Acknowledging that Mr. Other Pug was the victim of cabin fever and needed to get out of the house, Mr. Pug surprised him with a mystery, impromptu get-a-way.

“Why do you say that?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“We’re only going away for the weekend,” said Mr. Pug.  “How could you possibly need all this stuff? Sweaters and sneakers and galoshes and scuba gear and umbrellas and tank-tops and baseball gloves and beach towels and rock climbing gear and tanning oil and bathing suits and tennis racquets and golf clubs! Too much!”

“You never know,” said Mr. Other Pug.

“You never know what? ” asked Mr. Pug.

“You just, never know,” replied Mr. Other Pug.

Mr. Pug glared at his friend. “You’re kidding me,” he said.

“Look, if you want me to pack more thoughtfully, you need to tell me where we’re going,” said Mr. Other Pug as he closed the suitcase and then climbed on top of it to force the lid shut. Mr. Pug secured the clasps. It was a routine they had done a hundred times before so they performed it with ease and in complete silence, each knowing their role. They pushed the suitcase to the top of the landing and calmly shoved it down the stairs where it landed with a loud thud against the front door.

“If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise,” said Mr. Pug, who didn’t really like surprises anyway.

“Hence my over packing,” said Mr. Other Pug.

“Okay, okay. I’ll give you five guesses,” said Mr. Pug, who hated games but hated overpacking more.

“Five guesses. Okay,” said Mr. Other Pug, thinking. “Is where we’re going famous for….spaghetti?”

“No, we’re not going to Italy,” said Mr. Pug. “Four guesses left.”

“Is it famous for tacos and burritos and refried beans and Fritos?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“Nope. Not Mexico, either,” said Mr. Pug.

Mr. Other Pug put his finger to his chin and thought about it a bit harder.

“Is it famous for crispy skin and a juicy combination of white and dark meat?” he asked.

“No, I’m not taking you to Turkey,” replied Mr. Pug.

“Is where we’re going famous for cheddar cheese?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“No,” said Mr. Pug, getting increasingly annoyed.  “It’s not Green Bay, either.”

“Thank God,” said Mr. Other Pug. “How many guesses do I have left?”

Mr. Pug victoriously held up a single finger. Mr. Other Pug was getting nervous. Being under pressure always made him nervous and having only one guess left made him even more so.

“Umm, umm,” stammered Mr. Other Pug. “I don’t know. Just tell me.”

Mr. Pug opened the door to reveal the entire front yard covered in a foot of pure, white snow. Icicles hung from the front porch and there was a snowman covered in sparkly lights guarding a little ski jump. Hot chocolate brewed on the roaring campfire which roared a safe distance from the igloo that Mr. Pug had built in the corner.

Mr. Other Pug hardly knew what to say.  “You did all this? For me?” he asked.

Mr. Pug smiled. He hated surprises and he hated games but liked how much Mr. Other Pug loved them.

“A weekend away in a winter wonderland,” said Mr. Pug. “But I still say you over packed.”

“Well,” said Mr. Other Pug, grabbing his snowshoes and mittens and woolen scarf out of the suitcase, “you never know.”

“What are you doing?” asked Mr. Other Pug, as he pulled up a chair.

“Writing a valentine,” said Mr. Pug.

“To who?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“None of your business,” said Mr. Pug.

“Fine,” said Mr. Other Pug as he took a pen and piece of paper and began to write his own valentine note. “Then I’ll write one, too.”

This didn’t bother Mr. Pug at all. He kept on writing from the heart. When finished, he sat back and read the letter to himself:

Dear Vacuum

I know that sometimes we don’t get along. And I know you hate cleaning up after me. I am so sorry I leave such a mess behind. I don’t pick up after myself because you do such a good job of it. I know it’s no excuse, but there, I said it.

And I am sorry that I bark at you ferociously, but you scare me so when you wake me up from a sound sleep, whurring and whizzing as you do. Even your cord, despite how sexy and cute it is, scares the bejeezus out of me. And your dustbag. I can’t even begin to talk about it.

When you burst out of the closet my heart goes pitter-patter. I know we fight, but I love to go at it with you. Don’t ever change. Happy Valentines Day!

Love,

Mr. Pug

Mr. Other Pug finished up his valentine, too. When complete, he sat back and read it to himself just like Mr. Pug did:

Dear Vacuum

I won’t tell Mr. Pug about us if you won’t.

