Mr. Pug & Mr. Other Pug

Mr. Other Pug was balancing his chubby body on the vanity ledge, directly in front of a mirror, looking at his reflection. He cocked his head this way. He cocked his head that way. He turned around and pushed his puggish behind out a bit.

“Do I look fat in this?” Mr. Other Pug asked Mr. Pug, who was sleeping on the pink shag throw rug on the cool tile floor in the upstairs bathroom.

Mr. Pug raised his head and wiped the sleep from his eyes. He focused on Mr. Other Pug.

“Why in God’s earth are you wearing a uni-tard?” he asked.

“It’s for the act,” said Mr. Other Pug.

“The act,” said Mr. Pug, condescendingly.

“Yes, the act,” said Mr. Other Pug, defiantly. “We’re going to be on ‘American Pug’s Got Talent’.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Mr. Pug. He put his head back down and started to fake snore in hopes of forgetting the topic altogether.

“Seriously,” said Mr. Other Pug. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem…” said Mr. Pug, “…is that we don’t do anything. There is no act.”

“That’s not true,” said Mr. Other Pug. “We sing,”

“We don’t sing,” replied Mr. Pug.

“Sure we do,” said Mr. Other Pug.

“Prove it then,” said Mr. Pug. “Sing something.”

“What do you want me to sing?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

Mr. Pug folded his arms ready to be proven right. “Anything he huffed.

After thinking about it for a second, Mr. Other Pug picked up the microphone. “Ahem,” he said into the mic, as if clearing his throat. “Test, one, two.”

“Hold on,” said Mr. Pug. “Where did you get a microphone?”

Mr. Other Pug giggled. “It’s a hairbrush,” he said. “But the realism of the situation made you think it was a real microphone, didn’t it?”

Mr. Pug rolled his eyes.

Mr. Other Pug lowered his voice and imitated a circus announcer: “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the hairbrush. “Please welcome Mr. Other Pug and his version of a Queen Classic.”

“This is where you applaud,” whispered Mr. Other Pug, off mic.

Mr. Pug rolled his eyes in the other direction.

Mr. Other Pug then sang. “This thing / Called Beef / In my bowl / Can’t handle it / Well, I like it / Crazy Little Thing Called Beef.”

Mr. Pug rolled his eyes back again as Mr. Other Pug bowed and waited for the judges to reflect.

“That’s not an act,” yelled Mr. Pug.

“Ok, how about we form a dance troupe,” suggested Mr. Other Pug.

“No. We don’t dance,” said Mr. Pug.

“We can juggle,” offered Mr. Other Pug.

“No,” repeated Mr. Pug.

“A balancing act?”

“No.”

“A hypnotist.”

“No.”

“Knife throwers.”

“No.”

“Ventriloquism.”

Mr. Pug was fed up. “You do understand that I was sleeping, don’t you?” he asked.

Mr. Other Pug didn’t stop. “What if we catch Frisbees in our mouths?” he said.

“What is we go to sleep and snore in rhythmic unison,” said Mr. Pug as he turned his back and closed his eyes, annoyed by the entire conversation.

“Ohh,” purred Mr. Other Pug. “That’s a good idea. It’s unique, daring and will resonate with pugs across the country!”

And with that Mr. Other Pug curled up next to Mr. Pug on the pink shag throw rug on the cool tile floor in the upstairs bathroom. The two fell asleep almost immediately.  And although they didn’t snore in rhythmic unison, no one could argue that, at this moment, they were the most talented pugs anywhere.