Friday Night in Good Ole VT

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Living in rural Vermont you have to take your excitement where you can find it and tonight the excitement for many pet lovers in the central part of the state was the grand opening of the new Petco in Berlin. Tonight my friend Joan and I each drove 30 miles from our perspective homes to meet our friend, Jane, and her pug, Sadie, to check out the place and maybe get some grand opening deals. Joan was looking for dog food and formula for her litter of new puppies; Jane, a raised food stand to make life easier for her pug, Sadie, diagnosed with a tumor, and me, checking out the scene for any goodies for my potential new pug, Waffles, (should Joan ever see to let me adopt her.)

The store was hopping with both humans and dogs and we each found something to take home. It's funny what an excursion it became. We roamed each aisle, reading the labels on all the dog foods, discussing the layout, perusing the photographs of the professional pet photographer who was on hand. It felt akin to exploring a museum.

The most enjoyable part for me was witnessing Joan, Jane and Sadie's fun. Sadie rode in a shopping cart and genuinely seemed happy to be out and about. Jane only recently adopted her and was told she had lived with only one other owner her whole life. We often play the guessing game with the rescue dogs, wondering what their lives were like before they found their homes among us. Tonight we wondered if Sadie had shopped other Petcos with her former owner -- she seemed right at home. It is good to see her enjoying the time she has and in turn, this makes Jane beam.

When I first met Joan 14 years ago, I was struck by her relationship with her pugs. Her affection for them seemed almost childlike. Today, I also happened to take my pug, Alfie, to the vet. Two little toe-headed girls were there to pick up their own pug and when they saw Alfie, the youngest dropped to the ground squealing with glee. Joan still acts like that sometimes when she sees animals. At Petco tonight, the birds entranced her. She leaned as close to the glass as she could and murmured to them.

"Look," she too squealed, "that one has its head all the way back, look at him." She stopped at each animal display with the same delight. She cooed at a chinchilla nibbling on some twigs for so long that he darted back in his blue, ball-shaped house to hide. She exclaimed over the spooning ferrets. It reminded me of taking my four-year-old niece to the zoo or a circus.

Admittedly, there is a flip side to the Petco opening. Right down the street is a small independent pet store whose parking lot was empty this evening. I suggested stopping back and buying something as we went by, but we forgot. But that's another story of rural life, tonight's tale was a diversion -- a chance to forgo the boredom of yet again doing the same thing on another Friday night, a chance to ward off the sadness of Sadie's impending fate, a chance to revel in something that is really quite ordinary -- to make our own fun where we could find it, to spend time amidst friends in rural Vermont.

Baby Steps

When I finished college and my Master’s Degree I worked one day as a salesperson at a clothing store before looking around for newspapers at which to work. I started working as a proofreader and writer for a local business paper and soon turned it into a freelance career. I eventually began teaching memoir writing to others, encouraging them to tell their stories, to find their voices. Occasionally, I wrote personal essays for the local paper, but mostly I concentrated on journalistic pieces, saving my stories, my distinct point of view for Christmas letters.

Then I began to snap photos, create scrapbooks, take up my art again. Soon, I was showing and selling my photos and digital collage and I realized my stories were leaking out, not in words per se, but in images – the pugs and nieces and nephews I cherished were taking center stage in my work and their stories and my feelings about them manifested in spite of my verbal silence. So, I started this blog and a Facebook page to share my photos and occasionally wrote a sentence or two to describe them.

One day I received a call from a writer telling me about a writers’ workshop he was starting, so I applied and was accepted and soon I found myself blogging about the pugs in my life, my work and my photography. Suddenly, I had a voice, but it’s a bit of a challenge figuring out what it is I want to say. It’s like taking baby steps and teetering here and there. I find myself challenged to give context, to explain why this world of dogs and pugs in particular is important to me, to inform readers of why they should care. 

