Aria's Song

When I left the newborn puppies at Joan’s house the other night, they were noisily squealing, earning the first-born pup, the nickname Aria. The second, another girl with a cockscomb hairdo, we mistook for a boy and took to referring to as “he.” The third was born two hours later, seemingly big and strong and healthy. By the 9:30 a.m. feeding, she was gone. Aria lived long enough to earn a name and steal our hearts. She had passed away later the next day. The second puppy lives still and seems to be going strong. Her Mama still doesn’t want anything to do with her, but Joan is making sure the pup is fed. We are trying to supplement her with a goat’s milk product I picked up at the Blogpaw’s Conference in May. I planned to review it on my blog. Instead, it feeds a tiny life. Several times a day, Joan holds down the mama long enough for the pup to suckle.

We are left to ponder why. Why did these two pups come into being only long enough to receive a nod and a smile before  dying? What is life and what makes it so fleeting? The questions are the same whether one is an hour old or ninety – life always seems so short, death so familiar and yet, so foreign; something we recognize, but never truly expect. As Joan and I worked to bring the puppies into existence, then to keep them alive, her daughter and son-in-law stood vigil at his mother’s bedside. She died in this span of time and they made plans to return her body to her home in Puerto Rico. They make funeral arrangements even now. “There are so many flowers,” Joan’s daughter says.

To hold a puppy in your hand, no bigger than a bird, is like grasping a living heartbeat. You feel every fragile pulse and yet, in that teeny body with such very big lungs, I also felt a universal strength. She was alive and moving, full of energy, full of life. She made her presence known. In the hours after she was born, her bigger sister cuddled with her. Resting her head against her back, not unlike the way my Alfie sleeps with Waffles. They were small, but instinctualy they knew how to keep warm; they understood the rhythms of life.

Once another of Joan’s pugs had a large litter of puppies. One died each day until they were all gone. I can remember holding one, no bigger than my finger, naming the coal black creatures after the blackest of things – Blackberry, Black Bear, Blackbird and singing away the minutes, “Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take your broken wings and learn to fly, all your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.” Singing, until her own time came…We tried a sip of vodka in a last ditch effort to jumpstart the tiny heart, it did no good and the last little puppy, wrapped in a stark, white napkin, died. There were others that did not live long. I remember one we called Winnie from another litter and then of course, last year, our little Batman, seven-weeks-old, growing strong, then suddenly inexplicably gone.

It’s so easy to see the heartbreak, to be crushed by death’s uncompromising greed, but during my time at Pugdom, Joan’s house, where the birth and death of dogs is a regular occurrence, I have become intimate with the cycle of things. My heart has been tugged at, broken and mended with the waxing and waning of each small life. Once touched by these heartbeats I become part of their pulse. I weep at their passing, but I see the flowers. There are so many and though they shrivel and wilt, they bloom glorious for a time. Life is something to relish, however brief. It demands celebration and notice. No matter how fleeting it is incredibly strong; unapologetically real, unforgettable! It leaves a lasting song.

“…you were only waiting for this moment to arise…”

Newborn Puppy Videos

Releve's first puppy was born after 8:00 p.m. yesterday. Her second puppy shortly after 10 and her third, a big girl, arrived at 5:30 p.m. about an hour-and-a-half after I left Joan's. It was a long labor. I have been at Joan's when puppies came so quickly it was difficult to clear them from their sacs before the next arrived. This was all about waiting. Releve was stoic, getting up out of her box in Joan's kitchen to pace, but otherwise remaining almost silent -- no panting or moaning for her. The first puppy had bulging eyes and was so teeny and cold. Releve wouldn't feed it and we worried that perhaps she was rejecting it because she thought it was too weak and wouldn't live. The second puppy was a bit larger and perhaps stronger, although it took a lot of work on Joan's part to get it to breathe. I didn't want to leave Joan, but she convinced me it made little sense for both of us to lose sleep. After I left, the third baby, a big girl, arrived.  Before leaving I held Releve while Joan coaxed the two puppies to eat.

