Kaufman - Clara, the Early Years: the Story of the Pug Who Ruled My Life

This story is true, and Clara is a real pug, though she prefers not to apply such a limiting label to herself. However, to ensure that I can continue to support Clara in the manner to which she has become accustomed, I have changed the names, descriptions, geographic specifics, and distinguishing traits of some of the participants. If you think that you recognize anyone in this book, I would be deeply grateful if you would just forget all about it. MK

Copyright 1998 by Margo Kaufman

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Villard Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

V ILLARD B OOKS is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-307-82462-2

Random House website address: www.randomhouse.com

v3.1

T he pug, Clara, sensed disaster. My husband, Duke, and I had two weeks to go until we departed on a journey to the ends of the earth. This wasnt unusual. We travel a lot. Yet somehow Clara had come to believe this trip marked the end of life as she knew it. Spectacularly correct, her hunch was worthy of the Psychic Friends Network, because the tangible evidence was slight. Our suitcases were still in the attic, the airline tickets locked in my desk; the only indication that something extraordinary was in the works was a growing mound of shopping bags in the laundry room.

But ever self-protective and watchful, the suspicious dog dragged her faux leopard-skin bed from its customary position in the corner of my study to a superior vantage point in front of our bedroom heater and henceforth refused to let me out of sight. Her dim pug sister, Sophie, who long ago learned to follow Claras instincts, chirped like a dying smoke alarm until I carried her bed in too.

Never mind that Id spent four years accustoming the dictatorsexcuse me, companion animalsto sleep in another room, where Sophies compulsion to wake me at 5:30 A.M. with her insanely irritating yips and shrieks and Claras nightly attempt to invade the sanctity of our marital bed wouldnt cause sleep deprivation. Overwhelmed with guilt, anxiety, and nostalgia, I relented. Even Duke, who isnt nearly as vulnerable to their manipulations as methe Official Pug Lollipopgrew powerless at the sight of the matching faux leopard-skin cuddlers in a line.

Theyre like the schoolgirls beds in Madeline, he sighed with uncharacteristic sentimentality. Sensing weakness, Clara widened her eyes to chocolate-drop size, flattened her bat ears, and made herself look even smaller than her far-below-breed-standard twelve pounds. The Dewdrop is looking unusually needy, Duke said reproachfully.

He had no right to complain. His days were spent downtown at the university, so Clara only stalked him on weekends and after business hours. She shadowed me round the clock. As the date of our departure grew near, she maintained a vigil over my car keys the way an alcoholic keeps tabs on all the liquor in the house. If I attempted to leave home alone, she skittered under my feet, dashed out the gate, and bounced defiantly into the passenger seat of my car. I felt like Morgan Freeman in Driving Miss Daisy.

I consulted my friend Blanche Roberts, a three-time winner of the title National Pug Breeder of the Year. Blanche is one of the few people I know capable of treating the usually coddled lapdogs as livestock. She assured me that Claras behavior was reasonable. Youre making changes, Blanche said in her please-dont-be-stupid voice. She knows it and wants to be near you when it happens. She wants to support you.

Supportive? Clara? Unlike Sophie, who exasperates me more than any living creature including my ex-husband but is goodhearted and actively prefers me to other human beings, Clara has the character and personality of her breed: that of the schemer Eve Harrington in All About Eve. (My husband claims that the hallmark of the pugs personality is its indifference to pleasing the master. Where some dogs will really work to make their master happy, pugs are only in it for themselves, Duke says.)

But I havent even brought the suitcases out, I protested to Blanche. For good reason. Clara, who frequently travels with me, reacts to my luggage with an emotional meltdown.

You smell different, Blanche said. A little more stressed, a little more worried.

Pugs dont have a standard dog snoutjust a snub leathery half mushroombut I knew better than to argue with Blanche. In pug circles her word is gospel, but more important, she was going to board Clara and Sophie while we were away, for a fraction of what it would cost to send them to a swanky dog camp with hanging plants, homemade curtains, and piped-in classical music twenty-four hours a day. Id go to any lengths to avoid getting on her bad side. Besides, there was no denying that Clara was getting less lap time than her preferred eighteen hours a day.

Just let her do her thing, Blanche advised.

Since it is impossible to control Clara, this was easy advice to take.

My little dog caused a sensation at the Adventure Store, where I reluctantly went to be fitted for warm boots, perhaps the only pair of expensive shoes that I have no desire to own. Cedar incense wafted through the air, a sound system played a grating environmental soundtrack of chirping birds and mating whales, the floor was carpeted in Astroturf punctuated by papier-mch redwood stumps and rocks. It evoked unhappy memories of damp sleeping bags and mosquito-filled Camp Kinni Kinnic camping trips, and I felt a panic attack coming on. The highly urbanized Clara, whose idea of communing with Mother Nature is to frolic around the orange and lemon trees and drought-resistant bushes in my in-laws meticulously landscaped backyard in Santa Barbara, trotted past a display rack containing doggy backpacks with the slogan: SO YOUR DOG CAN CARRY HIS OWN LOAD . (As if!)

Can I pet your pug? asked a lanky youth with marmalade dreadlocks, dressed in khaki Patagonia shorts and a white camp shirt embroidered with the title BOOT COUNSELOR . (I think its against the law in Los Angeles to be a regular salesperson.)

Before I could respond, he dropped to the ground and went eyeball to eyeball with Clara. She ran through her entire menu of attention-getting behaviors. Cock gnome head. Wag doughnut tail. Fold ears forward to sugar-wont-melt-in-my-mouth position. Flash crooked front tooth. By the time she came to the finaleFlop on back so Human can scratch gently rounded belly!Clara was surrounded by the Sock Analyst and the Down-Vest Consultant, each ripping open a package of beef jerky. This is a substance that I would only eat after five weeks on a lifeboat just before turning cannibal, but Clara was most appreciative.

Excuse me, I said, I need lightweight boots that can withstand minus-twenty-degree cold.

The Boot Counselor sighed and took his eyes off Clara. Are you going on a trek? he asked hopefully. I was worried. Did I look like one of those adventurous idiots who scaled Everest for fun?

God forbid. I shuddered. How to explain my mission without Clara learning the truth: We were flying across the world to adopt a six-month-old human baby. Its sort of a business trip, I said evasively and ran through my boot requirements. Cute. Lightweight. Waterproof. Preferably black.