What's in a Name?

Trump/Goofy with his new owner

What's in a name? Apparently a lot when it comes to dogs. Think about it. There's a world of difference between Fido and Brutus, Rover and Killer. A name defines a dog, as it does any other creature, and sets it on the path of how it will be perceived forever after.

When I first visited Pugdom to pick out Vader, I already had his name in mind. A sci fi fan, I thought Vader, was the perfect name for an all black dog who snorted and breathed deeply like Star Wars' Darth behind his black mask and cloak. Joan, however, had already named Vader Zag and his brother Zig and I unfortunately did not grasp the importance of that.

When it came time to take him home, she handed me the paperwork, which included his AKC registration that she had already filled out as "Waltham's Zag," (Waltham being her kennel name).

"You can call him what you want, but I already put Zag done here," she said. Not fully understanding when I went to send his papers in I completed the form by adding "Vader." Waltham's Zag Vader, however, did not sound right  and since I was already calling him "Little Man" by that that time, I decided to officially dub him "Waltham's Zag Vaderman." I may have been one of the few people to receive a dog from Pugdom who got away with changing their pug's name on the official paperwork, but I am not the only one to give her pug a new moniker.

Now that I have known Joan for 14 years and helped her name and find homes for many litters of new puppies, I realize how many people want to give their dogs their own names. I also realize how unsettling it can be on the other end to see the puppies we have so meticulously dubbed and cared for receive new titles.

Although we have tried to give various litters themed names in recent years, the naming of the pugs frequently occurs haphazardly. Take Batman for instance, I looked at this tiny creature with the small pointed ears a day after he was born and exclaimed, "Joan, he looks like a bat. He's a little Batman." And, the name just stuck.

His brother resembled their mother Griffles so much that I kept fiddling with names that had Griffles in it, arriving finally at Gryffindoor. Our friend Jane though Margot fit the elegant little girl and Joan combed through a name book another night, choosing Kensington and Trump. We fell in love with the name Waltham's Little Trump from the getgo. It just seemed to fit this strange and petite little fellow. It was short and sweet like him, but also had an air of aristocracy to it -- it was at once a cute and gentlemanly name. And, it endeared him to me even more.

When our friends from Massachusetts approached us about taking one of the puppies, they said they wanted one with lots of personality and Trump sprang readily to mind. Kensington is a sweetheart, just a lump of a pug who will cuddle with you endlessly, but Trump, he's a character, I noted. So, they called Joan and decided on Trump and we were happy. Our friends already owned two of Joan's other pugs and while they had changed Connie's name to Jerry to go along with Ben (as in both the icecream and the other pug they owned), they had kept the name of Truffles. I think we just assumed they'd keep the name Trump as well.

We were wrong. Joan called me one night and announced they were changing Trump's name to Critter. Crittter? If Trump is the name of a gentleman, Critter may be just the opposite. We might as well change the rest to Jethro, Bubba and Ellie May I complained. "How Redneck," Joan expressed to them.

I think our friends may have been hurt. Critter had special meaning and I felt bad, even if none of us at Pugdom could quite make the adjustment in our head. Well, I changed Vader's name, I reasoned, and we could call him Little Trump Critter, I said, trying to placate Joan. It had started to sound a little cuter, I thought. "We better be careful because we'll probably get used to Critter and they'll come up with something else," I prophesied and sure enough I was right.

We gave Trump to his new owners on Monday and Tuesday I received a call from Joan saying, "Guess what? They took a look at his funny face and floppy ears and changed his name to Goofy!"

Goofy? Not exactly the vision I have of little Trump. Yes, he has some peculiar physical features -- too big ears and some funny behaviors -- but our sweet, dignified comical little character was evolving into someone else. Comparing Trump to Goofy was like trying to compare Charlie Chaplin to Jeff Foxworthy and yet, I knew our friends loved the little guy and the name Goofy was given out of pure affection and the joy of watching the fella play and making them laugh. They have the right to recast him in a new light and I  honor that, but I have a feeling Joan may be picking on them, just as she did me, for the rest of Trump/Goofy's life and in her head and heart, Goofy just won't stick.

On the other hand, I think Trump/Goofy doesn't care at all. The name he carries will not change his looks, character or little pug heart, whatever our perceptions of him. He will run to his owners whenever they call, whatever they call.

