Occasionally I run into someone who asks about Mr. Magoo, reminding me that my pug is a “celebrity,” and that his fans might be looking for an update. After all, I’ve written about his exploits for the past 12 years, demonstrating that life with a pug is, shall I say, “interesting!”
He is now twelve and a half years old, and shows his age only in small ways. Certainly his curiosity hasn’t diminished one bit. His ability to spend a solid 10 minutes circling and re-circling a tuft of grass, finding just the right spot on which to lift his leg remains strong as ever.
He still loves a good time, but can no longer execute the quick maneuvers he once loved to perform while running in the back yard. However, he’s managed to convince Abby, the lab/setter who was hesitant about this weird-looking dog when she joined our family four years ago, that it’s nice to lie on the floor together, maybe even touching. He, in return, puts up with the daily ear wash she gives him.
His love of food is still intact. He always comes if a “treat” is involved. And I’ve learned to take advantage of this weakness. A perfect example occurred several weeks ago. Although Mr. Magoo is quite sprightly, he needed help jumping up to his spot on the sofa. I was his designated “helper.” This role got tiresome, especially in the evening. Seemed like every time I sat down, Magoo needed help getting up.
Finally, I ordered a three-step stairway from a mail order catalog. Unpacking it, I set it on the floor against the sofa, and called Mr. Magoo. He trotted to me, expecting— what else?—a treat. I gazed into his big and bulgy brown eyes and said in the high squeaky voice all pug owners use, “See what I bought for you. Now you can get on the sofa without my help.”
I patted the steps. He sniffed them; his expression going blank when he realized this object wasn’t something to eat. I tapped the bottom step. “Here. Step here.” He looked at me as if to say, “Are you serious,” placed his paws on the sofa and whined. He wanted me to lift him.
“No.” I patted the first step. “Here.”
He ignored me and placed his paws on the sofa and whined again. I was getting nowhere. But I wasn’t born yesterday, and I’ve been a pug owner for over a decade.
I knew what to do.
Opening the pantry door, I took a doggie treat off the shelf, placed it on the top step. He took one look at the treat awaiting him and without a moment’s hesitation Mr. Magoo scampered up the steps.
He’s been doing so since.
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