We attended the Sarasota Pug Parade today. If you’re laughing right now, that’s OK. It’s something us pug owners are accustomed to. We’re loons. We dress our pugs in costume and force them down a catwalk. The event is such a draw I’ve met pug owners from as faraway as INDIANA. The parade, which began 13 years ago in downtown Sarasota, grew so rapidly it relocated further east to a park in Lakewood Ranch (home of Dick Vitale) and is such a big deal it’s sponsored by Sarasota Magazine, a very glossy, very posh publication.
Anyway. I was totally in my element this morning, snatching poor, defenseless pugs from their kooky owners. Lately, I’ve been coveting a little black one, so as soon as I spotted this Tootsie Roll I asked its owner if I could hold her. He handed the pup over without hesitation and told me her name was Tasha. Joe snapped a photo and I started planning my escape, which is why in the background of this photo you can see the pug’s female owner approaching quickly. She knew I couldn’t be trusted.
Also, I find it amazing that I can remember dog names, but never people names.
Tinker Bell kept pulling the sword off Peter Pan and the adult responsible for these outfits kept saying, “OH NO, HONEY. NOT THE SWORD. NOT THE SWORD!”
You see a lot of pink frilly tutus and feather boas at things like this. You would think a Chihuahua might be better suited for such attire, but most pugs, despite their no-nonsense sensibilities, seem OK with it. They’re a witty breed and they love being ironic.
I don’t need to pay for pug kisses. I get them for free.
My sister PK came with us and went positively bananas over the puppies.
Bumble bee pugs are also par for the course. When I see a costume like this my first reaction is to squeal obnoxiously and fall to my knees, but then I think about the fact that I’m at a pug parade, where an esteemed panel of costume judges must weigh the contestants on a scale of ingenuity, and I think: this is the best you can do?
Are you sitting down? I hope so because this one is going to blow your mind. Joe and I were in the audience, observing the parade when all of a sudden we heard the runway announcer introduce a pug named Elvis.
I grabbed Joe by the arm and like a banshee I yelled, “That’s Cubbie’s father!”
I had no idea Elvis was going to be there. It’s been four years since I saw Elvis and Joe has only heard stories about him. (Stories that usually come up when people comment on Cubbie’s enormous testicles. He got ’em from Elvis.)
Elvis was dressed as Tiger Woods, complete with a Nike baseball cap and golf club. I told you pugs were damn witty. This guy even walked the catwalk with a golf bag filled with lingerie. What a slick pug.
Here’s a close-up of Elvis. He’s eight years old and a little gray in the muzzle, but still dapper as hell.
And here’s Joe, me, Cub and Aunt PK on a perfect Saturday afternoon.