Pugs are hogs

If you ever want to spend time alone in a chair, don't get a pug. When I curl up on the couch watching TV in the evenings, the pugs are there. When I sit with my laptop, blogging away, the pugs are there. When I try to grab a nap on a Saturday afternoon, the pugs are there.

Pugs are hogs.

They don't just curl up and cozy up to you. They make sure they are cutting off circulation somewhere. Often when my legs are stretched out on the ottoman, one is next to me, head on my lap, and the other is on my legs, bending my knees backwards. Sometimes I won't even realize how uncomfortable it is until a part of me falls asleep or I try to get up and I have 36 pounds of pug to remove first.

At this moment I have a pug butt pushing my elbow, making it feel like my carpal tunnel is acting up again. My left hand is going numb.

And if it's not the imposition of my personal space, they're fouling the air. Each morning when I eat my breakfast at the dining room table, they sit at my feet. Since they can't sit on my lap, they remind me of their presence by being aromatic. A lot. Exceptionally strong aromas.

Pugs are hogs. Heck, they even snort.

I got our first pug when our last child left home to go to college. I wanted companionship and someone to greet me when I got home from work. He fit the bill perfectly, and our pug-loving household was born.

It's like my kids never left.