The Meditations of an Existential Pug

I assume[1] that The Blonde Woman is employing a rhetorical technique when she poses the question: “Who’s a good boy?”

What does she mean by “good”? Isn’t it relative? By “good” does she mean “obedient”? Is good behavior that which conforms to rules and social norms, i.e. not shitting in the house or begging for scraps at the dinner table?

Maybe I’m not “a good boy.” Maybe I have no interest in being “a good boy” according to The Blonde Woman’s ideas about the concept. Maybe I’d prefer to live my life following my passions—I’m passionate about cheese and, yes, I will continue to beg for it—even it means indulging in my dark/“bad” side.

But I often wonder if there’s any point in following said passions. It feels like no one truly understands my condition, and any attempts to communicate using the fallible methods of interaction are ultimately misunderstood and rendered meaningless.

For example, earlier this morning, the black Labrador who walks with the Older Couple was passing the house, so I bolted to the living room window and started shouting to him.

“Help me! I’m a prisoner in this house! You’re a prisoner, too! We’re all prisoners! Free yourself, my friend,” I barked.

But the black Labrador said nothing. He didn’t even legitimize my sentiments with a look or a nod. He just trotted past the house, face forward, as if I didn’t exist, as if I was simply barking into The Void.

I bet the black Labrador is “a good boy.”

Now it’s early afternoon, and ennui has gotten the best of me so I’m going to sleep. It seems all I do is sleep. What was it that Hamlet said about sleep and death? We “sleep—perchance to dream.”

I sometimes suffer terrible nightmares when I nap, and if I lay down to sleep and never wake, what might await me? Nightmares, or pleasant dreams of chasing the cat or feasting on cheese? Will I dream at all? I’m a pug, and even I know that “All Dogs Go to Heaven” is premised on a load of bullshit.

I suppose someday I’ll find out what awaits me, but not knowing creates the crux of my anxiety. How do I know that the fireworks being set off on the Fourth of July aren’t the first signs of Armageddon, signifying an untimely end to the world? What then? What’s next?

In the interim between birth and death, what I am to do while I’m bound by my circumstances? I don’t really have the freedom to follow my passions; my only joys hinge on the mercurial whims of The Gray-Haired Man, the writer guy, who feeds me cheese when no one is looking.

I am supposed to sit around and endure the same mundane routine, day after day after laborious day?

I think I’ll take that nap. And when I wake, perhaps this sullen mood will have lifted. Perhaps I’ll enjoy a Zoomie[2] or crap on the hardwood floor in front of the fireplace. Camus wrote that the only logical and acceptable way to address life’s monotony and futility is to follow your passions and “imagine Sisyphus happy.”

He said nothing about being “a good boy.”

[1] While I generally abhor anthropomorphism, I’m utilizing one of the oldest literary tricks in the book: Addressing complex ideas through the point-of-view of a dim-wit for ironic purposes. Or maybe, following a harrowing firework accident where I confronted my own mortality, I’m using this technique to avoid directly confronting my own fear of death.

[2] For those unfamiliar with the term, a Zoomie or Frenetic Random Activity Periods (FRAP) “refers to those unmistakable explosions of energy that dogs have on occasion. Zoomies often feature frantic, repetitive behavior, such as running in circles or spinning. A frequent cause of zoomies is an excess buildup of energy that dogs hold on to, which is then released in one big burst.”