Mister Egg

Mister Egg used to be a puppy. Now he is an old man; going on 13 to be exact. He is another of Joan's dogs -- one of her car dogs -- which means he holds the special distinction of traveling around with her everywhere. Of the many dogs she owns, he, and nowadays, mostly he, alone, is always guaranteed a ride in the car. He is perhaps more traditionally like a pet to Joan in that way than the number of others she loves and who share her home.

In his youth, Egg was an athlete, a natural, skilled in taking leap after leap over the gates used to separate dogs and rooms. He didn't have to think about it. Like an Olympic hurdler he sprang and sprang and sprang again over multiple obstacles. He does not spring anymore. Like his uncle, my pug Vader, poor Egg, is losing the use of his back legs. He can still prop himself up at times, but his days as an athlete are finished.

Egg was once so adept at making these leaps that something had to be done. Because Joan breeds to show, most male dogs in her home go unneutered as did Mister Egg. But suddenly, we were finding that Egg's prowess in jumping was helping demonstrate his prowess to the ladies in other areas. In order to prevent any unwanted puppies, Joan had to clip this habit in the bud, which meant clipping Mister Egg. Fortunately, for him, this meant he had the luxury of now becoming Joan's car dog -- his neutered state, which calmed marking and other unwanted male behaviors, made him a better traveling companion. And, to be honest, it never deterred Egg from a pretty lady. We often still found him enjoying himself with one of Pugdom's many girls.

And, now, former Ladies' Man and Olympic Hurdler is old and it's hard for all of us to wrap our heads around that one. He traveled with us to the Pug Parade this weekend and while Alfie and Waffles and Fanny May and the puppies dressed up and enjoyed the socializing, Egg snored soundly in between the drivers and passengers' seats in front of Joan's van. When the event was finished and we were getting ready to leave, Joan mentioned that poor Egg hadn't gotten to wear his sweater, a hand-me-down from one of the other pugs. So, I helped dress him in the pumpkin-colored garb and took him out on the grass to pose.

It was rainy and he wasn't exactly sure what was going on, he likes to keep his eyes on Joan at all times and at first she was out of sight, so it was difficult to get the perfect shot. Then Joan came over and sat with him and I took a couple. They will go in the annual scrapbook where hopefully he will appear again next year. But just in case, we snapped this picture to include now, because Mister Egg is no longer a puppy and we want to remember all his rides and this day in his sweater and to make memories that will leap from the pages of the scrapbook and grab our hearts just as Mister Egg has always done.

Serious Business

We might attend pug parades and socials for a good laugh, but that doesn't mean we don't take them seriously or compete to win. My friend, Jane, took on the organizers when one of our 12-week-old pugs lost to one and two-year olds as the youngest becasue we didn't register properly. Fortunately, her arguments were met with a new certificate being issued and Waltham's Little Trump went home with a piece of paper saying he was indeed the youngest there.

I stood hunched over for more than 15 mintues struggling with two leashes and lots of Velcro just to ensure that Alfie's and Waffle's wigs stayed on so we could compete in the best costume duo contest. And, we proudly (well, I should say, I proudly, not too sure Alfie and Waffles were that proud of their wigs and kimonos) came away tied for fourth place. Now, that may not seem like much of a win, but I happily added it to a group of certificates and graduation diplomas that my former pugs Buffy, Vader and Mira had won over hte years. They are filed away in a drawer alongside Alfie's ribbons and show photos, each as eagerly received.

Next year I hope to build a float and dress our pugs all alike so we can compete in more categories and yes, hopefully win!

Pugs on Parade

I've been told that readers like answers better than questions, but there are some things I can't answer with any certainty. Take the Pug Parade for example. What brings hundreds of people and pugs out on a blustery and rainy day to a side hill to watch funny looking dogs participate in costume contests and march down that same hill in a parade at the end of the day? Why would we drive a hundred plus miles to attend such an event and why does a parade of pugs bring so much pleasure? I found myself wanting to ask people these questions as I passed pugs in lion suits, poodle skirts, dinosaur costumes, pumpkin hats, hotdog buns and more. I wanted to ask them even though I am one of them because it is not a question I really ask myself until I am confronted by it. To be honest, it just seems so natural and fun.

Some people suggest that dogs ease the loneliness of lonely people, standing in for children, spouses and family who are absent. But no one at the Pug Parade seemed lonely. Couples came with children in toe, there were people there with non-pugs, too, and those that said they were just interested in the breed and I bet the answers for why they were there were as varied as the people themselves. But judging from the smiles and the laughter and the many snapping cameras, one thing drew us all together. This really was fun!

