In the end...

Every year I create a scrapbook for my friend Joan, Waffles’ and Vader’s breeder, and every year I send out a Christmas letter for her chronicling the deaths and births and other happenings at Pugdom, our name for her house. She never asked me to do either, but after repeatedly peppering her with questions about the myriad pugs that had come before, and learning that many of the details had been lost in the haze of life, I decided a scrapbook would be a good idea. Then, after seeing litters born myself, helping to name them and witnessing old ones pass away, I knew how much I cared and understood how many others might as well. So I appointed myself unofficial Pugdom Historian and the job title stuck.

As the years have passed I have found how relentless that haze can be; time and the hustle and bustle of daily life often swallow the details of memory and clamp shut their jaws, so now while I still tend to remember who has come and gone, I often have to confer with Joan and our friend Jane to confirm the details. Joan has gotten so used to me sending out her Christmas newsletter that this year she gave me names of random people who had called inquiring about puppies to add to the list. I do not mind. It is a role I cherish although I have difficulty formulating exactly why.

“Is it just about the pugs?” someone asked me a few weeks ago, referring to my friendship with Joan, this blog, my writing. And, the answer to all is the same: “yes,” “no,” “yes.” They have come and gone in Joan’s life – show pugs and rescues, puppies and old-timers. Pugs remain a constant even as the individual dogs and friends and husbands have passed on, and something about having seen these creatures as the individuals they are makes me want to mark them, make note that they were here. They lived good lives, they gave their love. They should not be lost to the haze. Although they can’t speak in words, they were not without a voice. They may have relied on us for food and care, but they were not victims. None of us are. We were their stewards and I want to remember their faces and their quirks, although they moved through our lives too quickly.

I know there is also a psychological root – my own desire for a voice, my nurturing of my own inner child, Joan of hers. I like caring for these creatures, tending them, giving them voice, noting as I would like to be noted, that they were here, that they mattered, that we all do. I like their survival stories – the rescues who arrive having escaped a hardscrabble existence; the geriatrics, having survived the passage of time; the puppies setting out into the world full of hope and promise Their years will pass quickly. I admire their independence, the part that we cannot touch. They may need our care, but in the end, they are their own souls. I may not have gotten all I needed as a child or even as an adult, but in the end I am also.

When I come to Pugdom, I hold church with my own wide-eyed, curly-tailed congregation. I pick up blind Ghanny Man and sing Amazing Grace, my voice always rising with the words, “I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see.” There are those that question the existence of a dog’s soul and those who do not. I walk among the pugs belting Christmas carols, cutting nails, bending down to lift them up and cuddle them close. I pray for those who are sick, I offer Christmas blessings. I glide through the rooms at Pugdom, socializing with the young and ministering to the elderly. It is a congregation of love and I return and I chronicle because I find in this communion between dog and human, between Joan and the brood she cares for, between me and the aid I try to give to her and this pack, something akin to holy ground.

It is a genesis for me, the beginning to understanding. Pugdom is a microcosm of birth and death, a lifecycle played out before my eyes. I learn how to give and how to let go. I am my brother’s keeper. In caring for these creatures and in chronicling their story, I discover my own. The years pass quickly, time devours us all. In this haze, what better mark to leave than a song in the darkness, the hand of a friend, a note of a name, a wag of a tail, an act of love for another, whoever that other may be. In the end it is about the pugs. In the end it is about each other. It is about finding the love we crave through the acting out of the same. It doesn’t matter whether it is dogs or humans, whether we are combing matted fur or helping a friend feed dogs and stave off loneliness for an evening. Love is love – in giving, we receive.

Gryffindor

After the concert we go back to Joan’s house. The mountain road climbs through the darkness and stretches through the cold, clear night all the way to the heavens. Bright and defined constellations serve as guiding beacons up the winding driveway because there are no other lights here. We are in God’s country now.

I point the headlights of my car at the door and grab a flashlight, making my way past discarded wood piles and garden stones to the chipped cement steps and long walkway that leads to the front door. The path would be perilous if I had not done it so often and will be more so in the days ahead as water, ice and snow replace the decaying leaves and dirt along the way. I wonder as I often do how Joan does it day in and day out -- pugs underfoot -- without tripping and breaking her neck.