I know there is a story to tell about the home where I got my pug Vader, the place we call “Pugdom” and his breeder, Joan, a widow with a fascinating past living alone on the top of a mountain near Sugarbush ski area in a sprawling house with a heck of a lot of pugs. Her story is interesting, in part, because she was a concert pianist who toured the world only to return and settle in Vermont with a score of pugs. She even received her first pug from Clement Attlee, the former prime minister of England. Entering her home for the first time was like falling down the rabbit hole, but just like Alice, I found myself in a magical land, one complete with kings and queens and funny court jesters all clad in the disguise of flat-faced, curly-tailed pugs. To me her home became a microcosm of emotion – a place to witness birth and death, struggle and survival. It is not easy to be an older woman living alone in rural Vermont. It is even more challenging with a household of pugs. There is a scripture verse in the Bible that says, “..as you have done onto the least of these, my brothers you did unto me,” and I always feel that this applies to my friend Joan and her pugs and perhaps just as importantly to me. I go there often to help her, to help care for her pugs and learn from her care of them. Sometimes, I feel as if I am the lucky one, that I came looking and searching for something – friendship, meaning, purpose, a place to belong, creatures to care for and nurture, and sometimes I feel as a result, it was I, not them, who was “one of the least of these” and I am the one this magical place propped up and embraced.

So this is both my backstory and the beginning of my tale, the context for what I am starting to try to share. Why should anyone care? I believe one of the best things about our relationship with animals is that they teach us empathy. We may over emotionalize or anthropomorphize them and there may be harm in that, but I think there is also hope – we may fall short of getting it right, but we are trying to reach beyond ourselves to connect with something foreign. Pugdom is a unique and foreign place, a home with more pugs than people and the challenges that come with that. It is also a place where I have learned compassion, empathy and not to judge. There is joy and freedom to be found in defying convention and choosing one’s own path. And, I think we should care because that’s what we all want  -- to not be judged for who we are, to have our own voice, to write our own stories.

Jane and Sadie

My friend Jane adopted a pug, Sadie, a few months ago that was turned over to a rescue after her lifelong owner died. Last week, Jane brought Sadie to the vet because her eye was swollen. Sadly, the vet diagnosed Sadie with a tumor in her head. This week her face looks misshapen. The vet suggested putting her down right away, but Jane brought her home. Sadie has not shown any pain, she has been bounding up and down the stairs and across the lawn and eating with gusto. She responds to her name and begs to be lifted up on the couch.

Jane worries, however, about what might happen next. Will she know if Sadie is in pain, when will the time come to put her to sleep? Surprisingly, it is not an easy decision and one that we do not often have with humans. Animals cannot express their wishes in this matter. If they were in the wild, left to their own devices, they would not have the choice.  When my 14-year-old pug, Vader, lost the use of his legs and began to soil himself and get severe bedsores, I had to decide if it was his time to go. If he were not a pet, this option would not be a question. He would not be able to hunt for himself. Yet, he was a pet and so is Sadie and it is not nature or fate that gets to decide their outcomes, but us as their owners.

Vets and friends often have more objectivity, urging us to ease our pets' suffering. Some suggest that prolonging their lives is for our benefit not theirs. Maybe, maybe that is true. So many humans believe that if they were in the same situation they would rather die than suffer or live in a helpless or painful state. My mother always says she would not want me to keep her alive if this were the case. My 91-year-old grandmother says she would like to hold onto life no matter what. It seems an individual choice and not one we can impose on another or another's pets.

Even in his last week of life, Vader feasted wholeheartedly on McDonald's fish fillets. He basked out in the sun. He watched my nieces and nephews with apparent interest as they played around him. When I propped his head up in a dog stroller, he stared out over the edge at his familiar haunts. Was he sad, melancholy, content? I may not know for sure, but on his last day, I sat with him under a tree looking up to the heavens. I could feel his body move gently up and down with every breath as he snuggled next to me. We gazed up at the leafy green canopy above us and at the dappled light peeking through the branches and warming our faces. We shared a lifetime in this moment. I may never know if it meant as much to Vader as it did to me, but I heard his soft pug snorts, felt the nuzzle of his nose in my armpit. He seemed content and I felt loved. All I can say is I hope Jane and Sadie get to share such a moment.

Day at Joan's

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Just returned from a long, happy day at my friend Joan's and I am very tired. Thought I ought to update those of you who follow the blog on two things. First, Charlie the Gnome, named after Joan's late husband, is now fully painted. I'm thrilled with how he came out. I had some trouble mixing the correct color for his boots. I thought we had purchased brown paint, but we hadn't, so I mixed a purplish brown color and added a red wash over the top. Also, I think his yellow leggings are kind of snazzy.