Some dogs were bred to hunt, others to herd. It is said that pugs are born clowns and it seems they are doing their job. In a world where you can't turn on the radio or the TV without hearing about the recession, unemployment, war, global warning, credit scores, etc., etc., a pug parade provides a marvelous alternative. Pugs make you smile, pugs in costumes? Even more so. Here, the most pressing political question is black or fawn? (In reference to the pug's coat color, of course). The fun is relatively inexpensive so no fear of going into debt on this one and rather than being stuck behind the computer, chatting on Facebook, these events show us that we are still human, that there is a world of people out there with whom we can connect and that we still hold things in common -- like a love for squished-faced, curly-tailed dogs.

Or perhaps we drive those miles and buy those sill costumes because we just can't help ourselves. Like sheep dogs herding their flock, perhaps pugs do their magic and draw us together for a good laugh.

For more photos of the Pug Parade check out my facebook page at www.facebook.com/kjgiffordphotography

Pug Party and Parade

A long, but enjoyable day at the Chestertown Halloween Pug Party and Parade. I woke up at 6:30 a.m. and headed to Joan's in Warren, Vt. an hour later so that we could make the drive to Chestertown, NY.  I left my computer backing up my photos on an external drive so that I could download new ones tonight.

We arrived in Chestertown in time for the costume contests. The event ended with the big Pug Parade. Although it was cold and rainy there was a huge turnout. We brought the puppies with us along with my friend Jane's dog, Fanny May, the puppies' Momma, Griffles, Joan's dog, Mister Egg and my two, Alfie and Waffles.

Alfie and Waffles dressed as Geisha Girls, complete with black wigs and kimonos. We saw cowboys riding pugs, Men in Black, Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck walking alongside Minnie Mouse astride a Cinderalla Castle Float, a pug adorned with Chinese takeout, several poodle-skirt clad pugs and many more.

I did learn that it is very difficult to hold two kimono clad pugs who are fighting to remove their wigs and take pics while shooting with one hand, so maybe not as many awesome shots as I hoped, but I did get a few, which I will share. Problem is that after the event ended we returned to Joan's stopping at The Bridge Restaurant near the new Champlain Bridge. Once back at Joan's we began the arduous task of unloading, putting the puppies back in their room, feeding them and the other dogs, transferring x-pens and other paraphenalia among the cars, taking some photos of the pups, and calling some of the new perspective owners to seal arrangements for transferring them this week to their new homes. By the time I set out from Joan's it was 9:30 p.m. but I didn't get far before I realized my car was making a horrible racket, so I returned up the drive to ask Joan's opinion. We both agreed it was the muffler, so I set out again, getting home close to 11:00 p.m.

I unloaded the car at home, fed my pugs, made last minute changes to an article and sent it off for fact checking, downloaded my photos and sat down at the computer to blog when suddenly it hit me how tired I am. So I hope I am forgiven and the photo above will serve as an enticement for more to follow. Tomorrow evening Joan and I head off to deliver Trump to his new owners.

The pic above is of Waffles and Alfie waiting in line with another pug to make their way down the hill in the pug parade.

Pug Parade

Big weekend ahead. On Sunday, my friends Joan and Jane, and I are headed to Chestertown, NY for the annual Halloween Pug Party and Parade. It's another day of costume contests and lots of pugs and I'm sure I'll have plenty of pictures to post. I plan to bring Alfie and Waffles (not sure what they'll be wearing yet. I have some simple Halloween collars as well as more elaborate costumes) and maybe the puppies as well as Joan's dog Egg and Jane's pug Fanny May, maybe more.

Also, had good news today. The original owner for Waltham's Little Trump, one of the puppies, fell through, but one of our friends, a couple who has three other of Joan's pugs, wants to adopt him. We are meeting them on Monday afternoon to turn him over. Although the friends live in Massachusetts, they have a condo in Sugarbush not far from Joan, so we will be able to see Trump regularly. Only catch, our friends want to rename Trump, Critter!

I have a lot of writing to do as well this weekend, so I may not get to post much, so I thought I'd leave you with a couple more shots of the puppies from the other day.

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Puppy Memories

The puppies will be leaving soon, all but one of them to new homes. Gryffndoor will remain. Tonight, Joan has begun the baking and the preparation to send them off with goodies and food. Like hobos, each leaves with a tiny bag.

