Bucky Waffles

The Saga of the Pug

Bucky Waffles, age 6 months, pictured in his natural environment.

Brady was about ten when it began: the Great Pug Obsession. This wasn’t a passing desire or one of those kid phases that flare up and vanish. This was a full scale, deep in his soul calling; a daily conversation exhaustingly repeated over and over and over.

He watched pug videos on YouTube until the algorithm gave up and only suggested pug videos. He laughed at their snorts, their sideways head tilts, their underbites that made them look perpetually bewildered. From that moment forward, every wish list, every birthday, every Christmas, every typed message read: I just want a pug. There was nothing else on the list. Ever.

The problem was that we already had a dog. A perfect, loyal, slightly neurotic dog who worshiped Brady. We did not need another dog. But logic never stood a chance against Brady’s joy and perseverance.

By 2019, after years of relentless campaigning, the airtight fortress began to crack. The world was shut down, everything felt fragile, and maybe, just maybe, a pug would make it all a little lighter. I tried to buy one and got scammed. This was a low point my family will gleefully remind me of until the end of time.

Then came New Year’s Eve of 2020. A spontaneous road trip. An Amish farm. A litter of golden doodle puppies. We swore we were just looking, which is, of course, parent code for we will obviously leave with a puppy.

The mama dog, Shirley, wandered over and gently rested her head on Brady’s lap while he held a sleepy little blonde pup. It was one of those luminous life moments where you recognize the magic as it happens. We left that day with Shirley and Brady’s joint choice for our family.

He was adorable and mischievous. I wanted to name him Sunday and call him Sunny. While I was upstairs, my family conspired and named him George. Just George. We had already had a dog named George. I still don’t fully understand how this happened, but somehow everyone agreed, except me. I was overruled.

Brady chose Logan as his middle name, after Hugh Jackman’s Wolverine. Nobody liked it but Brady, which of course sealed the deal. And then his sisters decided that the Logan would be silent. Eventually, his name evolved into the delightfully ridiculous George Suzanne Logan. The Logan remains silent when pronounced properly. We call him Georgie Sue.

For a few glorious days, Brady was content. Until he realized the obvious: George was not a pug. And so, the campaign resumed. He decided his pug’s name would be Bucky Waffles, a perfect blend of Marvel and his favorite food. Brady watched more pug compilations with a somber stare. He typed messages that grew increasingly persuasive.

One day he wrote to Michael:

If I don’t get a pug soon, I will snap.

Michael replied, “Oh no! Don’t snap!”

Brady finished typing:

… YOU IN HALF.

This immediately became family lore: the time Brady threatened to snap his dad in half over the pug.

Michael stood firm against Brady’s campaign. We have two dogs. They are both yours. End of story. But Brady’s determination had gravity. His longing wasn’t obnoxious or spoiled, it was steady and sincere. He said he would never give up his campaign. He knew there was a pug out there that belonged to him.

In February 2023, we made the mistake of visiting one of those fancy pet stores where you can “just pet the puppies.” (A mistake we should have seen coming after the Amish doodle debacle.) And of course, they had a pug.

Her name was Wraith. Honestly, she was not very cute, she was dramatically overpriced, and very much not the boy pug of Brady’s dreams. She also didn’t look quite like the classic pugs Brady adored. Being a girl was a major complication, because Brady had already named his future pug Bucky Waffles, and that dream pug was, in his mind, decidedly male.

Brady was smitten anyway. I, of course, caved instantly. I cannot be trusted around puppies, if that is not abundantly clear. Close enough, I said! Someone hand me a checkbook!

We left the store united in our mission: convince Michael that Wraith belonged with us. We even started calling her Buckita. Unfortunately, Michael did not cave. She was not the one. We already had two dogs, one of whom was a certified lunatic doodle. Still, the campaign intensified. Brady typed longer, more emotional pleas. Logic, charm, and mild threats all made repeated appearances.

Eventually, impossibly, he won. Get him the pug, Michael said. I peeled out of the driveway and slapped a deposit down on a pregnant, sweet, perfect little pug named Lola.

She belonged to a family a few hours away, and had a litter of pug puppies on the way. Plump, snorting, wrinkled little Brady dream dogs. We visited right after Lola gave birth, when they were just a few weeks old. There were two boys to choose from. It was an impossible decision. Finally, he made his selection. And Bucky Waffles was spoken into existence.

The family had named the puppies after food, and Brady’s pick was called Pizza. The day he met him, Brady was wearing a pug sweatshirt and socks covered in pugs eating pizza. The puppy’s father’s name? Loki. The connections felt like destiny.

We had a family vacation in Florida that April, and Brady spent most of it daydreaming about the pug waiting for him when we got home. We picked him up on April 11, Brady’s original due date, exactly one week before his fifteenth birthday. It all felt like a cosmic wink.

That day, Brady finally got to formally name his dream come true. He called him James Buchanan Barnes Waffles the First, a nod to Captain America’s best friend, Bucky Barnes, because Brady was Captain America and this pug would be his Bucky, his best friend. And, of course, Waffles for his favorite food. We call him Bucky Waffles for short.

From the moment Bucky arrived, Brady’s joy was uncontainable. He laughed at the way Bucky’s eyes pointed in slightly different directions, the way his tongue manaically licked his face, the way he tilted his head as if pondering human foolishness. Having a pug is such a unique experience. It’s like living with a pet potato, or maybe a furry larva. They are like small, house trained capybaras or maybe a domesticated woodchuck. A fuzzy little pet baby walrus. Equal parts comedy, devotion, and snort. They are exceptionally lazy.

That first night, Bucky tucked in with Brady, snoring loudly. Brady fell asleep with a smile on his face. He told me more than once, no gift could ever compare. And he was right.

Bucky Waffles was his dream come true. Joy and comfort and chaos and devotion. So much snorting. So much gas. Everything he ever wanted in a pug. Brady got his dream. He was so thankful.

And I will be forever thankful that we said yes.

Even though I now have three dogs.

Our dogs, L-R: Pug, Not a Pug, also Not a Pug.