Inside the living room, she has turned on the incandescent lamps and the string of colored Christmas lights that beckon year round. A soft, orange flame smolders in the woodstove. I love this view at night, staring through the long row of glass at the warmth and wonder inside. It is not the stuff of a Norman Rockwell or Thomas Kinkade painting, no rosy cottage glow or rose-colored glasses through which to view this scene. There is stark reality here – sub-zero temperatures each winter, cold brittle hands stacking firewood, a scarcity of creature comforts in true New England fashion, but tonight we are not there yet. It may be mid-November, but the temperatures are cool, not yet cold. And, in spite of the hardships in forging a life here, each time I visit, I view the scene through the lens of love.

Joan putters around inside, surprisingly still in her dress clothes although she arrived back from the concert before us. The downstairs pugs – blind, black Puddleglum and scarred, fawn Soup gather around her. Tonight that is all that are down here, the rest of the brood upstairs in their respective rooms. Joan has already put their food on the stove and laid out the makings for hot cocoa.

I informed her we can’t stay long, but I want to snap a picture of Gryffindor, the puppy she kept out of the last litter. I push my way into the room and am greeted by the smell of wood smoke and dog, a pungent mixture to which I have become accustomed. I move away the clutter of papers that Joan is perpetually sorting and warn Puddleglum in a loud voice and no uncertain terms that he better not try to pee on me tonight – the two of us engaged in an ongoing battle, which usually results in him marking my leg.

Joan motions to the flurry of activity at my feet and I look down to see a living, breathing, bundle of joy. Gryffindor runs and jumps and leaps beneath me, wiggling in between. I am used to puppies at Pugdom and all are precious and sweet. I thought Gryffindor exceptionally handsome from the get-go. Puppies, like all children, seem to possess an extra portion of energy and playfulness, but this is something else. At first I can’t pinpoint it, but then it hits me. Gryff reminds me of my deceased puppy Mira, the pug I claim was the most joyful creature I have ever known, human or dog. Mira, like Gryff, bounded through her short, sweet life with extra verve as if there was an inner fount of happiness energizing each step. I pick up Gryffindor and see this fount reflected in his eyes. There is lightness to his being. I wish I could snatch him up and take him home.

“Joan,” I gush, “He’s special!” He reaches out with his tender tongue and licks my lips in agreement. I will keep my eye on this boy.

For now I turn my attention to the mug of hot cocoa that Joan hands me and the extra large marshmallow that skims it’s surface. These are her special touches that bring warmth to this scene and melt the New England frost. With childlike glee we sip and smile, watching the puppy, reveling in the company.

Music

We ride an old and shaky elevator to the top floor of the Warren Town Hall and step back in time. Suddenly, we are part of the warp and weft of rural life. How many have gathered here before us for entertainment, for politics, to simply come together as a community?

Tonight we are part of a small benefit concert to help feed the hungry over the holiday. My friend Joan, Waffles’ breeder and a former concert pianist, sits at the keyboard playing background music before the show starts. She is one of those people about whom it may be said, “she cleans up well,” because most of her days are spent in her work duds, allowing her to haul wood, mop floors and care for her pugs at the sprawling yellow house she used to share with her husband Charlie before his death. Tonight she is in concert gear – red silk blouse with ruffled collar, black pants and vest with gold trim buttons. In the incandescent light, her hair looks more blonde than gray.

Someone has decorated the stage with white Christmas lights, greenery and electronic candles. Three elegant Celtic harps sit to the side of the stage and a tree-like music stand takes center stage. Dinner tables surround the stage, creating an intimate half-circle for viewers. And, a table of decadent deserts, coffee and cider tempt passersby at the back of the room.

I feel a rush of pride for Joan, she is at her best like this and I never tire of hearing the music flow from her fingers. She is infused with it, giving her hands on the keyboard an added lilt, her body an extra cadence.

On an average day, music bubbles beneath her skin, leaking out in the way she holds an aging dog, her superhuman energy, her sometimes childlike view of the world. A hidden melody tickles the ivories of everyday life and I can’t help but want to sing along.

We listen as harpists and singers, guitarists and violinists make their way across the stage. We hear an anti-war song, the Christmas Bell Medley, Cole Porter, and some original tunes. I feel like crying as I always do when music comes a courting. It is intimate here, close. For centuries, people in small, rural towns have made their way to Town Halls and Churches to gather together and we are doing it once again.

Raise Your Face to the Sun and Sing

Truffles

The gallery is up and running now so feel free to browse around. I will launch the first give-a-way on Monday in honor of the new site and Thanksgiving week. Thank you to all who are coming and looking around!

