Behold: my new Acorn Sheepskin-Collar slippers.

It’s like walking around on two furry clouds. (And affordable! Only $43.15 at Sierra Trading!)

There’s just one problem . . . apparently furry lambskin slippers are to pugs what red flags are to bulls. They move them to attack. And not an ordinary sort of attack. Oh, no. Slippers require special fighting skills.

When Zoe attacks one of Sam’s teddy bears, she tends to come at it head on, thrashes it around a bit by the neck and then settles down to rip to rip the stuffing out, pausing only to nap with all four paws sticking straight up.

She goes after my slippers in a different way altogether. First of all, she only attacks when I’m wearing them. Then, she sneaks around behind me, and then comes flying at the slippers, legs outstretched, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon style, a menacing growl in her throat. She attaches herself to my slipper like a mongoose wrestling a snake, resisting all attempts to dislodge her from it.

The sound effect goes something like this:

ME: shuffling along happily in my fuzzy slippers
ZOE: ROARRRRRRR!!!!
ME: ACK!!!! ZOE!!!! STOP IT!!! GET OFF!!! THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE!!!!

Sam attempted to impress a new acquaintance at the playground – a little girl of the pink-frocked, pig-tailed variety – with his newest Transformer.
“This is Optimus Prime,” Sam informed her. “And when you do this –.” He paused to contort the movable pieces of plastic. “He turns into a truck!”
Sam beamed, holding up the Optimus truck for the little girl’s admiration. She stuck her nose in the air and stalked off toward the jungle gym, leaving a confused Sam in her wake.
“Yeah, that trick never works on girls,” George observed sympathetically.

If Santa smokes, it’s got to be good for you, right?

I bet Santa also enjoys a nice scotch on the rocks and a relaxing elf massage after a particularly taxing Christmas Eve.

Just when I’m finally starting to get over the bronchial infection from hell, the damn dog has gone and gotten sick. And her illness involves fountains of liquid shit. It’s so bad, George is on his way to Home Depot to rent a steam cleaner.

The vet has instructed me to take away Zoe’s food – it is, he tells me, just adding fuel to the proverbial fire – until the crap-a-thon has stopped.
I should point out that my vet’s dogs are retrievers or labs or something similar. One of those dignified breeds who, when deprived of food, probably lounge at their master’s feet with noble expressions of suffering.

Pugs are not known for their dignity, and Zoe is not tolerating the missed meal with anything approaching noble suffering. She’s been whining and pouting all morning. And every time I walk anywhere near the kitchen, she throws herself under my feet, vindictively trying to trip me.

The message is clear: either I feed her or she’s taking me down.

Beware the wrath of the hungry pug.

*No, we don’t really call Zoe Puggy-Wug. She’s far too much of an ass kicker for that; every time she sees a bigger dog out and about, she has one goal: to conquer and destroy.

Puggy-Wug is a reference to the poem by Sir Winston Churchill, an ode to his pug, Punch:

Oh, what is the matter with poor Puggy-wug
Pet him and kiss him and give him a hug.
Run and fetch him a suitable drug,
Wrap him up tenderly all in a rug,
That is the way to cure Puggy-wug.

I decided to take time out of my busy schedule preparing for the Christmas onslaught and pondering whether I’m a wallpaper person after all – I never thought so, but it’s definitely growing on me – to entertain a bout of holiday bronchitis.

The nice part about being sick is that I can loll around in pajamas and watch Merchant and Ivory movies in the middle of the day without feeling guilty.

The not-so-nice part is that Sam refuses to accept parental illness. Oh, sure, he’ll smile sweetly and say, “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, Mama.’

But then come the requests:

“Will you get up and get me a snack?”

“Can I turn this off and watch one of my movies instead?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Will you come play with me? In my room? Now?”

“Look at this.” An unattractive hunk of plastic is thrust an inch away from my nose. “It’s my Transformer. And if I do this, he turns in to a plane! Isn’t that cool? Isn’t it? Isn’t it? Come on, Mama. Say, ‘Yes, that’s cool!’ Say it!!!!”

“Can we go to the playground?”

“I want my dinner.”

Where is Mary Poppins when I need her?