Love,

Mr. Other Pug

Just then the closet door burst open and both Mr. Pug and Mr. Other Pug felt a little something in their hearts.

Someone was starting up the vacuum.

“Why do I always get stuck with the pom-poms?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

Mr. Pug and Mr. Other Pug were invited to a tailgating party and decided to dress the part.

“How come you always get to wear the football helmet,” asked Mr. Other Pug, “and I have to wear this dumb cheerleading outfit?”

“You know the helmet doesn’t fit over your big head,” said Mr. Pug. “Besides, no one can do a cheer like you.”

“Well that’s true,” agreed Mr. Other Pug, not really knowing which cheer he would do today. “I hope they have hotdogs.”

Of course they’ll have hotdogs,” said Mr. Pug. “And baked potatoes and corn-on-the-cob and burgers with tomatoes and lettuce and onion and bacon.”

“Bacon? You didn’t tell me they were gonna have bacon,” said Mr. Other Pug. He was so excited that his back legs started doing a crazy dance while his front legs continued walking and the discombobulation made him teeter a little bit. He fell off the sidewalk.

“This way,” directed Mr. Pug as they crossed the road towards the Superdome.

“You think there will be ketchup?” asked Mr. Other Pug.  “I love ketchup.”

“Don’t ask foolish questions. What kind of football tailgating party would it be without ketchup?” replied Mr. Pug.

“And mustard, I hope there is mustard,” added Mr. Other Pug,

“It’s a beautiful day. I can’t believe we’re getting this kinda weather in January,” said Mr. Other Pug.

Mr. Pug rolled his eyes as the two headed across the parking lot. “Of course it’s a beautiful day,” he said. ”You can’t have a tailgating party in the rain. The barbecue will go out.”

“And my pom-poms wouldn’t be very fluffy,” added Mr. Other Pug.

“And there’s that,” said Mr. Pug.

Mr. Pug was right. Today is the perfect day to have a tailgating party.

“Good thing we’re not back in New Jersey,” said Mr. Other Pug.

“Why is that?” asked Mr. Pug.

“‘Cause having a tailgating party in the snow would suck. Our feet would be too cold,” said Mr. Other Pug.

“I’m certain if you were cold you could do that puppy-face and get someone to loan you a Snuggie,” said Mr. Pug.

“I’m so excited,” cried out Mr. Other Pug as they approached row after row after row of pick-up trucks. Each had it’s own music playing and it’s own grills going. There was smoke and laughter in the air and soda pop and beer in the coolers. There were tons of coolers. And everyone was wearing the colors of their favorite teams. They stopped at one particular friendly group of people and looked up at the grill, Mr. Pug put on his sad eyes from beneath the helmet. Mr. Other Pug shook his pom-poms a little.

“I wonder who’s playing,” puzzled Mr. Other Pug.

“Who cares,” said Mr. Pug. “It’s a tailgating party!”

Mr. Pug canvassed the ground around them. There were orphaned hot dog buns, and globs of dropped ketchup and mustard and relish. And over there was a bit of burger. And over there was an unattended bag of FRITOS. To the delight of the football fans standing around the grill, the two pugs went nuts making mad dashes trying to scarf up all the scraps of food forgotten and abandoned.

“This was a great idea,” said Mr. Other Pug in between bites of anything within reach. “You know all there is to know about football.”

“That’s why I wear the helmet,” replied Mr. Pug.

“Why are we always in line?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“It’s better to gift than to receive,” said Mr. Pug.

“Not following” said Mr. Other Pug.

“Gift return,” said Mr. Pug.

“You’re not returning the sweater I gave you, are you?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

Mr. Pug diverted his eyes to the ceiling and whistled nonchalantly.

“Aww, come on now,” said Mr. Other Pug. “I looked long and hard for that thing.”

“You should have looked harder and longer,” said Mr. Pug to himself, reaching into the bag and pulling out a bulky Christmas sweater knitted to have pictures of pugs in a wintery scene with 3D versions of Santa and Mrs. Claus. Mr. Other Pug held it up to the light and looked at it adoringly, whispering, “It’s like you’re almost there.”

“It’s hideous,” said Mr. Pug.

“It’s supposed to be you and me at the North Pole,” added Mr. Other Pug.

“I don’t care who it’s supposed to be,” said Mr. Pug. “Its ugly.” Then he pointed to one of the knitted pugs. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“That’s you,” answered Mr. Other Pug.

“Why does it have two lightning bolts on its head?” asked Mr. Pug as they got a little closer to the front of the line.

