How to milk a pug

Some people have been asking, Rose, what gives?
Have you given up blogging?
The answer is complicated, sort of yes and no.
I blame my pug Gordon Blackstone.
Those of you have been following Gordie's exploits will know that we've been on pug death watch for some time now. The poor little fellar had a stroke before Christmas and has completely lost the use of his back legs. He's also blind and incontinent in the back door area, meaning he has become an indiscriminate pooper. As a result, surprises can be found in the bed, the Lazy Boy or on his pillow.
I don't mind this so much. His poop isn't runny. It's rather firm and easily picked up -- not a big effort, one I'm used to making given that Gordie has never been really housetrained in all his 13 years on this planet.
No, what gets me about his current situation is the whining. For three months, I've been nursemaiding the little bugger, sitting with him, because he will not sit alone, not for five minutes. As a result, I have to do all my work and all my writing when Scott is home or when Gordie is still in bed, as he is this morning. The only time I can get anything done is before 7 a.m. or after 11 p.m. which doesn't give me much time when I include laundry, housework and cooking in the mix.
Hence the blog has been the first thing to go.
I haven't minded it so much because I've been steadying myself for the day when Gordie walks the Green Mile at the vet. So I have coddled him at every juncture: setting up the food bowl that Scott made me so he can just prop himself up to eat, bringing him water every couple of hours, and generally providing him with a snuggle. Any self-respecting pug owner would do the same, right?
After all, he's dying.
Trouble is, he's not, you know.
He still has quality of life. He loves to eat and sit outside when it's nice out.
While he's not perfectly healthy, he's not in any pain, so says the vet.
He's just feeling sorry for himself, and using me as his bitch.
When I go out to the gym, I often return to see him snoring on his pillow. As soon as I'm in the door, however, the whining starts.
Pick me up, mom.
Look at me, mom, I'm on my pillow.
I'm Dying Here.
Once picked up, he's happy to have his belly scratched and then go back to sleep, snoring contentedly.

I'm not the only one who is under his spell.
Scott has become the peemaster. You see, Gordie lost his legs and therefore he has lost his ability to wiz.
He can't do it. He is paralyzed.
So Scott has to take him outside in the -25 cold, hold him up and squeeze his bladder until a stream of urine writes his name in the snow. Scott hates this.
He gets Gordie's pee all over his hands and his clothes because his little weinie just wobbles about peeing hither and yon. Scott shudders every time he has to do this.
Besides, Scott told me, he's convinced that the neighbors will call the authorities and take him away in handcuffs when someone sees him in the side yard having his way with Gordie, hand on pecker, massaging the area where he used to have bollocks.
Quick, our nosey neighbor will say, call 9-1-1. We have a perve in the 'hood.
Imagine what he could do to the children.

What if I hurt him? Scott asks. You know rupture something?
Just be careful. I say. Just massage him. Don't poke him.
I've felt bad for months because I simply can figure out how to get him to wiz. I want to help Scott, really I do. Heck I raised three kids. I've gotten shit in my eye and never blinked. I don't barf at puke.
What's a little pee?
Trouble is, I am absolutely useless in all matters requiring dexterity.
I don't have it.
I can't even make Jello.
So yesterday, I set about the Internet looking for articles on how to become a more effective pug valet, a Mr. Bates for incontinent pugs, if you will.
And there are mounds of articles, even videos demonstrating the various techniques for milking a dog. You can put him in the bathtub, raise up his hind legs and give a good squeeze. Presto!
Or you can hold the pug over the toilet bowel and squeeze like he's some kind of tube cheese.
Trouble with Gordie is, he's 25 pounds of dead weight. And he wiggles.
I did find one technique which involves putting him on his side, but all I can imagine is pee all over the walls.
Then I thought: Maybe I need to watch some porno. Those girls -- and guys -- have manipulation down in that general department.
I could write to Jenna Jamieson for advice but I don't think I'd like the answer.
Besides, Jenna's not very experienced in the heavy lifting department. She doesn't, you know, have to pick up her prey by the hips and get under the rib cage.
Oh never mind.



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