The Ties that Bind

The open window brings a rush of cool breeze and warm laughter into the parked car. A gaggle of kids play while screaming “shotgun” for the front seat of the gray SUV beside me. I think they may leave, but they stay, providing ambient company while I wait for my friends to arrive.

Our pugs bind us together. Even after nine years we know only a little about each other, casual details like where we work, family members’ names, an anecdote or two. We’ve picked up more snippets along the way and even shared some serious stuff such as money problems and health scares. But the thing we really know a lot about is each other’s dogs – their likes and dislikes, the food they eat, the funny places they hide their toys, even their bathroom habits. We store these details in our memories because when puppies leave Pugdom, my friend Joan’s house, and go to new homes, they go with invisible strings attached. The ties stay strong through Christmas cards and phone calls, friendly chatter over dinner, and roadside visits such as this one.

I study the family in the SUV next to me. Lean, leggy children of all ages pool in and out it like a clown car. Two men and one woman stand chatting outside. They are dark skinned and dark-haired, Italian maybe, and as huge as the children are spare. The kids periodically whine to “Dad” to handle a dispute, but I’m not sure if they are referring to the man with the mustache and beard or the beefier guy beside him. Doesn’t matter, just mindless entertainment for me until Charlie and Sue arrive.

I glance back down at my cell phone, 2:45 p.m. They called at 2:30 from Montpelier and it will be another 15 to 20 minutes before they meet me at the Mobil station just off the Bethel exit. I am pleased they agreed to take a detour on their trip home from their condo just to let me see Goofy, a.k.a. Trump, one of Joan’s latest litter of puppies that had gone to his new home with them almost a month ago. I hadn’t been able to make it to the reunion meeting between them and Joan and Goofy’s mom and remaining sibling earlier in the day because of a family luncheon, so I suggested the rendezvous at the gas station for a glimpse and photo op – gotta commemorate his growth for the annual scrapbook.

Fortunately, the Damitzes were quick to agree. “We won’t be back until May,” Sue reasoned, informing me of this again later when she arrives. Goofy’s not the only one of Joan’s clan belonging to the couple and all the rest will also be in the car. Jerry, the nine-year-old fawn female, whose sale led Charlie and Sue to meet Joan and me, and our becoming fast friends; Chunky, Jerry’s handsome son, who in my mind will be a perpetual puppy although he is getting on up there in years; and Truffles, Goofy’s aunt, my own Waffle’s sister, a big, beautiful, black female. Family reunion. That’s what these visits are for the pugs, and for us as well. It feels like we are family even if the actual day-to-day knowledge of each other’s lives is sparse.

The sun beams in the car, it’s glow matching the warmth of my thoughts – I am happy my friends wanted to see me as much as I wanted to see them. I think they are as proud as any new parents to show off Goofy and I am as eager as any aunt to see him.

The Damitzes are probably my parents’ age, maybe a little older, maybe a little younger – it’s hard to tell nowadays. They have grown children, Charlie, a veterinary practice. He also writes on the side, children’s books. Sue works in the medical field. One child on the North Shore of Oahu with triplets, another closer by. Do they have two kids or three? I never seem to remember, just like Sue seems surprised when I tell her later that I have three brothers. “Really? I always thought it was two,” she says.

She has little reason to know. We ask each other all the right questions: How’s your son? How’s the writing coming? How’s your health, and we truly listen, but certain details slip through the sieves of our memories and wash up again later like shells on a sandy beach. We more readily recite back details of Chunkey’s latest surgery, the funny thing Waffles did this morning, and how much more Jerry is sleeping. Dogs are not the same as children, but perhaps when you have no children or your children are all grown, they fill a gap and fill a life – the trivia of their existence becoming the soft, warm, stuffing that pads your own.

I glance down at my cellphone again, now oblivious to the noise of the neighboring children, and look back up just in time to see Charlie and Sue pull in. They are driving a small silver car and even from a distance I can see that the back seat is down to accommodate the pugs. I grab my camera and hop out – because as eager as we are to see each other, we all know that what this is really about is snapping some pictures of Goofy.

Before Charlie can roll down the window I am peering in the rear, where Truffles large, black head and equally black eyes stare back at me, unblinking. She is hard to read, quieter than Waffles, less a lovebug than Griffles. The Damitzes claim she is playful, but whenever she sees me lately, she strikes a sedate and subdued pose. I look in the front where I see Charlie futzing with the window and Goofy in his lap. It has only been a few short weeks, but he is significantly bigger, no longer a cute, cuddly puppy, but a teenager, lanky and long and hinting at the promise of the man he will become.