Joan's husband Charlie loved gnomes, so this fellow is really a tribute to him. It was actually Charlie's gnome. Joan wants to move him down the driveway to her new home, but when we tried to pick him up earlier this summer, we broke his right hand off. We purchased some epoxy and glued it and it seems to be holding, but we may put his red, duct tape "cast" back on after his sleeve dries.

Painting Charlie is symbolic of a lot of things -- he is a link to Joan's past, the days spent in her old house with Charlie, but painting him is a celebration of the future, the days ahead in her new house with her pugs. Somehow, once I entered the doors of "Pugdom," her home in Warren, Vt, years ago, I became part of her story. It served me well, I was looking for something -- friendship, community, a place to escape and belong, something for my heart to latch on to -- and I found it. So, now I paint gnomes and name puppies, while her other friend, Jane, cleans the garage, moving years worth of stuff down the road to "3C," the new house.

In addition to painting Charlie, I got to spend some time with the new puppies today. Five in all, three big black boys, one black girl, and one little black boy -- the one I call Batman. He is about half the size of the others, but he seems to be thriving, he's just tinier than his siblings. I think this is a picture of him, although it's hard for me to tell. Everytime I picked him up, Waffles, his aunt would get all upset. She was more worried than Griffles, his mom. They all seem healthy and strong. I look forward to seeing them open their eyes.

Crazy Love

Alfie visiting Joan

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Last week one of my students wrote an essay about her pet cat that became ill and how she went to great lengths to save it after it helped her survive the tumult of her divorce. “I don’t usually share this for fear of being labeled pathetic, another crazy cat lady,” she said.

I have joked on this blog about my own fears of being a crazy pug lady. My cat-loving student, who comes from a dysfunctional background, noted that abused people are often drawn to animals and some experts on the human-animal bond suggest people turn to pets when we can’t find emotional fulfillment elsewhere. I know that when I entered Joan’s house years ago in search of my first-real dog, my “independence pug,” I was in search of community and I found it.

I wonder, however, where the “crazy” label comes from. Do we as a society think the search for connection is an insane pursuit, that somehow a person is not quite right because they turn to cats and dogs instead of people even when people fail them?

It seems a hypocritical notion. Everyone turns to something – food, alcohol, God, sex. We are born to connect. Even the Bible says, “It is not good for man to be alone.” So, we seek out what we can. Perhaps that is something we share with dogs – the need to be part of a pack, perhaps that is what drew them out of the wild and into our caves and led us to embrace them.

Does the idea of crazy enter when one is deemed to go too far, when the bond with animals replaces that with people all together or when the sheer number of animals becomes too many? Is it crazy to go to pug socials and hold kissing contests? Is it crazy to own 18 dogs? What is the line and who determines it? Do we know it when we see it or are we scared we won’t, so we label the whole kit-and-caboodle insane?

I’m not sure I have an answer, but I have an opinion. I think we are lucky to have a cat to help us through a divorce or a dog to keep us from being lonely. I think, given the alternative, we would be crazy not to love such creatures.

Pug Pups

When I went to Joan Foster's house 14 years ago to buy my pug Vader a whole new world opened up to me. While I had already fallen in love with the breed after adopting my brother's pug Buffy I had had little exposure beyond her. When I entered Joan's house, I entered "Pugdom," a kingdom ruled by these foreign, curly-tailed creatures. They were everywhere. I relished learning their names and how to tell them apart. I loved hearing their stories and pedigrees and most of all I loved seeing them born.

Joan calls the little ones "peeps" and last night Griffles, the sister to Waffles (the pug I plan to adopt) had a litter of six. One of them died and we are left with five -- four boys and one female. The little runt (pictured above) reminds me of a tiny bat, so I've been calling him Batman. Naming the litters is an important job at Pugdom. Each litter has a name:  the Umps, for example-Lady Lorelei Lump, Countess Connie Crump, Baroness Bonnie Bump and Dr. Poohbah Gump. In the last litter born two years ago we had Waffles, Truffles and Griffles. This litter does not have a name yet, but it is already becoming part of Pugdom. We have called our friends, others who own Pugdom Pugs, and sent out word, heralding their birth. Now we watch them grow. In the days ahead, they will open their eyes, learn to walk. They grow quickly and we will pick out new homes, but we name them first before sending them on their way because once you enter Pugdom, soon you belong.

