Named

My friend Joan loves to have themes for her litters. In the past we have had the "Umps" -- Lady Lorelei Lump, Baroness Bonnie Bump, Dr. Poohbah Gump, and Countess Connie Crump; Heffalump and Woozle, the Magicians-- Copperfield, Gandalf, Dumbledoor, Hocus Pocus, and Merlin, etc. etc.

This litter though, I picked up little Batman, fell in love with his wolfy head and batlike ears and dubbed him Batman. The biggest boy looked like his Mommy, Griffles, so I started calling him Gryffindoor. Joan's friend, Jane, dubbed the girl Margot and suddenly we had a litter without a theme. The other two boys got called a variety of things from Slugo -- for his constant movement, to Twinkletoes -- for his little white-tipped feet to No-Name, which is self-explanatory. The other day we decided the two remaining, unnamed boys needed names. Joan started to go through her dog book of names and came up with a few she liked, so while this litter has no theme, all the puppies have names and each will have a home.

So I'd like to introduce the puppies again by name.

Gryffindoor-We are pretty sure that Joan will be keeping this big boy to show.

Margot Katrinka-She is supposed to go to a pug-loving friend of ours in New Jersey.

Argo Kensington-One of these two boys will go to a gay couple that our friend in New Jersey knows, the other is supposed to go to a famiy in Massachusetts, who is a client of our veterinarian friend and fellow pug-owner.

Waltham's Little Trump

Sacred Practice

Every culture has its own sacred practices especially when it comes to death. Some of these rituals and practices may seem strange, scary or gruesome to outsiders, but to those within the group these are holy rituals, infused with purpose -- they help make sense of life and death, give it order and allow us a way to explain or at least deal with the inexplicable.

Such is the case with Pugdom. Some of the rituals I did not understand 14 years ago when I first arrived to buy my pug Vader and later returned to visit as a friend. If you had told me then that I would be participating in them now, I'm not sure what I would have thought. Perhaps I would have been repulsed or thought it strange. Today, I take part in these understanding that in doing so I am partaking in something holy.

I refer to the death rituals surrounding the pugs. My friend Joan lives on top of a mountain in rural Vermont. Often the pugs die at inconvenient times -- nights, holidays, weekends. So, their bodies must be cared for until they can be taken to the vet. This often means wrapping them in blankets or towels, then plastic Ziploc or garbage bags and placing them in the freezer until they can be buried or taken to the vet. Often times, the bodies are kept until the rest of us -- the friends who have played a role in the pugs' lives -- can arrive to see them. Thus, I got to see Batman's diminutive form this weekend.

I know it may sound peculiar to those who do not love dogs and those removed from rural life, but there is also the practical side to death and the freezer is a place to protect their bodies from decomposition and other animals until a hole can be dug or they can be cremated. And, there is something beautiful in the care Joan takes with these tiny corpses. She has special blue blankets -- "I love  blue," she says, specifically for the deceased. Batman, she had wrapped, in a washcloth-slice of such a blanket. He looked peaceful, untouched, his long black-fur still shiny. He had grown in the time between I last saw him and his death and it seems a cruel joke that he could have been growing and thriving even while his body was betraying him. Lying there in his baby-blue blanket, he was precious as was our love for him.

I will bring a picture of him to Joan -- the last picture taken while he was alive -- like I have been doing for all the dying pugs since I became a part of Pugdom and she will place in the house. This time she will include the name tag Norma created for him nearby. She plans to bury him alongside his sibling that died at childbirth, down the drive near her new house, which we call 3C.

The viewings and the photos help us cope, to honor the pugs that pass. We talk about their lives, which whether they were 14 years or 14 weeks old, all seem incredibly too short. We are bound by love and ritual and respect for powers greater than ourselves. These are profound moments and I no longer find anything unusual in wrapping the body up and placing it in the freezer until we each have seen, until there is a place to bring it. It is after all, this ritual that helps bring new life to the deceased pug -- carrying its spirit from this world and cementing it in our collective heart forever.

Dog Story

Batman's Last Photoshoot 8-23-12

I used to think the perfect dog story would be one where the dog did not die in the end. That would be a wonderful story, but it is not the story of dogs. Their lives are brief, way too brief for our liking. Even those that live to a ripe old age in dog years are here only for a fraction of ours. Little Batman did not live to a ripe old age. He died today, only five weeks old.

