By David Orr I bought my pug,
Chompy, an ID tag from that vending machine at Wal-Mart, then I took him over
to my mother’s house. I had bought him earlier in the day from Ted Swayze, a
local breeder who had a small ranch called Poochieville. I saw his ad in the
paper. It was a picture of him holding a little pug under the title “Pug Luv
24-7,” which was rendered in the kind of jewel-encrusted font popularized by
Master P’s No Limit Records in the late nineties. When I got to the ranch Ted Swayze was
washing his Escalade, a noble, huge SUV that shone like polished obsidian. He
had Dr. Dre’s Chronic 2001 blasting from the sound system. It was clear
that Poochieville was a lucrative venture for the man. He turned down the
volume with a remote as I got out of my shabby old navyblue Skylark. He had
just about the most effulgent smile to ever grace the face of man, and that’s
not the kind of compliment I dole out thoughtlessly. He shook my hand with
exuberant force. He said, “No one
washes this Escalade except me.” Then he explained that in everything he does,
he is the boss and the head man in charge as well as the supreme overseer. He
vouched for the quality of every dog at Poochieville. He led me out back,
striding like the undisputed heavyweight champion. There he had an expansive
lawn, ornamented with magnolia trees that now were laden with full-bodied
flowers, and across the grass, dogs of at least a dozen breeds scampered
freely. Under the nearest tree, a seven year old bloodhound chose not to partake
in the spirited frolics of his brethren. He regarded us with mild interest,
content to bask in his personal brand of doggystyle. “That’s Luther,” Ted
Swayze told me. “Luther’s got attitude.” “Indeed,” I replied.
“But I want to see some pugs.” “You want a pug?”
Ted Swayze sized me up. He flipped up his convertible shades and took a pose
like I’d seen DMX assume on the cover of a hip-hop magazine. “Yes,” I said. “I
want a pug.” “A pug’s a special
dog. Pugs are like the granite in the Earth, man. They’re solid. Solid-state.
And the pug’s like a woman. He wants to be the boss of your love. You get
another dog, the pug ain’t gonna like it. You leave the house, the pug’s gonna
whine, whimper and moan, and it’s gonna be a real effort on your heart to
leave. Loving a pug requires firmness and self-control. You gotta be willing to
tell the pug when to step off. But all the time, you’ve gotta give the pug
unconditional affection and care. That’s what I mean by Pug Luv 24-7. I’ve
turned away three heels this week already, three no account jokers who didn’t
have balls of brass.” Then he paused to let that sink in. Was I just another
heel who couldn’t handle Pug Luv? No. I lifted the right
sleeve of my brown tee-shirt to reveal the PUG LIFE tat I’d acquired a week before,
in anticipation of meeting the imposing man I saw in the paper. “Yeah. Yeah, my man.
You’ve got it.” Ted Swayze folded his shades back down and we knocked knuckles.
An hour later, after we’d tipped back a couple cool iced teas, I was cruising
home with Chompy in the passenger seat. <-- back to MISC |