God I'll miss him when he's gone.
For this kind of comedy, you have to go to the Poconos.