New Life

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It's 4:00 a.m. and I left Joan's house in Warren and two new little pug puppies in my wake an hour ago. It is a long night as the Mama still has more to birth. The two little ones are very tiny and Mama has not been up to feeding them, so Joan and I had to help out. First, giving sugar water and then holding Releve, the mother, still and forcing the pups to suckle. If another puppy doesn't materialize by early morning, Joan will meet the vet who has already been called. I have dubbed the first born girl Aria already because in spite of her small size, she has been singing her lungs off all night.

Resurrection

Saying goodbye to a beloved pet is never easy, but in the case of my friend Joan’s pug, Egg, it may be next to impossible. Egg is 13 years old. He has lost the use of his legs and each day seems to grow weaker. We have been preparing for his death, beginning some of the rituals that make it easier for us to deal with his passing. This weekend we wrapped him in the afghan Joan’s dog sitter, Norma, made for him and took him out to sit among the daisies. We photographed him there. Before she returned home, Norma held and rocked him and as I left for the evening, she whispered to me, “This one’s going to be a hard one for Joan. Be there for her.”

She’s right. Joan has a house full of pugs and loves them all, but Egg has been her car dog, her traveling companion, her special pet, the one that made his way through the pack to stand at the head of the crowd. In his youth, he was an athlete, jumping fences, chasing the girl dogs until Joan was forced to neuter him, but over the last few years, age got the better of him and his legs began to give way. He weakened quickly, too quickly for Joan to buy a doggie cart, and she had little success trying my pug, Vader’s. As his legs ceased to hold him up and his head began to tilt at a peculiar angle, we saw the beginning of the end.

The phone call came tonight while I was out running errands. Joan’s message was Egg had died. Fortunately, for me, I missed the message and when I called Joan tonight and questioned as usual, “How are you,” she answered, “You heard didn’t you?”

“Heard what?” I asked.

“About Egg,” she said. I knew instantly that he had passed. I began to offer my condolences, “I’m sorry, Joan,” I mustered, but was quickly interrupted. “But, Kim, wait,” she said. “He isn’t dead. I thought he was. He’d shut his eyes, wasn’t moving, made three big gasps. I’d heard that sound before, but it wasn’t the death rattle,” she murmured. “I started making preparations, getting a plastic bag to put him in, I turned around and his eyes were upon me – wide open. He’s sitting in my arms eating chicken now.”

I thought about Joan’s necessary ritual of wrapping the corpses of her deceased pets and placing them in the freezer until they could be delivered to the vet and I was happy she hadn’t gotten this far. To me there has always been something spiritual about Joan’s home and the dogs that live there, but Egg’s resurrection has taken things to a brand new level. For now, at least he has risen and as every human knows, each moment we spend with our pets is a miracle.

Good Hands

One of my personal photography projects for the last couple of years has been taking photographs of people with their pets. Their is an intimacy to the relationship that the lens frequently captures. Although this puppy does not belong to my friend Norma, I love the photo. Until recent years when her health and other circumstances caused her to move from her house into an apartment that doesn't allow pets, Norma has always owned a house full of dogs and a cat or two. She has been Joan's longtime housesitter, a sort of Mary Poppins the pugs. She bathes them, heats tea bags to soothe their eyes, sews cloth donuts to soften their pressure sores and a myriad of other things. This little puppy, like so many others she has cradled, is certainly in good hands.

Pretty Girls

Their names are Ivy, Lily and Rosey, but it could easily have been Truffles, Griffles and Waffles, the puppies look so much like their Momma and aunts, right down to the silvery brown ruff on the runt of the litter, Rosey. Waffles, too, has the same silvery cast as does her father Puddleglum. The three have pretty faces like their Momma, too.

Whoops, someone's expecting!

A couple of nights ago during my daily phone call to my friend Joan, my pug Waffles' breeder, she announced to me that her pug Releve's rapid weight gain might be due to something other than food. "I think Releve is pregnant," she said.