Anyone who has puppies knows that this is not uncommon. Some die during birth, others a few days or few weeks later. Some fail to thrive, others may be squished by their mothers or do not come out of their sacs fast enough. There are many things that lead to early deaths and one could easily harden their hearts to it, recognize that's just the way it is. If you deal with puppies often enough there has to be some acceptance of this. None of us did this with Batman.

I named him because from the get go he looked even more Bat-like than the other pug puppies, something about his head and the way his hair stood up in the middle almost in a Wolfman fashion. His tiny upright ears also gave him that Bat-like appearance. He was the smallest of the litter of six -- one of his siblings, a big girl died at birth, but he lived and was precocious -- the first to open his eyes, the first to walk. But, from the beginning he had trouble nursing, continually being pushed out of the way by his bigger brothers and sister.

His breeder, my friend Joan, helped him out by subsidizing his nursing with goat's milk fed from an eyedropper and by placing him back on his Mommy's breast. He seemed to grow, but not as rapidly as his siblings. Then a little over a week ago, when I was visiting Joan, I realized that Batman was having trouble breathing and that his Mommy and siblings were now ignoring him all together as if he were invisible. Not a good sign. Did his siblings reject him because they knew something was wrong? Maybe, because something was.

Joan separated from the pack and began caring for him round the clock. I gave her my puppy crate, lined with sheepskin and we created a warm bed for him there, taking him out occasionally to be with his mom and siblings who seemed to allow him to snuggle with them when they were tired enough. Still, his little body seemed to heave in and out in a funny fashion each time he took a breath and Joan brought him to the vet.

The prognosis did not look good. The vet did not see any congestion and said that while it could be an infection of some kind it was more likely that the little guy's breathing passages were not developing properly and that he was only getting about 20% of the air he was breathing. Joan feared she would have to make a decision to put him down, but wanted to give him a chance to see if he could develop and also, to make sure it was not an infection. Last night when I called her, he was snuggling with her on the sofa. He became excited when she brought his plate of food out and had one final big meal before he died. "You could tell how happy he was," Joan said, "he loved to eat, but he would tire quickly."

He didn't seem to visibly worsen, one moment he was alive, the next he wasn't. Joan went to pick him up and realized what had happened. She told me this morning when we spoke. This was not the first puppy that had died since I had known Joan, each time I call her I ask for an inventory to make sure everyone of her many pugs is alive and well, but Batman is one of the hard ones.

For such a little guy, with such a very short life, he won the love of many hearts. I had almost taken him home. Joan had decided to keep him or give him to our friend Norma, her pugsitter, who had already bought him a nametag. People loved to hear his story. His bigger, gorgeous siblings almost faded into the background when we spoke of him. So much charisma for such a small pug, so much love for such a brief life. One shouldn't grieve a puppy that shone so brightly. Life is precious, fragile and brief, it both breaks the heart and gives it shape. Batman was here and now he's gone, but he mattered, he lived and in five quick weeks, he charmed us all.

Under the Weather

Batman, the tiniest puppy in my friend Joan's litter, is under the weather tonight. His brothers and sisters, who are bigger than him have practically given up on nursing and are chasing all the adult pugs away to get their dinner at night. Poor Batman wants to nurse. His siblings walk right over him as if he isn't there. Joan is giving him TLC and feeding him goat's milk. He remains significantly smaller than his siblings. Joan says she is lighting a candle for him. I am saying prayers.

Peek-a-Boo Pugs

"Mama Joan" plays Peek-A-Boo with one of her five new puppies. They are growing fast. Visiting Pugdom, Joan's house, is always a treat and an unique experience. I love it there. It is as if time disappears and you are caught up in a different world where dogs rule.

Joan has anywhere between 14 and 18 pugs at any given time. Tonight, one of the puppies, Batman, was not feeling well. He is a bit congested and not nursing, so Joan and I fed him goat's milk from an eyedropper and Joan is keeping watch over him tonight.

