Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Pugicide (pŭg'ĭ-sīd')

Pugicide (pŭg'ĭ-sīd') -noun. The killing of a pug by murder.

Lately, I've been having a lot of trouble falling asleep. I'm not sure if it would qualify as bona-fide insomnia, but it has been taking me about an hour to an hour-and-a-half to enter sleepy dreamland. As a result, any sleep I do get feels hard-won, and God have mercy on the wretched soul who dares to rouse me from my slumber. Last night, that wretched soul was Oliver. Let me preface the following story by telling you that the hubby left for a business trip a few days prior, leaving me to spend my first nights alone in the new place. As a result, my insomnia has been futher aggravated by paranoia that intruders are causing the creaking sounds I hear in the night.

Last night, I turned out the light at approximately 1000 hours, and fell asleep after much tossing and turning. Suddenly, the sound of a thousand hounds of hell wrenched me from my blissful state of unconsciousness. I bolted awake, terrified; however, there were not a thousand hounds of hell, just a solitary hound of hell, howling his flat puggy face off. Man, you've never seen a woman move so fast in your life. In a split second, I was at the perp's bedside with a hand around his neck and a knife pointed at his giant eyeballs. Ok, that didn't really happen, but that's what was playing out in my head. Anyway, I did get out of bed and add to the ruckus by yelling at the pug. "What the -BLEEP- is your problem? Do you want me to -BLEEPing- kill you? Your father is gone, so there won't be any witnesses!" After he looked chagrined enough to satisfy me, I went back to sleep. An hour later, the same thing happened. Hysterical barking from the pug, expletives and threats from me, then shaky slumber. This repeated itself throughout the night about four or five times.

Morning broke, and I very grumpily got up. Oliver, too, arose and lazily stretched. Just as I was about to plant a foot in his pug butt, I realized that perhaps he was trying to assume the man-of-the-house role in Vince's absence. Despite the fact that any burglar would laugh in his face, I was touched by the idea that he would want to protect me. So I've decided to banish all thoughts of pugicide. No promises for the rest of the week, though. Let's just hope Oliver makes it alive to Friday, when Vince comes home.

1 comment:

Hobbit said...

Ha ha... I never thought I would see the day when you would have a violent thought about Pug... remember, this is coming from the same person who would end up carrying Pug 99% percent of the walk you would take with Oliver (he of course walking 1% of the distance before plopping his butt on the sidewalk, signaling he was finished walking.)