“Those are reindeer antlers,” replied Mr. Other Pug. “Get it? A pug with antlers? Funny, huh?”

“Not funny. Sad,” said Mr. Pug. “It only has half a face. Who knitted this anyway? Stevie Wonder?”

“It’s a Stella McCartney!” shouted Mr. Other Pug.

“Let it be,” whispered Mr. Pug as he stepped up to the counter.

Mr. Pug placed the sweater on the Returns Counter and looked up at the customer service rep.

“What’s wrong with it,” the woman behind the counter asked.

Mr. Other Pug glared at Mr. Pug, who looked back at the woman and asked to exchange the item for a store credit instead. She gave them a gift card and they left the line, heading back into the store.

“That was expensive. You shouldn’t have,” said Mr. Pug. “Seriously. You shouldn’t have.”

“So, what are you gonna get now?” asked Mr. Other Pug. “What’s gonna suit you better than my Christmas sweater idea?”

They passed through the housewares section.

“A crock pot? A hair dryer?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

Mr. Pug kept walking. They passed by the bath section.

“Maybe a new shower head? His & His bath towels?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

Mr. Pug kept walking. They passed by the shoe section.

“Ooh! I know,” said Mr. Other Pug. New high top sneakers! The kind that light up when you walk.”

Mr. Pug kept walking. He got to the end aisle display of light bulbs. He thought for a second and then held a light bulb over his head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“It’s an idea, dummy. When you have an idea, a light bulb appears over your head,” said Mr. Pug.

“Literal execution to make a point, I get it,” said Mr. Other Pug, dryly. “So what’s your idea? You want to buy light bulbs?”

“No, knucklehead,” said Mr. Pug as he ran over to the toy section and grabbed a bunch of stuffed plushie pugs. They had big eyes, and droopy tongues, and were squeezable and huggable and lovable and simply adorable.

“Grab a cart and get as many as you can and follow me,” ordered Mr. Other Pug.

Mr. Other Pug did as ordered. They grabbed up all of the pug plushies and dumped them into a big shopping cart. Mr. Pug started pushing the cart down the aisle.

“Just follow me,” said Mr. Pug. “I have a plan.”

Then sped back to the checkout counter and piled everything up in the conveyor belt and looked at the cashier as she rang up their lot. She totaled it all up and looked back down at the pugs. Mr. Pug handed her the gift card.

“Can you ship this?” Mr. Pug asked the cashier. The cashier looked puzzled. Mr. Pug looked back and put on his puppiest of puppy eyes.

“Can you ship all this for us?” he continued. “We know some kids who didn’t have such a good Christmas.”

The cashier nodded and handed Mr. Pug a card to write down the shipping address. Mr. Other Pug still looked puzzled as he watched Mr. Pug scratch out some words and hand it back to the cashier. The cashier read the note out aloud so she was sure to get it right.

“Sandy Hook Elementary School, Newton, Connecticut,” the cashier read as she took the gift card. She smiled a sad sort of smile and then she reached down and patted both pugs on the top of their puggy heads.

“You two are good dogs,” said the cashier. “Two really good dogs.”

Mr. Pug and Mr. Other Pug both smiled back at the cashier. Then they slowly walked out of the store into a bright daylight.

“Hey the rain stopped,” said Mr. Other Pug.

It’s a beautiful day now,” said Mr. Pug.

“You bet it is,” said Mr. Other Pug.

“I didn’t need another sweater anyhow,” added Mr. Pug as they started the long walk home.

“I know,” said Mr. Other Pug. Then he added: “You’re a good dog. You’re a really good dog.”

He wiped his eyes, then stared at Mr. Pug, then at the tree, and then at Mr. Pug again.

“I said artificial,” said Mr. Other Pug, repeating the argument he and Mr. Pug have every Christmas. Mr. Pug wanted a real tree, but Mr. Other Pug didn’t.

“I know you like the smell of a live tree better than fake one,” said Mr. Other Pug, “but I can’t condone murder. Real trees belong outside.”

“So you can pee on them,” concluded Mr. Pug.

“Yes, so I can pee on them,” said Mr. Other Pug, reconsidering. “I guess this will have to do.”

“You’re welcome,” said Mr. Pug sarcastically as Mr. Other Pug placed the tree in its stand and pulled out the decorations.  An old box from the attic contained hundreds of ornaments, some that Mavis made for them when they were still puppy pugs, some from Walmart, and some that they didn’t remember the back-story to at all.

