The porcelain figurine stands not quite 12 inches tall: a fine lady in a delicately painted, flowery hoop skirt, a pug cradled in her left arm and a second pug peeking out from under her hem. It's German, highly collectible and worth at least a couple thousand dollars at auction. It was also a kind of code, a quiet signal that the owner belonged to, or backed, a secret society founded to defy the Pope.
Beef with the stonemasons
The Catholic Church made its feud with Freemasonry official in 1738, when Pope Clement XII issued the first papal bull against it. The decree barred the faithful from joining the society, spreading its principles, defending it or sheltering it, on pain of excommunication. That punishment didn't send a Catholic straight to hell, but it banned him from sacraments like Holy Communion while still expecting him at Mass. It was usually saved for heresy, apostasy and assaulting the pope.
It was an odd target. Freemasonry began as a medieval guild for stonemasons, the elite, well-paid craftsmen who raised castles and cathedrals. Boys started as apprentices as young as 12. They lived in the master's house and earned no wages until they became journeymen, paid by the day. The top rank was master, which meant a business of your own. The guilds guarded trade secrets, tightened membership when work was scarce, and some grew powerful enough to look like a threat.
The church wasn't angry about vaulted arches, though, and the Masons weren't worshiping the devil. They believed in a supreme being and made morality a core tenet. The trouble was that they welcomed men of every faith, and the one holy apostolic church saw that as leading Catholics astray. Then there were the oaths, the symbols and the secret rituals. In 1884, Pope Leo XIII went further. He accused the Masons of plotting the church's destruction and attacked their naturalism, the idea that "human nature and human reason ought in all things to be mistress and guide." He sent bishops and inquisitors after Catholics suspected of membership. The prohibition still stands. A 1983 ruling, overseen by the cardinal who later became Pope Benedict XVI, declared that a Catholic Freemason lives in "a state of grave sin."
A cardinal's sassy rebuke
Banning something rarely makes people stop wanting it. After Clement's 1738 ban, Archbishop Clemens August of Bavaria, the elector of Cologne, had other plans. As an elector, he sat in the College of Cardinals and voted in the papal conclave, so his defiance was a very big deal. With help from a handful of dedicated Freemasons and two German princes, he founded a brand-new secret society that only Catholics could join. He called it the Order of the Pug.
Why a pug? The breed was having a moment. Pugs had arrived from China only 200 years earlier and started out as royal dogs, peeing on the rugs of the House of Stuart and the House of Orange. Painters like William Hogarth put them on canvas as symbols of class and privilege. One pug even worked as a spy. When Josephine de Beauharnais, later Napoleon's first wife, was locked up during the French Revolution, her children's governess brought along Josephine's pug, Fortune, on visits. Messages, including plans to get Josephine out, were written in tiny script and hidden in a new collar made for the job. Not everyone was charmed. The poet Antoine Arnault wrote that "Fortune was neither handsome, good natured or nice."
In German the pug is the Mops, a dog famous for steadfast devotion, loyalty and trust. That was exactly the image the archbishop wanted. His order welcomed commoners and nobles alike, and it did something that broke with both Catholic and Masonic tradition: it let women join and hold authority. What in the eternal flames of never ending hell was the archbishop up to? (For comparison, the Vatican didn't allow female altar servers until May 1994.) There was a limit. No woman could become Grand Master, a lifetime post. But every lodge had a male master and a female master, known as the Grand Pugs, and they traded leadership every six months.
After the Pope banned Freemasonry, one of the cardinals who elect popes struck back with a secret society where devout Catholics put on dog collars, crawled and barked like pugs, and let women lead.
On all fours at the door
Candidates had to be Catholic and show loyalty, trust, tenderness, sweetness, discretion and humanity. The initiation was quite a sight. Dressed in flowing white robes and slippers woven from grass, the candidate had a bronze dog collar fastened around the neck as a sign of obedience. Then, blindfolded and on all fours, the candidate scratched at the chamber door to be let in. Next came nine laps around a special carpet on hands and knees while the members barked and howled to test the newcomer's nerves.
After a history lesson and the order's catechism, which blended Catholic and Masonic teaching, came a blood oath: drops of the initiate's blood mixed into wine and swallowed. For no known reason, a toilet stood in the middle of the room. Then the initiate kissed the backside of a porcelain pug to show total devotion. Men swore their vow with a hand on a rapier, a long sword, and women with a hand on a mirror. When the blindfolds came off, the new members found themselves surrounded by fellow Pugs, each holding a sword or a mirror in one hand and a pug in the other.
Out in the world, members spotted each other by small silver pug medallions, secret phrases and hand signals. The order spread from Germany to France and the Netherlands. It was never very good at staying secret, though. The urge to rub the church's nose in it was too strong, and people gossiped about the mixed seating at meetings. Men and women sat boy, girl, boy, girl at the same table, and the era considered that sheer depravity.
Betrayed from within
In 1745, the Pugs learned that a man they'd welcomed in was an infiltrator. The result was a book, The Order of Freemasons Betrayed and the Secret of the Pugs Revealed, by a Catholic abbot named Gabriel-Louis Calabre Pérau, who was deeply offended by the order's defiance. It laid out every ritual. Barking by candlelight in a private lodge is one thing. Being openly laughed at is another. Criticism poured in, the church pounced, and within a decade at most the order fell apart. Rumor has it that a rogue band of Pugs in England held on until at least 1902, or maybe a French group in Lyon. No one knows for sure.
The thrill of the forbidden was what had drawn people in, and once the secret was out, not much was left. Catholic men finally got a fraternal order of their own on March 29, 1882, when a priest named Michael J. McGivney founded the Knights of Columbus. Today the Knights claim millions of members and give generously to charity, but sadly, not a pug in sight.
