Pug Hill by Alison Pace Page B

occur to him that sometimes, especially when sneakers are involved, that there is some merit to be found in a little scuffing, a little wear and tear? I pull my attention away from the Tretorns. The Tretorns are not important right now, the guy wearing them is not important; what is important, of course, is that here, today, there is a pug. There’s a pug at Pug Hill, even on a weekday, and that means something, even if everything isn’t a sign.
    This pug—her name is Roxy—isn’t a black pug like my little friend Kermit, the one I am so sure likes to wait, just for me, by the tree. But Roxy, one of the longer-legged varieties, not much older than a puppy, is right up there in terms of coolness. And that’s a pretty great height of coolness, when you consider that all pugs, by sheer virtue of the fact that they are pugs, are quite cool. I know Roxy pretty well, because she’s here a lot of the time, because of her owner’s footwear decisions, but most of all, because she’s one of the pugs who often delights in spinning herself in a circle for long periods of time.
    I feel peaceful, let’s say, momentarily content, as I watch Roxy run from where she’d been lingering, a yard or two behind the pine tree, quickly over to the spotless Tretorns. I hold my two cups of coffee and think again that one larger coffee would have been better. I think again that I need to be better at confrontation, as much as maybe I need to be better sometimes at just letting things go. One of the coffee cups, after all, can always be put down if need be, if what I want to happen actually happens: if Roxy sprints over to me, eyes wide, tongue lolling out to the side. At which point, once the extra coffee is safely out of the way, I will ask the Tretorn guy, hopefully without even having to make eye contact, if I can pet his pug.
    I watch as Roxy spins around, two and half times—pugs, generally, are pretty big fans of spinning themselves around, but Roxy’s got it mastered—and takes off again down the hill. She is so fast and runs with such a sense of purpose. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that she were chasing a ball. But I know better, and not only because I didn’t see any ball thrown, but because I know enough to know that pugs are not the types to go running after a ball.
    “Roxy!” the Tretorn guy yells, and Roxy ignores him. Just as they are not the types to go running after a ball, pugs generally are not the types to trip over themselves in order to please their owners. As clear as it is that Roxy is not planning on obeying her owner at present, it also seems pretty clear that she does not plan on running over to me. I think this is too bad, but also expected; Roxy is not an enchanter like Kermit is, Roxy is much more independent in spirit. But I’m happy for the fact that she was here at all and for the fact that I’ve been here for about twenty minutes, just standing here watching her, and the shiny new Tretorn guy has not looked over at me suspiciously, accusingly, as if I am a pug stalker. I don’t think of myself as a pug stalker. It’s different from that, I know, but I also know that standing around so long at Pug Hill without a pug, especially when there’s just one other person here, can make you look like one.
    “Roxy!” the Tretorn guy calls again, this time with a more assertive tone. She does not go to him, she turns around and regards him coolly from her vantage point atop an incline. A moment passes, and she sits down regally, her head held high. As the Tretorn guy sees the wisdom in going over to her, and does so, Roxy flips over onto her back to display her belly. I watch as Tretorn guy leans down to clip Roxy’s leash to her harness, and then I’m not so sure that Roxy flipped over like that just to have her belly rubbed. I think she might be peeing.
    From my vantage point, I see Tretorn shake his head at Roxy disapprovingly.
    “Oh, Roxy,” he says and softly clucks at her. I’m