“What the hell is this?” asked Mr. Pug as he held up a brown and yellow oddly shaped ball. “It doesn’t shimmer or anything.”

Mr. Other Pug remembered that he didn’t feel well when he took the tree down last year and spent an hour gnawing on a favorite ornament. He decided it best not to look at the hardened mass that Mr. Pug was holding and looked away. Instead, he climbed the ladder to place gold ribbons on the upper branches and laid a festive red plaid tree skirt at the bottom. Another box contained just enough dirty, old, stuffed Teddy Bears to cover the mantle. And the angels and nativity scene – crumbling from so much use – took their place on the coffee table, right next to a dancing Snowman that blinked on and off.

Mr. Pug started to get dozy and curled up on the couch, barely watching.

Next, Mr. Other Pug arranged the Christmas cards, hung the stockings with care and reached to the tippy, tippy top of the piano to place a framed picture of the two of them sitting on Santa’s lap. He hummed to himself while cutting up colored paper to make chains of garlands, and he hummed a little bit more as he strung them up around the house. He then opened a box of dreidels and quietly spun them around, careful not to wake Mr. Pug, before placing them in a colorful candy dish. Pugs, he thought to himself, are respectful of all traditions.

Mr. Other Pug was pleased with himself. The house was now a riot of color and lights. The tackier the better, he thought.

By now Mr. Pug was deep asleep, farting and snoring. Mr. Other Pug took a huge Christmas bow and carefully placed it on Mr. Pug’s head. Then took some colored markers and wrote “Naughty, Not Nice” across Mr. Pug’s forehead.

“That’ll teach you to get a real tree,” he whispered before pulling a blanket up over Mr. Pug, dimming the lights and racing off to his own bed.

He had to be asleep before Santa came.

“What’s what?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“Behind you,” said Mr. Pug, opening the screen porch door and stepping out on the deck. He pointed at the nasty little thing beside Mr. Other Pug. “That. What’s that?”

Mr. Other Pug sat there smiling. “Oh, that!” he said, gesturing to the very thin, very scared, tired and trembling, dirty mutt with the very deep sad, blue eyes sitting next to him.

“She followed me home,” said Mr. Other Pug. “Can we keep her?”

The very thin, very scared, tired and trembling, dirty mutt with the very deep sad, blue eyes wagged her tail just a little bit.

“We can’t keep a dog,” said Mr. Pug. “We are dogs.”

The very thin, very scared, tired and trembling, dirty mutt with the very deep sad, blue eyes dropped her head a little bit lower. She’d obviously heard this sentiment before, possibly followed by a swat on the snout or a rock thrown in her direction. She knew she would be back on the streets in no time, dodging cars, foraging for discarded chicken bones and pizza crusts and seeking a safe dry place to hide for the night before starting all over again the following day. It was a dog’s life and she knew it.

“I know we’re dogs,” said Mr. Other Pug as the very thin, very scared, tired and trembling, dirty mutt with the very deep sad, blue eyes turned and, with a noticeable limp, started to head down the porch stairs. “But we’re good dogs.”

Mr. Pug shook his head from side to side.

Mr. Other Pug glanced at his new friend making her way down the stairs in the dark of the backyard and then shot a look back at Mr. Pug. “She’s a stray,” he pleaded.

Mr. Pug raised his shoulders as if there was nothing he could do. Mr. Other Pug glared at Mr. Pug, who tried to look away. This caused Mr. Other Pug to resort to his most powerful weapon. He put on his best, wet puppy eyes face and whimpered a little.

“Ok, ok, ok,” Mr. Pug said. “She can stay, but just for tonight!”

Mr. Other Pug stood up, kissed Mr. Pug full on the lips and bounded down the stairs and into the back yard.

“Hey, Missy!” he called. “Hey, Missy! Wait.”

The very thin, very scared, tired and trembling, dirty mutt looked back with those very deep sad, blue eyes. She kept her head lowered to show that she was no threat.

“You want something to eat?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

Inside, Mr. Pug was preparing dinner and set another place at the table. Then he popped open a bottle of local wine and poured everyone a glass. The three sat down, with Mr. Other Pug saying ‘Grace’, and shared a fine meal of spaghetti tacos, brussel sprout pie and hot donut soup with chicken wing garnishes.

“Boneless,” said Mr. Other Pug.

After dinner, Mr. Other Pug excused himself and went upstairs. Mr. Pug turned to their dinner guest and asked, “You have room for dessert?”