Something in his face has always spoken of sophistication. Even as a baby he had the soulful eyes of an old man and the distinguished wrinkles of a gentleman. But his ears are askew, his expression comical, his body not yet proportional. To be fair to the Damitzes, who changed his name, there is something decidedly goofy about his demeanor. He is quick to conjure a smile and a laugh.

As I try to size him up the squealing begins and in a flash a pink arm reaches toward the window. “Ooohh, a pug,” a child’s voice murmurs.

“Look at the puppies,” comes a series of cries from the SUV. Charlie rolls the window down and the chubby child’s arm reaches in, begging to touch. “May I pet the puppy?” she asks. Charlie holds Goofy up, and soon the mother approaches, checking in to see what her daughter is doing. “Mom, a puppy,” the girl says.

“Aww, the mother says. “I used to raise pugs,” she says.

Pug people get used to these interruptions and coincidences. Pug puppies, probably all puppies, elicit squeaks and squeals and once you’re focused on it there always seems to be less than six degrees of separation between any random person you talk to and a pug or pug owner they’ve known.

“You did?” I ask. “Are you from around here?” The mother takes her head out of the car and looks at me, her eyes as dark as Truffles. “No, from Burlington,” she says. The little girl pets and squeals some more before her mother pulls her away and the family fades from the scene, revealing a bright flash of sunlight like a white highway through the window of the car.

The sun turns Charlie and Sue into glaring white figurines, but I make out Chunky in the shadows at Charlie’s feet. Jerry sits tucked beneath Sue on the passenger’s side.

“You gotta let me hold him,” I say about Goofy, while simultaneously cooing at Chunky. Charlie and Sue both move to get out of the car. Now, I can see them fully. Charlie, tall and blonde with the rugged and weathered skin and coloring of an aged Robert Redford and Sue, elfin and petite with pixie hair and warm, expressive eyes. Charlie wears a neon running jacket and he leans against my car as he plops Goofy into my arms.

“Hi, baby,” I say, holding him up so I can see him better.  I’m not sure if he remembers me, but he stretches his neck to slather me with puppy kisses.

“You’re so big,” I gush. “How are you?” I say to the humans, not taking my eyes off Goofy.

“We’re fine, you?” Sue says, as she cranes her neck to look in my vehicle. “Did you bring Waffles?”

I tell her no and witness a brief shadow of disappointment slide over her face. “I’m so glad you were willing to stop,” I say.

“We had to, we won’t be back until May,” she says.

That’s how these things often go. Long stretches between visits allowing important life events to tick away and pugs and puppies to age and grow. Charlie and Sue will travel to Hawaii for the holidays and rent out their condo in Sugarbush through the spring. “We’ll have to come down to Massachusetts and visit you,” I say, noting to myself that I’ll have to propose the idea to Joan. “Joan will think it’s far away, unless I can find a more interesting route than the highway,” I say. “She prefers road trips with interesting detours.”

These are the things I can say to the Damitzes because they know Joan, too and all her idiosyncrasies. Each of us has been through the mill trying to get a pug from her, even though we know her, even though we’ve owned one from her before and even though we’re among a handful of her best friends. When it comes to relinquishing one of her cherished pugs, she’s tough. We tease her about this and appease her when necessary, but we orbit her world because we are pug people and she is one of its grand dames.

“What did Joan think of him?” I ask. “Did she call him Goofy?”

“She still calls him Trump,” Sue offers.

I laugh. “She probably always will.”

We segue into chatter. I ask Charlie about his writing, he in turn asks me about mine. We launch into details about our respective projects and share funny anecdotes about the pugs. The conversation turns to the holidays, where their pugs will stay during the Damitzes’ vacation, and updates on Charlie’s veterinary practice. We periodically stop to stare and smile at Goofy before starting up again. We reminisce about the first time we met and mention the dogs we owned then with the fondness that one recalls a deceased grandparent – sweet, loyal Buffy, handsome, furry Ben, Vader, my little gentleman. We touch each bead on our string of memories as the sun sets low in the sky.

Some things aren’t mentioned this go-around -- my presence at their puppies’ births, their support when Vader died, our bonding treks around the Beaver Pond, quick, stolen reunions such as this one– yet, these things serve as the glue between us.