Good Day at the Show

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We had a great day at the dog show. My friend Joan showed her pug Lumpi in Veterans and I showed Alfie in American Bred. Alfie received a blue ribbon in her class. It was hot and Alfie seemed very nervous, balking on standing on the stacking table. The judge was patient and Alfie rallied right around, which made me very proud of her. It was a big improvement from last year and another one of the handlers commented on it. An even greater compliment, however, was when a spectator asked me about the breed, saying she was interested in a pug. She chose to ask me because she remembered me and Alfie from the year before. She said she noticed how attentive Alfie seemed to me and how well adjusted and happy. This was awesome because here we were with all these show pugs so highly attuned to their handlers and yet this woman remembered Alfie and me because she seemed happy. I love that we gave off that impression and I think Alfie was happy. She seemed interested in the other dogs and in getting out and doing something with me. I tried to have her photo taken by the professional photographer at the show, but it was difficult. Instead of looking straight ahead to the camera, she kept trying to turn to look behind her at me.

I think we'll be doing another show in August.

Filling the Empty Spaces

I've been thinking a lot about Nancy's letter to Joan, the one she sent along with her pug, Sweet Pea. Every time I read it yesterday it would make me cry -- something about her apology and her hope. Her sorrow at allowing Sweet Pea to get kicked by the horse, her hope that Joan is happy to see her again. There is something in those words that speak of stewardship, a bond between the women, each entrusted for a time with the care of this sweet animal. Sweet Pea looked for Nancy as she drove away and was asleep in Joan's bed before the end of the night. My friend, Jon Katz, does not think animals grieve and at the very least, that we cannot know what goes on in their heads. People grieve though and they falter and they try to do their best. Nancy bought Sweet Pea an antique collar and a monkey crate when she was in her care, she let her break her wine goblets, she let her sleep beside her. She made a decision to give her up when she felt her own travels caused her dog distress. She hoped that Joan would welcome this little girl back with as much love as she was given, perhaps more because it is easy to love a puppy, perhaps not as easy to love an old girl with a broken jaw. I feel Nancy's heart in those words -- in the white spaces where nothing is said -- her emptiness, her guilt, her need to do the right thing -- I sense her love for a little animal whom she chose to dub with the same endearments that were bestowed upon her. We do what we know how. We hope that it is right. We let love fill the empty spaces.

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Narnia/Sweet Pea/Little Pig - A Brief Life's Journey

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Yesterday, I drove with my friends Joan and Norma to pick up a pug that Joan had sold years earlier to a woman who could no longer take care of her. This woman's father is infirm and she is spending the majority of her time flying back and forth to Florida to care for him, while her pug, Sweet Pea, remains kenneled. Finding this unfair to Sweet Pea, she asked Joan if she would mind taking her back.

Sweet Pea began her life at "Pugdom," the affectionate name we have for Joan's house back in 2003. I know because I searched my scrapbooks and Christmas letters last night to discover the exact date. She was born in February 2003 on my lap in Joan's livingroom as the Grammy awards played in the background. We dubbed that litter "The Forest Creatures" (each litter gets a name) and called the sole black female, Narnia. A friend, who was losing her old black male, Bison, also one of Joan's pugs wanted another, so Narnia was supposed to go with her. While she grew and we waited for this friend to claim her, Narnia traveled back between Joan's house and Norma's, a loving well-adjusted, sweet-spirited pug. Finally, at a year-old, she went to her new home where unfortunately she did not hit it off with our friend's other pug, Beaudette. Beaudette hated Narnia and no matter what this friend tried she could not get the two to get along. Then stepped in Nancy who said she'd gladly take in Narnia.

We met her at an art exhibit in Bellows Falls. She had purchased Narnia, who she readily renamed Sweet Pea, an antique collar and her own antique "monkey crate" in which to sleep. The crate was a deluxe condo and Narnia/Sweet Pea took quickly to her new home. She demanded to be treated like a diva, sipping wine from Nancy's goblets that sat near her chair in the parlor and breaking several in the attempt, before Nancy realized that if she didn't want an alchoholic pug, she had better move the glasses.

