You Pugly. Bad Pugly.

I suppose that admitting to an animal mania is a bit like having "PATHETIC" chiseled into your forehead, Manson-style.  It's a fault I'll have to own.  My pugs-in-residence, Churchill and Stinkerbell, are simply the wrinkly little lights of my life.  Anyone who truly understands me knows that when the going gets tough and ain't no sunshine, don't send flowers.  Pug images and cashier's checks only.

Therefore, after two especially difficult weeks, two emails appeared in my inbox bearing a parade of pugs in halloween costumes, pugs in compromising positions in the lavatory, and pugs simply bearing the general indignities of their pugliness.  They're googly-eyed.  Their involunary facial expression is one of constant confusion.  Not to mention that their whole physical being looks like something that should be circumcised.  Egads, I adore them. 

Two people slapped a humongous smile on my face this morning.  Just wanted them to know.