Waffles did not seem phased by being back at Pugdom. She bounded up the stairs to greet her sister, mother and grandmother in the bedroom and checked on all the puppies, but when it came time to go home, she just as eagerly trotted down the stairs to jump in my car. "You will always have two homes," I told her.

Sadie, My Lady, My Love

The phone rang 20 minutes ago. It was my friend Jane leaving a message. Her pug "Sadie, My Lady, My Love" had died. "She is with her Lady from Connecticut," she said. Jane was referring to Sadie's previous and lifelong owner, who passed away earlier this year, resulting in Sadie's entrance into pug rescue where Jane recently adopted her.

Jane hadn't had Sadie long before receiving a diagnosis several weeks ago of a tumor in Sadie's head. The vet recommended she put her down right away, but Sadie was still eating and running around and Jane allowed her to live out her remaining days. Although she looked worse for the wear, Sadie remained fairly active up until this weekend where we all knew the end was near. Still, she didn't seem to labor and rested with the other pugs at our friend Joan's house where Jane was staying this weekend.

One of Joan's pugs, Soup, kept a deathwatch, snuggling up to Sadie and keeping her company throughout the night. Joan said she had never witnessed anything like it and wouldn't have believed anyone if they had told her the story, but I have heard other stories lately of animals doing similar things -- my friend Jon Katz's dog Red remained the constant companion to an ill sheep on their farm. I know people debate the emotional lives of animals, but it doesn't seem strange to me that living creatures sense and acknowledge death in this way, that some choose -- whether instinctively or consciously --  to provide warmth and comfort in light of an inevitable end. Life bends to death, to that which is most profound, and those living draw close together, to each other.

Jane and Joan returned home in time to spend Sadie's last moments with her. "God is good to me," Jane said, "I got those last moments with her and while it is always sad when a dog dies, this death was sweet."

Jane told me the other day that although she felt it a kindness to Sadie to give her extra time, some peaceful final days rather than putting her to sleep, she also felt it was a kindness to Sadie's "Lady," who loved her all her life.

"I would hope someone would do this for me someday," she said.

People also debate the spiritual fate of dogs -- do they go to Heaven, the Rainbow Bridge, or somplace else entirely? These are philosophical, ethical, theological questions that are challenging at best to answer. It is not so hard to see, however, that whether or not dogs have souls, they do our souls good. They make us look beyond ourselves, to address the spiritual. They keep us company on our journey, drawing close to provide warmth and comfort as we wend our way to an inevitable end. They become the stuff of religion, helping us ask the questions. In many ways they become the litmus test for what we believe.

Present

Waffles' breeder and former owner, "Mama Joan," came over today to be with Waffles when she got out of surgery. Waffles was so sedate that she would lift her head for a moment and then fall back to sleep. On a conscious level I am not sure she fully realized Joan was there, yet, on another I'm sure she did. I'm sure she discerned the familiar arms that held her, the scent of Joan and the pugs who came with her, the sounds of her former pack, TarBaby and Egg, at play about her. I can't be sure exactly what she registered, but I think that however she perceives it, this animal understood that she was safe and loved.

The Great Dognapping

So it happened: The Great Dognapping. At midnight last night, I smuggled Waffles out of Pugdom, my friend Joan's house in Warren, VT. As far as dognapping's go it was a great success. I managed to nab my pug and make it out alive. Of course, I must admit that Joan was privy to the whole escapade, in fact she even suggested it. She finally relented to letting Waffles be mine, but informed me that I would have to sneak her out of the house when she wasn't looking. So, I did, kind of. But Joan had given her a bath, cut her nails, and packed a bag of dog food and snacks for her. Still, I snuck off into the dark in a mad dash for my car, carrying Waffles and looking back over my shoulder in case Joan changed her mind.

She hasn't and Waffles is home with me now, snoring away on the sofa. She's smart! After only a half hour in my car she figured out how to slip out of her harness and her car seat. She hates crates and x-pens, so I'm not sure how to contain her and keep her safe when I'm not home and she certainly doesn't want to sleep in either. Only the bed for this little girl.

She and Alfie are getting along well. Today Alfie showed off her baby swimming pool to Waffles and took great delight in hiding bones from her. We had a busy day visiting Petco for supplies, my grandmother's for a swim and my brother's where they played with his boxer, Sophie. A busy day for a little pug!

