* NOTE: This post has been a while in coming, mostly because I have spent the intervening months trying to get the smell of nervous dog crap out of my car.
Pugs on Parade 2012 was a resounding success for the Alabama Pug Rescue. We raised a good amount of money for the rescue and humiliated ourselves in true Crazy Pug Lady fashion. We also came very close to having the Alabama State Troopers called on us.
Picture it: Interstate 85 on a glorious Alabama spring day. Dad, Phyllis and I are riding in my little SUV with Mason the enormous black lab mix, Minnie, the dumbest but most beautiful pug in the whole world, Cashew, whose eyes point in different directions so he looks like a furry chameleon, Wilson, who is pretty much just a crusty bundle of emotions, and Taffy, the pug-terrier mix with a bark that feels like spikes being driven into your eardrums. We're cruising down the road after a quick stop at Starbucks and a round of tidbits for the dogs. Looking back, handing out pieces of Gouda cheese to our little pack was a horrible, terrible idea.
We made it about fifteen miles up the road before Taffy suddenly vaulted over the back of the seat and started frantically spinning. I thought she was being ridiculous and pushed her back over the seat. (Please note that even though we were driving in my car, I was the lucky one who was sitting in the back with the dogs.) She jumped over again and, irritated now, I shoved her back. Peace and quiet reigned for a good forty-five seconds before I was slapped in the face with the foulest, vilest stench I've experienced since the time my son ate a whole jar of mango baby food that didn't agree with him. Horrified, I whirled around to see what had died in the backseat and was treated to the sight of a lake of dog diarrhea spreading over the dog bed we had thoughtfully brought along. Taffy, obviously refreshed by voiding herself of fifty pounds of poop, was wagging her tail in the corner while Mason looked disgusted and the three pugs tried their best to get as much crap as possible on their little bodies.
Luckily, I am very good during stressful situations. I calmly began to gag, spilling some of my latte onto my lap, while telling Dad to pull over. By this time the smell had reached the front seat, and Dad, who has a worse gag reflex than I do, began horking so hard I thought he was going to throw up on the fashionable leis I keep hanging from my rearview mirror. Mom, as is her wont, immediately began to laugh so hard that her eyes crinkled into nothingness and she had to cross her legs to keep from wetting her pants.
Eventually we made it to the side of the freeway, bouyed along by a tangible wave of stink. Dad elected to stay in the driver's seat and throw up in his mouth. Mom hobbled back to the hatch of my SUV, still with her legs crossed so she wouldn't be streaming with pee as well as tears, and I turned around and grabbed as many collars as I could to keep our dogs from committing hara kiri on the interstate. Mom's first reaction upon opening the back door was, "Oh, my GOD!" Dad and I, between retches, yelled at her to throw the damn dog bed out and leave it on the side of the road. But no. Thrifty Phyllis strikes again. She used Starbucks napkins to wipe up the chunkiest poops, then scrounged a couple baby wipes and began to wipe pointlessly at the atrocious liquid that still saturated the bed to a depth of half an inch. Keep in mind that Dad and I were still gagging, Mom was still dementedly laughing, and the dogs were all hoping to be hit by a semi so that the embarrassment would end.
Eventually, Mom decided that she had done what she could with the baby wipes. My car still smelled like a particularly ripe Calcutta sewer, but Mom was congratulating herself on doing such a fine roadside cleaning job. She instructed us to look for other cleaning implements to cap off the endeavor, but all I had was a Tide pen, and that would have been like hurling Kleenex at a Panzer tank.
Mom decided, against the wishes of Dad, me, and the dogs, to simply throw a blanket over the dog bed and continue on our merry way. So, for the next hour and a half, five dogs and me were crammed into the backseat, engulfed in fumes, with Dad still treating us to the occasional gag and Mom twisted into a pretzel to keep from emptying her bladder and adding to the general horror that was my car.
When we made it to Pugs and Kisses, we all piled out and French-kissed the asphalt, weeping with joy and thanking God for our deliverance. Mom insisted on bringing the dog bed into the fundraiser so the dogs would have somewhere to lay. I tried to surreptitiously set it on fire, but was too weakened by the chemical warfare to operate the lighter.
The high point of the day was definitely winning the costume contest - Mason dressed up as a bull and the little dogs wore white shirts and red sashes. Dad played Spanish music while Mom and I trotted up and down in front of the crowd. It was "The Running of the Pugs at Pamplona." We won some nice prizes and then we got to take our picture with Miss and Mrs. Alabama. So, there we were, two sweaty, smelly pug ladies, covered in funk and dog hair, posing with perfectly polished blonde pageant queens. Not one to frame.
I would like to point out that a dog psychic was at the fundraiser. She did a reading with Mason and told my mom that he was a little unsure about being part of our family. I know she meant that he was experiencing insecurity due to being an abandoned rescue, but I couldn't help thinking that he was probably having second thoughts because of all the crazy.