The very thin, very scared, tired and trembling, dirty mutt looked back with those very deep sad, blue eyes smiled.

“There are fresh towels, a spare toothbrush and some Q-tips in the upstairs bathroom,” said Mr. Other Pug as he was bouncing down the stairs. “I drew you a bath. Go freshen up, you’ll feel better.”

While their guest cleaned up, Mr. Pug and Mr. Other Pug cleared off the table and loaded up the dishwasher. Cloaked by the hum of the rinse cycle, Mr. Pug continued with his initial train of thought.

“That was nice and all,” he said, “but you know we can’t keep her.”

“I’m way ahead of you,” said Mr. Other Pug. He pulled out his iPhone5 and opened up the Facebook App and showed Mr. Pug a posting he made just before dinner: ‘Beautiful, slender, timid and obedient mixed breed, just washed, needs good home to make her very deep sad, blue eyes a little less sad.”

There were already nearly 1,000 likes and plenty of comments from Facebook friends eager to adopt. Mr. Other Pug smiled.

“You’re a good soul,” said Mr. Pug raising his glass.

“You too,” replied Mr. Other Pug. They clinked glasses. “Cheers.”

Just then, Missy carefully came down the stairs. She was wearing only a towel, her limp was a little less pronounced. Her coat was glistening and shiny and her eyes were clear and bright.

“What a beautiful bitch,” whispered Mr. Pug. “Maybe we should let her stay.”

“Too late,” said Mr. Other Pug while scrolling thru his Facebook posts. “It looks like she’s already found a home.”

Mr. Other Pug grabbed a potholder, opened the oven door and peered in.

“Looks delish,” he said as he poked at the yet-to-be-crispy-skin on the pale and pudgy turkey inside.

“Close the door or you’ll let all the heat out,” said Mr. Pug. He passed Mr. Other Pug a bowl of yams. “Can you mash these up, please?”

For Mr. Pug and Mr. Other Pug Thanksgiving dinner usually consisted of a bowl of Frito’s and a glass of milk while sitting atop their human’s bed as she slept in front of the TV. But watching endless hours of the Food Network causes all those recipes and techniques and sauces and spices to seep into a puggish little brain and Mr. Pug discovered he was a wonderful cook.

“Add a pinch of salt,” Mr. Pug ordered, “and I’ll toss it in the oven.”

Mr. Other Pug, on the other hand, loved to eat but he couldn’t cook his way out of a paper bag. He could devour that entire turkey right now despite it being partially frozen. He wiped his paws on his apron and handed the baking dish to Mr. Pug who gave the mixture the once over and slid it in next to the turkey.

“It’ll be a few hours,” he said to himself as he adjusted the timer. He then handed Mr. Other Pug a small glass of sherry, just like Julia Child did on her TV show. They clinked glasses.

“So what are you thankful for this year, Mr. Other Pug?” asked Mr. Pug.

“Me? Well, I love the abandoned sneaker I found on the porch. It smells and it’s chewy,” replied Mr. Other Pug.  “Oh, and I’m thankful no-one is teasing me with that bone shaped squeaky toy – the one that makes me run from room to room in a psychotic frenzy whenever anyone picks it up and shakes it.”

“How about you?” he asked in return.

“Hmmm. We had a tough summer,” thought Mr. Pug. “But I’m glad that we’re here together, that we got adopted as a pair. I don’t know if I would have made it without you.”

“Awww,” said Mr. Other Pug.

Mr. Pug continued: “But most of all I’m thankful for our time with Mavis.”

Mr. Other Pug got quiet.  Mavis was their first human, the one too big to get out of her bed. She taught them that when things go wrong, there will always be a way to make it right. She shared Fritos with them and played with them all day, but one night she just never woke up. Mr. Other Pug saw Mr. Pug getting sad.

“Mavis was home,” said Mr. Other Pug. “But now we’re home for each other.”

Mr. Pug smiled and said, “Happy Thanksgiving Mr. Other Pug.”

“So is the turkey ready yet?” asked Mr. Other Pug. “I’m starving!”

“Frontsies?” asked Mr. Pug.

“Scuze me,” responded Mr. Other Pug.

“Frontsies,” repeated Mr. Pug. “Meaning: Let me sneak in line in front of you.”

“No way,” said Mr. Other Pug. “That wouldn’t be fair to all the people who got here before you.”

“And who’s problem is that?” asked Mr. Pug, incredulously. “Luckily, I’ve got friends in high places.”

