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chapter one
Pug Night
It was a decision we would later look back on with regret.There were pugs running loose in the Metropolitan Museumo Art. Imagine a vast army o pugs attempting to summitthe grand central staircase o the Met. Only, the pugs werenot on the stairs. They were contained—i the word “con-tained” can even be used in the same sentence as “pugs”—in the Temple o Dendur Hall, a great expanse o rose-huedmarble running the length o one side o the museum. True,this act was only a small solace. But I’ve long been a be-liever in taking solace where you can get it.At the center o the Temple o Dendur Hall, the name-
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alison pace
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sake temple has been reconstructed and elevated so that peo-ple, and now pugs, can walk around it and within it. In ronto the temple, there is a refecting pool. An entire wall o the room is made o slanting windows that look out intoCentral Park. That night, an early evening in late April, thesetting sun fooded in through the wall o windows andbathed the room, and the pugs that ran throughout it,in shades o orange, red, and purple. I remember that. I re-member the light. Some o the pugs pounced on the rayso light. Others strode dangerously close to the aoremen-tioned refecting pool.Classical music played in the background. A long buettable covered with a thick white cloth held a stunning ar-rangement o fowers, rows o champagne futes, and manyplates o canapés. There was tuna tartare on tiny, perectpotato chips; mini quiches; slices o let mignon on bite-sized pieces o resh baguette. Two tuxedoed men stood be-hind the table, their backs to the grassy knoll o CentralPark just outside the window, making sure that the cham-pagne glasses were all lled to the same height, that theirrows were perectly spaced, that their numbers on the tableremained exact. They were vigilant in making sure that noneo the hors d’oeuvre trays ran out or ever looked skimpy.They were good at this. Waiters were weaving graceullythroughout the room, relling champagne glasses, passing aselection o the hors d’oeuvres rom the table, and, mostlikely a rst or them, keeping an eye on close to ty pugs.
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a pug’s tale
The pugs were also vigilant. They ran wild through theroom. They ran up the stairs that led to the temple, into it,around it, and through it. They were zealous as they orgeda track, panting and gasping and struggling or air like somany marathoners. The foor was perect or sliding, andthe pugs slid. They returned, requently and without ail,to the long and inviting buet table, where they would sitwaiting, hinting at their anticipation in the way that onlya panting, bulging-eyed pug can. Their goal: a taste o thepassing snacks.The pugs were gathered that night to honor one o themuseum’s top donors, Daphne Markham, a amed NewYork philanthropist who had recently announced plans todonate a substantial sum to the museum. And I was there.And even better, my pug, Max, was there, too. Though Iusually think o my job at the Metropolitan Museum o Art as one tremendous perk, this particular perk o beingwith Max at a party at the Met
for pugs
was, or me, theultimate.Gil Turner, o the Development Oce o the museum,had planned this party in Daphne Markham’s honor due tothe act that the aorementioned anticipated donation was“ar beyond signicant.” His words, not mine. Gil Turner isa man who oten says things like “ar beyond signicant.”And he says those things in a tone o voice and with amethod o delivery that can best be described as haughty.This party, which had come to be called Pug Night, was
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