But, they are not hobos. We have carefully chosen their homes and most we will see again. Maybe not little Kensington. He's going to a person we do not know, but I will ask for his owners' address and send Christmas letters and hope that his owner answers and sends back photos. And, if he does I will place them in a scrapbook and we will ooh and ahh over them as a mother does a baby picture and say "isn't he cute?" "my ,he has grown" and "he looks just like his mommy."

He may get a new name. Margot will. Most often do. Even when I first took Vader, before I knew Joan well, I changed his name. He was originally Zag to his brother Zig. But for a time, these were Kensington and Margot and will remain ours and we will sometimes talk of them and always remember.

Often with time the names and litters become jumbled in our memories as will these and we will have to nudge each other and ask was that so and so's litter? Who was the father? And, one of us, often me, will remember or take out a paper that tells or consult the scrapbook. We may have the story wrong or the details confused -- was it Margot with white on her paw or was that Indigo from another litter? But they are not lost to memory only mixed and married to a host of other puppies who were also loved and are gone.

Each has formed Pugdom. So now I can tell stories of dogs I've never even known because they have become real to me. Mookie, the big black male who won many shows and Shandi, the pug Joan claims was gay, and Patty Albee who didn't like to show. They all lived and died before I came to know Joan and yet, I can paint you a picture of each.

In the days ahead, certain specifics about this litter will become cloudy, but right now I can tell you that it is Margot with the right, white paw, that Kensington is a lovebug, sweet and gentle, that Trump has the most wrinkles on his head. I can pick up from the squirming black mass on the ground the one I want and present it to you, "Here's Kensington or here's Gryff." And, you will look amazed. "How do you tell them apart," you might ask. The love that helps me make those identifications never fades. It becomes a trace memory and some part of it lingers so I will always be able to reach out and grab them still.

These are the creatures and characters that have opened up a whole new world for me and so we send them off into the world to live and breathe whole lives. And, somwhere in their tiny animal minds, in the scents and sounds they have storehoused and hold dear, I think we remain and travel with them. So, if they were to see us again they might pause and ask isn't that so and so? I remember that smell, that voice, that hand, that touch. She gave us food or a belly rub and they may sigh before barking and moving on with one last wag of their tails.

GMPR Pug Social

What's better than a pug? How about hundreds of pugs and pug lovers all in one place? And, when pugs and pug lovers come together that means pug tee-shirts, pug license plates, pug costumes, cookie jars, photos, paintings, bumper stickers, magnets, notepaper, the list goes on and on. Who could miss such an opportunity even if one had a head cold? Not me! So, Alfie, Waffles, a box of Kleenex and I set out to Killington, VT this morning for Green Mountain Pug Rescue's 10 Anniversary Pug Social and it was well worth the trip. I took a lot of photos had Alfie and Waffles run in a pug race and chatted with lots of pug folk. The rain held off and it was a beautiful day in more ways than one. Problem is pugs and I are tired and vegging on the sofa, so photos will have to wait until later. Here's one my friend Joan snapped of me and her puppy, Trump, in front of the pug hay bale sculptures -- I warned you there's all sorts of pug paraphernalia!

Foraging

My friend Joan and I went foraging on Friday, not for nuts and berries, but for intangibles to ease the burdens of winter. Sunshine for when the icy temps cut through our layers of flannel and wool; waves lapping a beach to balance December's fierce whistling wind; hot sand on bare feet for numb toes wrapped in two pair of socks and heavy boots; an unlimited horizon to remember when faced with mountains of imprisoning snow. These are things we went looking for when we piled the puppies into her Caravan and drove two-and-a-half hours to North Hampton Beach on Friday. We found them and like squirrels gathered all we could, burying them deep in memory's storehouse for the bleak times. We hit the jackpot.

The day blazed with the heat of July offset by a gentle ocean's breeze. The melancholy of a changing season hung in the air as pungent as the salty sea. We held our breath absorbing through our pores the last embers of summer. The crowd was sparse -- too old ladies wobbled on unsteady legs to the water's edge, bending over to pick up sea-smoothed rocks, tossing most back in. A man and his daughter brought father and child-sized fishing rods, casting them into the ocean. A toddling sister-and-brother darted into the surf, squealing from delight and cold.