Pug Puppies on the Move

My friend Joan and I drove to Battenkill Books in Cambridge, NY tonight to listen to writer Jon Katz talk about his new e-book The Story of Rose. Because Joan has a three-week-old litter of pug puppies that shouldn't be left alone, unwatched, for long periods of time, we left them with my mom with the assurance that they were too young to be much trouble.

"None of them are even moving," I assured her. And, yesterday they hadn't been.

Granted one or two had managed to make it over the lip of their box and onto the floor, but they didn't do much after that other than roll over on their backs and fall asleep. That was until tonight. By the time we returned home all five were crawling and sliding all over the place -- one had found its way to the water dish and Mom had to rescue the little guy before he drowned. She said she wasn't all that worried because not only had he learned to walk, but he seemed to know the dog paddle, too. Another was sipping water form the water bowl and a third was attempting to nibble on the dry food. The poor Momma was suddenly beside herself trying to keep them all in the pen.

Inspired by the multimedia approach of Jon's new book, I decided to try to get a video of the one I called Batman walking around, although the light wasn't that good. Still, you get a chance to see him as he tries to gain footing on the slippery wooden floor. Also, in the video he has an unfortunate accident. Another first, as you might be able to ascertain by the gleeful way I exclaim, "Joan, he's pooped!"

Warning: This video shows his Momma cleaning up after him.

Those of you familiar with puppies won't be disgusted by this, but it is a little hard to take when the Momma in turn tries to kiss you moments later. At least that wasn't captured on camera!

The Journey to Keene

I've been attending dog shows with my friend Joan almost since I first met her, and my favorite dog show each year is the one that takes place in Keene, NH. It is a one-day show, low key. it takes place in a wooded area. Even among the professional handlers I feel no pressure there -- like maybe I have a chance. I got the first points I ever earned on a dog at Keene, Joan's dog Lumpi. And, today my pug, Alfie, showed well there. The best she has done to date. The judge noticed her, gave her time and even considered putting us up for reserve. We didn't make that, but you could tell we were considered and that made me feel great.

I also love Keene for the journey. After the show, Joan, our other friend, Jane, and I usually take a scenic route home. We find an out-of-the way diner or restaurant that we've never tried before and order a big breakfast. We often go back through Chester, stop at the Vermont Country Store and at our friends' inn, The Williams River House. The innkeepers, Geoff and Mark, own two of Joan's dogs, Buzz and Dudley, a.k.a., The Big Mamoo. Mamoo was the name we gave him before he went to live with Mark and Geoff. For a while, I kept Mamoo before it was time for him to go to his new home and when that time came I didn't want him to leave. I asked Joan if I could have him and I asked Mark if he would mind considering adopting another of Joan's pugs, but it was too late the deal was done. So, I brought him to his new home in Chester and for a while we would pick him up  each year and show him until he became too old. I even took him to Pug Nationals in San Antonio, Texas.

So our trip to Keene is also a chance to reconnect with this wonderful dog. Today, we stopped and showed Geoff and Mark Joan's new puppies. It had been a while since Mamoo last saw me and I am not sure if he remembered me this time. He was Dudley now and seemed happy nosing around the lawn with his buddy Buzz. When I went to the door, the two stared at me through the screen. They had both grown so big. We realized Mamoo was 10 years old.

When I had to give him up I thought maybe something good would come of it. In the checks and balances of the universe, I would surely be compensated for his loss. I'm not sure that happened exactly, but we've moved on. I'm getting a new dog soon.

We didn't stay long before getting back on the road. We always take the scenic route, going past Echo Lake in Ludlow, on through Bridgewater Corners, Woodstock, Silver Lake in Barnard. Joan and Jane will often stop at my house and rest for a bit. Today, we filled a baby pool for the dogs and sat inside with the fans on us until the power went out. We ate subs ordered at the local convenience store and played with my six-month-old niece, who giggled at the puppies. We talked about Alfie's big day.

Next year we will go to Keene again. I love the trip -- all the ins and outs and scenic byways. I love the promise and the potential; the possibility that something big may happen, the revelation that nothing has to. As in life, the journey is enough.