Nebula
Photo courtesy Christin Schaaf
It’s those big blue eyes; so expressive and intense, a window into the mind of a kind-hearted boy. They are my kryptonite, those big blue eyes. Through them, I feel my boy’s pain, his joy, his longings, his frustrations. I feel them as though they are my own. Even when he tries his hardest, he cannot mute what those eyes have to say. It is a blessing and a curse- for both of us, I think.
For three years, those eyes begged for one thing: a pug. I resisted. I am not a small dog person, and neither is my husband. If you have read my blog posts about Gunther and Buoy, you will further understand my resistance to introducing another member to our family. But those eyes, damn it.
Beyond blaming those eyes, I blame the pandemic, and my guilt for the fact that perhaps I should have redshirted my son and had him start kindergarten one year later. While academically he is fine, he is young for his class, and the difference, socially, between him and the kids in his class who are more than a year older than he is, can be stark. The pandemic only seemed to widen that gap. He is not confident. He thinks of himself as socially awkward. He doesn’t like participating in team sports. Until recently, he struggled to make meaningful friendships. He is sensitive, which leaves him vulnerable, particularly in these brutal middle school years. He can be anxious and a bit lonely. All he wanted, he said, was a pug to snuggle and love and be his best friend. While socially perhaps a bit behind, emotionally he is wise beyond his years. He is able to express his feelings better than most adults I know, me included.
As my son’s eleventh birthday approached, we asked him what he would like. A pug. It was the only thing he had requested for Christmas that year, and his birthday and Christmas the year before, and the year before that. He had now spent nearly one third of his life asking for a pug, those big blue eyes full of sincerity and innocence.
“What will you do with a pug?” I ask him.
“Snuggle him and love him and play with him. He will be my best friend.”
Oh, lord, am I in trouble.
“Why a pug? We already have Buoy.”
“Mom, I just love their smushy faces and their sad eyes. They are the cutest dogs ever. Buoy only snuggles when he’s very tired. Pugs want to snuggle all of the time.”
I’ve held out for three years. I can go another, right? He will eventually outgrow this pug infatuation. So, naturally, I start researching pugs.
In case you aren’t aware, pugs are a pain in the ass. They often come with a litany of health problems, not the least of which is that they struggle to breathe. Breeding their noses to be smushier and smushier has come at a cost. I dare you to google “x-ray image of pug’s face” and you’ll see it for yourself. Additionally, pugs are notorious for not potty training, for needing to be with a person at all times, and for having eye, teeth, ear, and skin problems. They can’t be outside in heat over 70 degrees or cold under 50 degrees for any length of time because, again, thanks to the smushed face, they are unable to regulate their body temperatures. Where we live, a pug could easily suffer from heat stroke and hypothermia in the same day.
As I continue to delve into the realm of pugs, I am further dismayed. Every dog I have ever owned has been a rescue. There isn’t a pug in a shelter within 2000 miles. I look into breeders. With a price tag of $1500 to $3000 I literally snort into my coffee. I refuse to go against my beliefs and pay that much money. The Pug Rescue of New England only has special needs pugs at the moment. I cannot handle special needs dogs right now. Buoy is special enough. My son’s birthday is fast-approaching, and I have no plan, no pug.
I finally discover a dog rescue in Vermont that has two pugs coming in from a puppy mill in Ohio. These dogs have lived in cages for the entirety of their six years of life and would otherwise be euthanized as their utility to the puppy mill has expired.
There is one male and one female, both black. They will arrive at the rescue and, once recovered from getting spayed or neutered, will be adoptable. I fill out an application and I wait. My son’s birthday is two weeks away.
A few days later, the application is approved. Yes! I have done it! My boy will get his pug, and we will be doing a good thing for an animal in need. Then, shit! I have done it! I really don’t know if I can handle another dog right now. I have so many other things I want to be doing with my time. What have I done?
There is a big decision to make: the boy or the girl? Do I choose the one I think will be best, since I’m the one who will wind up with the bulk of the responsibility? Or do I make a special day of it and take my boy and his big blue eyes to pick out his pug?
