He Ain't Ugly; He's My Dog

I had a drink with neighbors this weekend as they barbecued for company. They were still laughing about my complaint to them Friday when I came home to find about six screaming girls trampling my lawn, the chaos confusing not just me but an awful looking little dog who had come with them. I had walked next door and asked this simple question:

"Why are there two hundred girls on my lawn and one ugly-ass dog tied to my porch?"

It didn't take long to sort matters out, the girls having come to retrieve my daughter early for a slumber party she was attending a block away. I still don't understand, however, the puggle with the underbite.

We're spoiled enough here to have a gloriously beautiful dog, the kind of dog, my husband says, was a supermodel in her former life. And she is, appearance aside, an excellent dog. Of course, I have always claimed to love an ugly dog because I used to have a sharpei who looked through his wrinkles in perpetual concern for me. But there is unconventional beauty, and then there is ugly.

The puggle is not my preferred breed of ugly-cute, but she is an affectionate dog, and someone loves her. I recently came across a wonderful article in Oprah about a woman who falls in love with an ugly dog; the picture of it was fairly off-putting. I have seen the ugliest of dogs at barns for some reason (guess you wouldn't want the beasts in your house either), but I think the ugly-beats-all award should go to this particular Chinese Crested named Sam:




Just looking at the dog makes me need therapy.