Joan wasn't planning for puppies, especially not this week when she has two of her children visiting -- one of whom is already convinced she has too many dogs. But, this is of little importance to Releve, who has swelled to mammoth proportion and looks like she might burst. Tonight, she had already claimed a corner under one of Joan's cabinets to have her puppies and was shredding newspaper in there and warding off the other dogs. She will not have them there. Joan has a nice clean whelping box ready for her away from the commotion of the rest of the pugs, but so far Releve keeps escaping her fashionable new digs in favor of her do-it-yourself condo. It will be interesting to see who wins out.

Releve, who happens to be mom to my pug Waffles, has another daughter Griffles who gave birth last July. Tonight we visited our friends the Damitzes, who are up visiting from Massachusetts, to see the offspring of Griffles' son Goofy and the Damitzes' other pug Truffles. They are now seven weeks old and beautiful. They have homes ready for two of the three. Joan already has a friend in mind for one of Releve's new litter and we are placing bets on how many she will have. Looking at her tonight, it is easy to guess high, but Releve was becoming pleasantly plump even before this. I've guessed four, but said I wouldn't be at all surprised if it was five. Seeing puppies born and grew has been among my favorite things at Pugdom, Joan's home.

Puppy Dog Tales

I received a Facebook message from my friend, Sue, the other day. She and her husband Charlie are "pug" friends, meaning I got to know them through a mutual connection to Joan. Ten years ago they came to Joan's looking for a pug puppy and I helped them pick out Connie Crump, a.k.a. Jerry. Since then the family connection has only grown as Jerry, along with the Damitz's other pug, Ben, sired Chunky Monkey (yes, they are named in honor of Ben & Jerry's icecream), who in turn sired Joan's pug Lumpi. Then, when the Damitz's wanted a little black female they came looking for Truffels, my own pug Waffles' sister and last year they took in one of Joan's black male puppies, Waltham's Little Trump, now renamed Goofy. Phew, that's one convoluted family tree and it's not finished yet, because Truffels and Goofy gave birth to these three sweet females a month ago. My friends are calling them Rosey, Lily and Ivy. Just like Waffles and her sisters Truffels and Griffles, there are two big fat girls in the litter and one tiny runt with silvery fawn trace hairs. That would be Rosey and she reminds me of Waffles in so many ways. My friends are hoping to find homes for all three girls, but I think all of us wish we could keep them all.

Glee

I pull up the driveway. The sunny yellow house seems to smile coyly, peeking from behind a canopy of trees. A small olive valise, held closed with a green bungee cord, sits in front of the steps, like a passenger waiting for a bus. It looks as happy as the house. I am its ride. I am here to pick up the suitcase and my friend Joan to indeed take them to a bus stop, where she will catch a ride to New York.

I walk passed the suitcase into the house where four fawn pugs make a pile in the wooden box by the stove. Our friend Norma is there to housesit. The cool, dark room offers reprieve from the sun, but it is no less happy inside than out. Gryffindoor, Joan’s youngest pug at almost a year, appears at the top of the stairs, whimpering because he knows I am here and he wants to see me, but he has not yet learned how to make it down the steps. I peer around the doorway and look up the darkened stairwell to see his black form silhouetted against the light from the Florida Room. Joan is uncharacteristically on time. She pops out of the bathroom, sporting her cheerful orange tank with peek-a-boo cutout above the chest and crisp white jeans with shades of orange cuffs.

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She breezes about the room as Norma chatters and I laugh, the mood festive. Sometimes Joan gets frazzled before a trip, but she is relaxed today. She grabs her overnight bag and heads for the door as I promise to call Norma when Joan boards the bus. We go outside and I stop to chase a butterfly to nab its picture. Standing on the slate wall, I grab a shot. Norma offers a hand to help me down. I skip passed the suitcase, grabbing the handle and pulling it behind me to the car. We make the drive to Burlington, to the UVM campus, where Joan will catch the Megabus, talking all the way. The day is bright both inside and out.