The sun dims as our conversation fades. Charlie stifles a yawn and suggests to Sue that they grab a cup of coffee for the road. He looks tired and I know I shouldn’t keep them long. I give Goofy one last hug and a peck on the nose before setting him back in the car then frown as I realize it really will be months before I see them again. I reach out to embrace Sue and then Charlie. “I’ll send you a Christmas letter,” I offer as small consolation and I know they’ll email me photos of Goofy. They’ll likely call Joan and I’ll hear secondhand updates.

I wave goodbye as I pull out into the remaining sun.  When I see them again I will ask them about their work and their children. They will ask me about my writing and my health. We will goggle over Goofy and Truffles, Waffles and Alfie. Some friends know all the particulars of each other’s day-to-day lives, but they never navigate each other’s hearts. We, on the other hand, know that landscape well. For each of us, it is pug-shaped.

Hurricanes

In honor of Hurricane Sandy, I thought I'd post my own hurricane story. This one first appeared in The Herald of Randolph, 7-20-2006

A Vacationer’s Tale: Hurricane Rita’s Rage Matched by Companion

By Kim J. Gifford

Savvy vacationers know that there are certain unspoken rules. Such rules don’t need to be delineated, because they are obvious. For example, don’t book passage on a sinking ship, avoid erupting volcanoes, and by all means, don’t drive into disaster when others are driving away.

While I have always abided by the first two—they seem relatively straightforward—the third offers some wiggle room. It all hinges on the definition of disaster or the potential for one, I thought. Yet, I soon discovered that my emphasis was wrong—forget about qualifying the disaster, much more important to focus on the fact that everyone is driving away from it.

Yet, last fall in the process of obtaining this wisdom, I broke this third rule and traveled with my friend Joan to San Antonio, Texas just as Hurricane Rita was about to touch down. Not a wise move under any circumstance, but consider that Hurricane Katrina had devastated New Orleans only weeks before.

People were scared, uncertain where the new threat might hit, and evacuating probable site Houston for San Antonio in droves. Thus, even if Rita missed our route, the likelihood of us meeting chaos at our destination was good, really good.

Already, many of the Katrina victims had migrated to the Lone Star State, so even before this new scenario, San Antonio was not the best location for travelers; many of the hotels already booked with evacuees. Now we were hearing of the possibility of gasoline shortages and the need to stock up on bottled water.

Still we were undaunted. Joan had a son in Marshall, Texas, who could keep us informed. Driving almost straight through from Vermont, we were to leave on Friday, Sept. 23 and arrive in San Antonio on Monday the 26th.

The hurricane was supposed to touch ground on Sunday, so the way we figured it there would be plenty of time to assess the damage and reroute or turn around before getting into any trouble. After all, this wasn’t an ordinary pleasure trip. We had a reason for our journey—the 2005 Pug Dog National Specialty, the top-of-the-line, annual dog show geared specifically for pugs. We were bringing three: Lumpi, a splashy fawn making his debut; The Big Mamoo, a black; and Beau Diddley, a veteran fawn taking his last bow in the ring.

Now, anyone who knows me can attest I’m not exactly adventuresome. I always carry an umbrella and am the last one to head out in a snowstorm. I like situations that are predictable, controllable. Even on this trip, I was the good Girl Scout, storing six-packs of water, rain gear, and extra canned food in the storage compartment mounted on the top of Joan’s Dodge Caravan.

"Be prepared" may have been my motto, but in all my planning, I neglected to realize that storms sometimes move in from unexpected fronts.

Setting Sail

I learned that lesson when we broke another one of those traveler rules: Don’t set sail on a voyage with someone you barely know. Joan had decided to invite a friend, Bonnie, from New Jersey, a psychic who had visited for a day or two once or twice before. Good, another driver to spot us, I thought, and a psychic at that. Maybe she might have some insight into the outcome of this adventure. Yes, Bonnie wanted to come, but could she bring her dogs?

She arrived the morning of our departure, a blonde Fran Drescher from the sitcom "The Nanny," complete with a "New Joisey" accent to rival the actress’s own.

"Hurricane Bonnie?" I wondered, as she whirled in with coffeemaker, Swiss chocolate, air mattress, and two dogs that were decidedly not pugs to attend the Pug Dog Nationals.

As I scanned for a weather station on the radio and packed emergency gear, she set up a luxury suite for herself in the back seat. She sported shorts and sandals while I slipped on knee-high rain boots and wondered if Joan had any floatation devices for the pugs.