“Who?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“You,” said Mr. Pug.

“Sorry,” said Mr. Other Pug. “You better go to the end of the line.”

Mr. Pug looked for the back of the queue. It swung down the block and around the corner. There was no end in sight.

“I can’t go all the back there,” he said. “ It’ll take me all day to get inside.”

“Not my problem,” said Mr. Other Pug. “You slept late, as usual. Should’ve gotten out of bed when I did.”

“But I thought you were heading out early to save a place in line for me,” pleaded Mr. Pug.

“Incorrecto,” announced Mr. Other Pug. “Voting is not only your right, it’s your obligation. So get in the back of the line and wait for your turn like everyone else.”

“I’ll give you a cookie,” said Mr. Pug, sneakily.

Mr. Other Pug looked at the buttery biscuit and then glanced at the back of the line and then looked at the buttery biscuit again. He snapped the cookie out of Mr. Pug’s hand.

“No frontsies,” said Mr. Other Pug. “Backsies only.” Everyone directly behind Mr. Pug and Mr. Other Pug grumbled some disapproval. In return, Mr. Pug barked at them and when he was done barking he turned his back on them and casually farted. The line moved a little and they turned the corner towards the voting venue.

“So who are you voting for?” asked Mr. Pug.

“I’m not telling you,” said Mr. Other Pug.

They waited some more. Mr. Pug scratched behind his ear repeatedly trying to get to an itch that had been bothering him for weeks. He sat watching the wind make the autumn leaves swirl in mini-tornadoes. They waited some more.

“C’mon,” continued Mr. Pug. “It’s gotta be one or the other.”

“No,” replied Mr. Other Pug. He was patient and happy to wait in line for the privilege to vote.

Just then Mr. Pug caught the sight of the grey squirrel running by and was just about to go run after it. Mr. Other Pug put his hand on Mr. Pug’s shoulder.

“Calm,” he said. “Let it be.”

They waited a while longer. The line inched closer to the front door.

“Is it the white human?” asked Mr. Pug, unable to handle the boredom of just waiting in line.

“Not telling,” replied Mr. Other Pug.

Mr. Pug grunted. The clouds overhead softly collided and separated over and over again to make an ever changing array of shapes. Mr. Other Pug watched.

“Zen,” said Mr. Other Pug, his eyes shut. “Listen to them.”

Mr. Pug rolled his eyes. “Is it black human?” he asked.

“Shhhh,” said Mr. Other Pug, holding a finger to his lips. “Breathe.”

As the line moved a wee bit closer, Mr. Pug grew increasingly frustrated.

“I gotta pee,” said Mr. Pug.

“There’s a tree,” said Mr. Other Pug.

“What is it?” asked Mr. Pug.

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Other Pug. “A willow?”

“Where are the leaves?” asked Mr. Pug.

“It must be dead,” said Mr. Other Pug.

“No more weeping,” asked Mr. Pug.

“Or perhaps it’s not the season,” said Mr. Other Pug.

The line moved a little closer to the front. They could see inside and noticed a buzz of activity around the voting machines.

“Looks to me more like a bush,” said Mr. Other Pug.

“A shrub,” said Mr. Pug.

“A bush,” repeated Mr. Other Pug.

“What are you insinuating,” asked Mr. Pug. “That we’ve come to the wrong place?”

“I didn’t say that,” said Mr. Other Pug.

They were almost at the front now.

“Ryan Seacrest should be controlling this thing,” said Mr. Pug to nobody in particular.

“It would go much faster,” agreed Mr. Other Pug.

“And we could use our cell phones,” giggled Mr. Pug.

“More people would vote,” added Mr. Other Pug, smiling.

“And we could vote more than once,” laughed Mr. Pug.

They were at the front of the line now. This was so exciting. It was Mr. Pug and Mr. Other Pug’s first time voting for President of The United States Of America. Mr. Pug turned around and looked at the long line of people waiting to exercise their right.

“Vote early,” he yelled back to the queue. “Vote early and vote often.”

“I am,” said Mr. Other Pug.

“But I thought Halloween was canceled,” whined Mr. Pug. “Hurricane Sandy put an end to this nonsense.”

“Not canceled,” said Mr. Other Pug. ”Postponed. And since everyone is sad because of the hurricane, we need a little diversion right now.”

“If it was up to me, there’d be no Halloween,” said Mr. Pug.

“If it was up to me, it’d be Halloween more frequently,” said Mr. Other Pug.

