When I was in my late teens to early twenties, my life went to hell in a hand basket. To say that I wasn't doing well barely scratches the surface.
Into my life came a stray dog, Pugsley, a scruffy, mildewed Pekingese. I found him in the middle of a busy street, then took him to the pound. I went by to see him, and he had been hosed down; his knotted hair was hanging in frozen clumps. I just couldn't leave him there, so he was adopted. It was one of the best decisions that I ever made.
Pugs was an old dog with a damaged eye. On his leg he had a torn flap of skin that could be lifted up, hair and all. He was smelly and didn't mind biting when he was irritated. But he was mine to take care of, and we loved each other. If somebody touched my car, Pugs would try to take their hand off. When he saw a human being mean to an animal, he would make a snarly run at them. which usually stopped the abuse. Those in the know, knew better than to chastise Pugsley physically. He wouldn't cower, he'd fight back. Pugs always got the last bite!
Pugs behaved gently with small children, puppies, and kittens. He had a lot of patience with the little ones and would just push them away with a big front paw if they pestered him too much. He never bit an animal or child...just adult humans.
I know that Pugsley saved my life. I made better decisions because I had Pugs to think of. Who else would want my lovable, but ill-tempered Pekingese friend? I miss him still.