Joan set up camp overlooking the water, watching the seagulls totter across the sand, observing a retriever frolicking among the rocks. She set her face toward the sun, shut her eyes, absorbed it all. I waded in the water until my toes were January numb. Sun, sand, surf road veins to my heart. I love the ocean. My mother grew up on the water. It is in my blood.

"We better remember this come winter," Joan admonished. We sat, I sketched, until the sun drained away and Joan reached for a jacket. I let my bare, sun-kissed skin greet the cold, unwilling to call it a day. When Joan could no longer take it, we packed the chairs up and I went back to the Caravan for Griffles and her puppies. Leashing her neck, I crated her puppies, toting them to the sand. There, I set them free. They jumped out of the crate like bunnies, hopping through the sand like snow. Some buried their faces in it.

We drew a crowd. A woman stopped with her 12-year-old Shepherd mix. He lowered his head and one of the puppies stood upright to sniff his nose before collapsing and resting his own head on the big dog's paws. Another woman gushed that she had a pug at home and two Doberman. She was a photographer, there to take pictures of a wedding rehearsal with the wedding scheduled for the next evening. She worried that she would lose the light and it would become too dark for picture taking. Two skirt-clad members of the wedding party approached and the puppies wouldn't leave them alone, bounding along after them as they tried to leave.

"Is there anything cuter than puppies on a beach?" one woman asked, just as a young mother tottered toward us; a baby girl in pink beach hat, magenta onesie and tutu, strapped to her chest. Puppy and baby stared at each other in a cuteness smackdown. Not sure who should win, I called a tie. An elderly woman held one of the puppies to her chest not wanting to relinquish it. Griffles shivered. Perhaps from chill, perhaps from nerves as so many people grabbed her puppies. We gathered them to us and returned to the van. We held treasures from the day. At the heart of winter, I will take them out and count them like precious heirlooms in a hope chest: the heat of sun, the roar of the ocean, a puppy's kiss. These are enough to keep me warm.

For more photos of the day, check my facebook page at www.facebook.com/kjgiffordphotography

Growing Up

Batman's siblings are growing up and beginning to reveal their personalities. Now that Batman is gone, Trump has taken his place as the little guy. His expression differs from his siblings. His head is smaller, more wrinkled. It gives him a peculiar appearance in contrast to the others' fluffy puppiness. He is not Batman, but he helps to fill a hole in our hearts. We all reach out to him for his uniqueness, a desire to embrace and protect the runt. He is more sullen, quiet. He is not a total loner, but he does hang back and watch his more active siblings, still they embrace him in a way they did not Batman, who was always too weak, too small to join in.

Margot, the girl, is going to New Jersey where she is to be renamed Katrinka. Joan sent another big girl there years ago, who bore that name. But, the owner changed the name of that girl to Scarlett. Scarlett lived a long pug life and bore several puppies before finally giving up the ghost. Our friend Bonnie now wants to honor her and Margot by giving her Scarlet's original name. Margot seems the perfect pup. She is adorable and playful. She jumps in to play, but is respectful of the other pups. She barks and nips, rolls and tumbles, but is not aggressive. When confronted by an elder, she backs down, but she shows no fear and comes back for more. She will make Bonnie a good dog.

Argo Kensington is the quintessential middle child. He is handsome and becoming more so every day, although not as big as his big brother or as distinct as his little brother. He is always part of the pack and I'm sure he will blossom when on his own. Each day his little white toes become less white. One day it may be hard to remember that we first called him Twinkletoes because of those tiny splashes of white.

Gryffindoor is a big, fat, baby. He rolls on his back for a belly rub, runs and hides under the table to avoid a conflict. He's a lover not a fighter, but oh what a big, pretty boy.

It's hard to believe that in a few more weeks, most will be gone to new homes. We will keep track of them. I send Christmas letters out to each family, but they will get new names, new families. That is a good thing. It is nice to know that each will be given this gift, but a house without puppies is significantly more quiet, more empty than one with them.

Each litter always leaves an imprint, memories of the time when they belonged solely to Pugdom. Because of the impact Batman made on all of us, this litter will haunt us long after they leave. The ghost of his memory lives alongside his healthy, happy siblings. It is not a shadow that lingers, but a warm glow. The remaining puppies play and grow big -- alive, they are part of this world. And, we laugh and enjoy them and begin our happy goodbyes as we find them new homes. Batman belongs to another world -- we hold him in our hearts and we smile when we think of him and we laugh at the joy each puppy brings for however long they are among us.

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