Years later in an attempt to visit, we arrived at Nancy's home and not finding her there, we let ourselves in (okay, we broke in, kinda') and spent sometime with Narnia and her monkey crate, leaving Nancy a note so she wouldn't be concerned about burglars. Never did find out what she thought about these crazy pug people who had no aversion to trespassing.

Sweet Pea had many other adventures. Some not so good. It seems awhile back, being too curious, she had an encounter with a horse that did not go well. Getting too close to the beast, it kicked her in the jaw, breaking it. And, while it did not properly heal back together, the muscles hold it in place. Leaving her with a tongue that hangs out the side of her mouth and some difficulty in withholding slobber when she chews. It did not dull her sweet temperament.

Sweet Pea lived with Nancy until yesterday when we picked her up, complete with antique collar in Woodstock, VT. A mutual friend had contacted me when they heard Vader was dying to see if I might take Sweet Pea in, but after losing my pug Buffy, followed by 1.5 year-old Mira, and then Vader all in a span of a few years, I was hoping to get a younger pug whose chances at a longer life might be better. After meeting Sweet Pea again, I am not sure this was the best decision. Joan, however, willingly stepped in to reclaim one of her own.

Nancy was heartbroken to let Sweet Pea go and she came with a long letter of all her little quirks and idosyncracies which included the fact that Sweet Pea barks when onions or potatoes are boiling on the stove because she doesn't know where the sound is coming from. Nancy apologized for letting her get kicked by the horse, "It was my fault, I didn't know it was there," she wrote. And, "I hope you are glad to see her again." Reading the letter made me sob, so much was said, so much didn't need to be.

"What do you call her?" we asked before we drove off. "Do you ever call her Narnia anymore?" "No," said Nancy. "Sweet Pea, or Little Pig, that's what my grandmother would call me."

As our van sped out of the parking lot, Sweet Pea, whom I am now affectionately calling "Little Pig," looked out the window for Nancy before settling in Norma's lap. Nancy had tucked her dog bed (she long ago gave up the monkey crate) in the seat beside him hoping that Sweet Pea would find it comforting, but Tar Baby, one of Joan's pugs who was with us, greedily requistioned it and was soundly snoring even before we were on our way. We stopped at an icecream stand where  Little Pig did her name proud by finishing off a doggie sundae, slobber pouring from the side of her mouth. We stopped at my house where she played with my pug Alfie before returning home to Pugdom where her life began. By midnight, she slept soundly in Joan's bed.

The Things We Take for Granted...Like Pug Kissin'

Last week before the art show, I met with Jon Katz and Maria Wulf for lunch to deliver my photographs. We got to talking and I mentioned an article I was writing about the upcoming Green Mountain Pug Rescue Pug Social.

"What's a Pug Social?" Jon asked, and I proceeding to tell him how it's a fundraiser for the rescue where 300 people and their pugs gather for a day of fun-filled activities.

"Such as?" he asked.

"You know, the usual...pug races, the kissing contest, and of course, the costume contest."

"Of course," he drawled, rolling his eyes at Maria.

Oh, no, I thought, these people think I'm crazy.

"My pug won the kissing contest," I bragged, hoping this honor might impress them.

"Tell me more," Jon said, clearly humoring me.

"Well, you know, we gather in a field and your pug starts kissing you, and the first one to stop gets kicked out until there's only one standing.

By this time both Maria and Jon were in stitches and I couldn't help but laugh myself. I was too far into the story to stop.

"Only, sometimes you get accused of cheating. My pug, Mira, was so orally fixated I got accused of cheating. She wouldn't stop even after everyone else left the ring and the judges called her the winner."

"Cheating?" Jon asked incredulous.

"Yeah, you know, they check to see if you have liver or hotdog in your mouth to make your pug keep kissing you."

"I see," he nodded.

I sighed, this obviously wasn't going where I expected. But, what did I expect? Somewhere things had taken a turn in what I viewed as a relatively straightforward conversation. It seems that while I am accostomed to people who spend months in advance preparing family costumes for the next big pug social, this is not something everyone experiences. It seems there are some things I've been taking for granted, like pug kissin'. Wait 'til I tell him about my pugs' graduation ceremony. Obviously, some people don't know what they're missing...yes, like pug kissin'.

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