The bus stop sits amidst a garden of flowers and we no sooner take our place than we our joined by another passenger – a dark-skinned woman, named Betsy. She talks animatedly with Joan, flashing a large grin, one eyetooth missing. “I’m just Betsy,” she announces. “Not Elizabeth or Bettie or anything else.”

Other passengers approach and the woman moves to talk with them. I delight in watching Joan. As a concert pianist she has traveled the world many times over and yet she turns to me with childlike glee announcing that the bus is supposed to be a double-decker. “Should I try up top?” she asks with an eager smile. When it finally pulls up, I note that the blue bus with golden orange lettering matches Joan’s own ensemble, now topped with jean jacket. “Did you plan it that way?” I ask.

She smiles, practically prancing to the rear of the bus to load her suitcase. She reminds me of my five-year-old niece Tori, cheerful, childish energy wrapped in a charming shell. Their eyes twinkle the same way. Joan hops on the bus, choosing the lower level after all and I watch as she makes her way to the back. “I feel like I’m seeing my kid off,” I shout as she drifts out of sight. I catch a glimpse again as she sits down, pressing her face against the glass and making a funny face. I wave goodbye to my friend, a smile plastered to my face. I know why I like this lady so -- she retains her sense of wonder. I hope I remain that young. I hope every trip always seems brand new.

I stand in the shadow cast by her and the bus, realizing such glee is infectious. It draws me back to the sunny yellow house and its occupants again and again.

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Growing

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Metaphors seem lacking. I have heard people express pride in their gardens having tilled the soil and nurtured the plants from tiny seeds and sprouts. I have heard parents squeal in glee at children who have learned to count, say Mama or Dada or recite their ABCs. Puppies aren’t vegetables or kids, but I feel an almost inexpressible pride when I encounter one of the puppies we have raised from birth, carefully choosing new families to love and care for them.

This weekend I got to reconnect with two such puppies – one that we had sent on to a new home and one my friend Joan chose to keep. The two were brothers and both had grown into handsome boys. Trump, now known as Goofy, had always been a peculiar little boy. He was the loner in his litter, always off in a corner cocking his head and watching the world go by. He had a wrinkled, furrowed brow and a white splotch on his chest. His new owners, the Damitzes, said they took one look at the little puppy they had brought home sitting on the living room floor, his big ears flapping in strange directions and they knew his name was Goofy. He has grown into his ears and into himself. He strikes me as gentle, quizzical, but still a playful goof. He perfectly rounds out the Damitzes group of four and when they thank me for hand picking him for them, a part of me beams. In some small way, I was responsible for this little one’s fate and I did right by him and my friends.

My pride in Gryffindor is of a very different sort. Joan has been raising pugs since the sixties, but as any breeder knows even the best of them have a challenging time foreseeing how the puppies will look as adults and which ones are most show worthy. For many years Joan would consult with her friend Tom, bringing the puppies to his house and a allow him to feel them over, watch them play, and pass judgment on which to keep. After many years of knowing Joan and watching puppies born, I realized I’ve developed an eye for seeing into the future and now offer my own advice on which puppies might be best in the ring. With Gryffindor I think I got it right. He’s a big, beautiful boy with his daddy’s lovely face and a sweet, joyful temperament. He already seems to assume the show pug’s stance, “stacking” himself. He is larger than his brother, more cobby and square. He has a special twinkle that makes you smile just registering his exuberance. I’m glad he is close and I will have the opportunity to carefully watch him grow.

We are stewards of these puppies as a parent is of her children or a gardener of his garden. We till and toil and carve out a place for them. We hope it is enough. We bear witness to their growth. They provide testament to our good intentions. There is something spiritual that passes between us – the puppy and the ones who brought them into the world; there is a covenant. They will provide joy and companionship if we provide proper care and nurturing. It is not a duty to be taken lightly; there is something sacred in seeing it through. To me a life among pugs is not something frivolous or funny. It is a responsibility, a commitment to another living, albeit very different, kind of creature. In caring for them, it is me that grows.

Growing Up

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