I’m a sucker. A week before his birthday, my son wakes up and gets ready for school. I have giftwrapped a dog bed, harness, leash, and dog toy. As he unwraps them and realizes what it means, his big blue eyes fill with tears of joy.
“You’re not going to school today,” I tell him. “We are going to pick out your pug.”
I show him pictures of the two dogs. The female is small and sweet, with a pretty pug face and intelligent eyes. The male looks like he went through a blender. Naturally, my boy is drawn to the male. We spend the next three and a half hours in the car coming up with possible names.
I suggest names like “Bug the pug” or “Horatio”, “Ignatius” or “Bartholomew”. My boy decides on “Nebula” since it’s a black pug, and it will be “Nebs” for short. I’m thinking it’s quite a mouthful, but his big blue eyes are proud of his choice, and he points out that it will work for either dog. I relent. It’s his dog, after all.
The rescue is a farm in rural Vermont. There are rolling fields, wildflowers, and mountains in the distance. The day is sunny and warm. We are greeted by no fewer than six dogs and then are shepherded into the kennel area. The female pug is adorable. She is friendly and sweet and immediately takes to my son. She is much smaller than the male, who is hefty by pug standards. The male is scared and shy and runs away. He lifts his leg and pees on a bucket.
“We want the female,” I say to my boy, still eyeing the bucket dripping with pee. “Look how she likes you.”
“I want the male,” my boy says, edging closer to the bigger dog who tries to escape.
My gut tells me to take the female. She will be easier and smarter. Plus, she hasn’t peed. My boy is immovable in his choice of the male, determination in those big blue eyes. Yep. I’m a sucker.
Nebs rides the three and a half hours home with us. He is now ours. His existence in my life is born of a love so strong that it transcended my better judgement; and for that, I shall suffer the consequences for years to come.
With his face that only a mother could love, true to form, Nebs refuses to be housebroken. The jerk marks everywhere. This is not an exaggeration. If I take my eyes off of him for a minute, he will mark. I order reusable belly bands. I now live with a dog who wears a diaper. He spite-pees if he is separated from me. We have regressed and once again have a baby gate in our house- to limit the peeing area. He barks if I leave the room. He barks when the other dog barks. He barks at my husband whenever he enters the room, or speaks, or moves. This hurts my husband’s feelings. He barks when the phone rings and when I answer it. He barks at the microwave. He gets carsick. He gets an ear infection and a urinary tract infection.
We realize this dog either has Bell’s Palsy or suffered a stroke. One side of him functions much better than the other. Perhaps this somewhat accounts for his face.
At first, Nebs tires just by walking around the yard. In time, we increase his stamina to a three-mile walk. He has learned to chase a ball, albeit crookedly. He has learned how to be a dog who doesn’t spend his life in a cage. He has learned to jump onto the couch. He and Buoy have learned to tolerate each other. He demands treats and lap sitting and to be with a human at all times. He snores. Loudly. It has become the white noise of my life.
My son loves Nebs and snuggles him and has a best friend. On weekends I let them sleep together in my son’s bed and they are beyond content. My boy has learned responsibility and patience and discipline. I have learned patience and tolerance and to follow my gut when choosing a dog. Life would have been so much easier with the female. I kick myself that I didn’t go to pick out the dog myself.
When I reach my wits end and am scrubbing yet another pee stain off of the side of the couch, I bitterly remind myself that pugs only live for eternity, and I will never be free of this burden with his stinky breath and his misshapen face and his incessant barking. But then I see my boy getting home from school, running to his pug, his big blue eyes full of happiness and love, his loneliness gone, and all is right in our world.
And as I write, Nebs is nestled into me, snoring contentedly, keeping me warm. I have grown used to his constant presence by my side and underfoot. He stirs now, looking up at me with his big brown eyes, his tail thumping lazily on the couch. Thank you, he seems to be saying.
“Oh, Nebs,” I sigh, absentmindedly stroking under his chin.
Did I mention I’m a sucker?