“Like snack time,” said Mr. Pug.

“Yeah,” said Mr. Other Pug. “Like snack time. But the Halloween Parade has been rescheduled for tomorrow night so we need to hurry.”

“Hurry?” asked Mr. Pug, puzzled about where this was going.

“Hurry,” said Mr. Other Pug, clearly not puzzled at all. He held up a flashcard with a picture of a dinosaur and then smiled from puggy ear to puggy ear.

“I’m afraid to ask,” said Mr. Pug. “What’s with the dinosaur?”

“It’s our costume this year,” said Mr. Other Pug. “Were gonna be brontosaurii.”

“No,” said Mr. Pug, calmly.

“I’m can make them from scratch but I don’t have much time,” said Mr. Other Pug. You could tell from the way he was running around in tight circles that he was really excited by this idea. “But I wanted your approval,” he added.

“That was my approval,” said Mr. Pug.

“Your approval is ‘no’?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“My approval,” repeated Mr. Pug, “is ‘no’.”

“That’s so negative,” yelped Mr. Other Pug.

“You think?” asked Mr. Pug.

“Are you implying ‘no’ to dinosaurs,” cautioned Mr. Other Pug, “or ‘no’ to costumes in general?”

“How about ‘no’ to this conversation ever happening again,” stated Mr. Pug, firmly.

Mr. Other Pug thought about this and then decided he didn’t hear it.

“How about spiders?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“No,” said Mr. Pug.

“How about snakes?” continued Mr. Other Pug.

“No,” emphasized Mr. Pug.

“How about spiders that were eaten by snakes?” grinned Mr. Other Pug.

“Nada,” said Mr. Pug.

“Doctors?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“No,” said Mr. Pug.

“Nurses?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“No,” said Mr. Pug.

“3rd year med students?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“Never,” said Mr. Pug.

Mr. Other Pug sighed. Then his eyes brightened. “Cowboys?” he asked.

“No. Too common,” said Mr. Pug.

“Indians?” followed Mr. Other Pug.

“No. Too racist,” said Mr. Pug.

“Mets?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“No,” said Mr. Pug.

“Yankees?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“No,” said Mr. Pug.

“Red Sox?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“Not on your life,” said Mr. Pug.

Mr. Pug went thru his mental rolodex. “Superman?” he asked.

“No,” said Mr. Pug.

“Batman?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“No,” said Mr. Pug.

“Ironman?” Mr. Other Pug continued.

“No,” said Mr. Pug.

“Spiderman?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“Yawn” yawned Mr. Pug. “No Spiderman.”

“Obama?” asked Mr. Other Pug.
 “And Biden?”

“Please, no,” said Mr. Pug.

“Romney and Ryan?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“Seriously?” scowled Mr. Pug.

“Dorian Grey?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“Too obscure.”

“Lewis Black?”

“Still too obscure.”

“Betty White?”

“The opposite of obscure.”

“If Betty White is the opposite of obscure,” said Mr. Other Pug. “Then the opposite of Betty White is….?”

“Nicki Minaj,” answered Mr. Pug.

“Oh yes!,” said Mr. Other Pug. “What about Nicki Minaj?”

“Too stupid,” said Mr. Pug.

“Mariah Carey?”

“Ditto.”

“Paula Abdul?”

“Ditto but scary,” said Mr. Pug.

“Steven Tyler?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“Scarier still,” said Mr. Pug.

Mr. Other Pug changed course. “Lance Armstrong?”

“Jerk. No.”

“A werewolf?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“A werewolf?” repeated Mr. Pug.

“Chris Christie?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

“How did you segue from Lance Armstrong to a werewolf to Chris Christie?” asked Mr. Pug.

Mr. Other Pug paid Mr. Pug no nevermind. “Angela Lansbury?” he continued.

“Hate her.”

“Andie Macdowell?”

“No. Hate her even more.”

“Anne Curry?” asked Mr. Other Pug.

Mr. Pug paused. He was taken a little off guard by this one. He considered the possibilities. “Could you,” he asked, “do Anne Curry as an extra in Walking Dead?”

“A Zombie Anne Curry?” questioned Mr. Other Pug.

“A Zombie Anne Curry” clarified Mr. Pug.

“Would you wear it?”

“I’d wear it.”

“Then I’m on it,” Mr. Other Pug beamed as he ran over to his sewing machine. “Hurricane Schmurricane! Halloween is here and I’m so on it.”

“I told you not to overpack, said Mr. Pug.

They  dropped their bags at the front desk of the all-inclusive resort and looked up at the clerk. The woman behind the desk looked at them in bewilderment. Mr. Other Pug stood on tip toes.

“Can we please, please, please have a room with an ocean view,” asked Mr. Other Pug, barely seeing over the counter top.

The hotel clerk pointed at a chart on the wall. It read “Today’s available rooms: partial-partial-ocean view, partial-jungle view, combo ocean/jungle view, and no view.”

“Pick that last one one,” prodded Mr. Pug. “I have a good feeling about this.”

Mr. Other Pug reluctantly pointed to the bottom of the list, while Mr. Pug walked across the lobby. Mr.Other Pug checked in and then joined his friend standing in front of the activities chart..

“Where’s the luggages?” asked Mr. Pug.

“They’ll bring them directly to our room,” said Mr. Other Pug, “but it won’t be available til after 4pm.” Then he added, “When is 4pm?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Pug. “I’m a pug dammit, all I know is breakfast time, lunch time, dinner time….”

“And snack time,” added Mr. Other Pug.

“Most important time of the day,” smiled Mr. Pug.

“Most important,” reiterated Mr. Other Pug.

“So if the room isn’t ready til later,” said Mr. Pug, “look at all the cool stuff there is to do here.”

Mr. Pug fanned a bunch of brochures on the floor in front of them. Mr. Other Pug’s eyes widened as did his grin. Their all-inclusive Mexican holiday was about to kick off in grand fashion.

They started by joining in the Water Yoga program to the over amplified and awful remix of today’s worst pop music. It was a little hard for them both since they couldn’t seem to touch the bottom of the pool but they tried. Then an ample sized woman gave them dog-paddle lessons up to the swim-up bar.

“Convenient,”  Mr. Other Pug.

After a round of ice cold ‘cervesas’, Mr. Other Pug peed in the pool. When the bartender asked them to leave, they headed to the beach for a pick up game of “wolleyball”. It was just like the game they saw on TV in the Olympics but instead of muscled guys and buxom blondes, the teams consisted of portly, sun-burned, semi-drunk, fun-loving men and women. It was like a ‘Jersey Shore’ party for the middle aged. Everyone had frozen drinks and was laughing so hard! And they all loved Mr. Pug and Mr. Other Pug’s dance moves to “Whoop There It Is” every time a point was scored. Then Mr. Pug bit a hole in the ball and they were asked to leave.

This was followed by a jet ski ride in the Caribbean to chase pelicans off the reef and a quick motor scooter ride to the jungle to look for green monkeys. There they zip-lined thru the treetops and manned kayaks and paddled into the mangroves. Mr. Pug dipped his head underwater to check things out. He held his breath for a long long time and when he came up he gasped “It’s like the biggest aquarium I’ve ever seen.” Mr. Other Pug dipped his head underwater to get a better look. When he came up for air he had a crab clinging to his ear. Mr. Pug pointed and laughed.

“I’ll never eat a crabcake again. They’re too feisty,” said Mr. Other Pug.

“Even fried with peanut butter?” asked Mr. Pug.

“Well…..” thought Mr. Other Pug.

Later they climbed a crumbling pyramid that was covered in vines and lizards…

“That was cool,”said Mr. Other Pug, who remembered chasing a gecko.

….and they bungee jumped from a tree next to a crystal clear water fall.

“Not cool,” said Mr. Pug, who never likes to be on a leash anyway.

Back at the hotel they got massages, learned to do a sleazy salsa dance, drank more cold beers and listened to a Mexican musician sing really bad cover tunes but with a bossa nova twist.

“Eee-mah-jean awl de pee-pull,  lee-veene four two-day,” sang the Mexican singer.

Mr. Other Pug sipped his beer and happily sang along. Just then the woman from reception came into the lounge with the key to their room.  When they opened the door they noticed their lugguge was already there.

“Magic,” said Mr. Other Pug.

Mr. Pug headed to the window.

“What could you possibly be looking at?” asked Mr. Other Pug. “This is a no-view room.”

Then he saw what Mr. Pug was staring at. There, between their balcony and the parking lot, on a patch of forgotten grass, was a bright red, virgin fire hydrant.

“I knew it,” whispered Mr. Pug.

“Pristine,” added Mr. Other Pug as if in a trance.

“I love Mexico,” said Mr Pug.

“Buenos noches, amigo,” said Mr. Other Pug. “Buenas noches nos de’ Dios.”