Oblivious to my concerns, Joan hopped in the driver’s seat whistlin’ Dixie and merrily honking the horn. Bonnie hadn’t heard anything much about a hurricane, but had some conspiracy theories to share on the Kennedy assassination and the death of Princess Di. Perhaps her psychic abilities only worked in reverse, detecting trouble in the past. Suddenly, I began to have some premonitions of my own. Still, I remained in the car breaking my own rule: It’s okay to bail ship.

A day into the trip, Bonnie’s dogs disclosed their personalities. One yelped, the other peed; both had chronic diarrhea. Bonnie begged for pit stops, Joan refused to give them. Joan drove when she should have been sleeping, Bonnie slept when she should have been driving. I spent my time refereeing and calling home for updates on Hurricane Rita.

Our Private Hurricane

The fourth-most intense Atlantic hurricane ever recorded, Rita made landfall on Sept. 24 at the Louisiana-Texas border, our exact point of entry into the state. Although she had landed a good day-and-a-half before our arrival in Texas, reports told of damage, flash flooding, downed power lines, and even tornados along our path. I envisioned the Caravan twirling around in the sky like Dorothy’s house, five dogs’ heads hanging out the windows, pugs’ eyes bulging.

Family suggested extending our travel time and choosing another route into Texas. Too late. As we approached Memphis—the home of Elvis Presley—rain was heavy, but any change would be backtracking and Joan was not hearing of that.

Not to be deterred from our sightseeing, we did a drive-by past the gates of Graceland and considered stopping for dinner. The rain was pounding so hard we missed the turn into the restaurant, got lost and found ourselves headed back in the wrong direction. The Caravan was hot and humid, tempers even hotter.

As Hurricane Rita became less severe, the storm inside the car intensified. Bonnie wanted to tour the whole of Graceland. Joan hoped to beat Rita’s wake. We should have opted for a nap. After two days non-stop on the road, not one of us was sound enough to be making any decisions.

The radio claimed the storm, complete with tornados, would reach Arkansas, the state ahead of us, by 7 p.m.

"Well, if we’re not stopping at Graceland, let’s keep driving. We should be in Arkansas before 7," Bonnie suggested.

"Why do we want to drive into the storm?" I inquired. My companions conceded, taking a hotel room for a few hours and just in the knick of time.

As the winds picked up, I donned my raincoat and began to move the dog crates into the hotel. A strong gust suddenly shoved me and the dog crate I was carrying, complete with a 22-pound pug, across the parking lot as if we were a feather. As I made my way back, Joan and Bonnie, now soaking wet, stared at my rain slicker in wonder.

"Whatever made you think to pack that?"

I rolled my eyes just as Joan let out a yelp. "Something’s the matter with Beau Diddley!"

Pugs are a brachycephalic breed, meaning their flat faces and small nostrils make it difficult to breathe and easy to succumb to heat and humidity. All the time in the hot car had led Beau to begin suffering a heat stroke.

"Get him inside, cool him down quickly. Put him in the bathtub and turn the air-conditioner on," one of them shouted.

"Don’t cool him too rapidly and keep him out of the cold air," the other contradicted.

I stood frozen, scared for the dog and wondering how much it would cost to book a flight back to Vermont. "I want to go home," I announced.

Joan and Bonnie appeared shocked. "Stop being such a baby," Bonnie said. Apparently, I had no idea how to enjoy a vacation!

Fortunately, Beau survived, welcoming the bath and remaining in the doorway to the bathroom, where the cool air from the air-conditioner reached him, but not too directly.

It seems the art of good travel is compromise.

At an Arkansas gas station the next morning, we learned just how close those tornados had come, one breezing through our path only 20 minutes ahead of us. Disaster averted, we made our way to San Antonio where the Big Mamoo earned a 4th place finish in his class and our newcomer and old-timer did us proud by simply making it around the ring.

It would be nice to say we had broken the rules, beaten the odds and walked away from the journey consummate travelers with a good tale to tell, yet, when it comes to vacationing there are always new lessons to learn. Before returning home, for example, we discovered roof-mounted cargo carriers and parking garages don’t mix. You’d think it wouldn’t take a psychic to realize that.

Tears

The rain falls full and hard against the windshield of Joan's Caravan leaving gray, cloudy streaks like skim milk along its surface. I pull the hood up on my powder-blue hoodie and open the door to face the din. The puppies clamor to get out of their crate after their three-hour ride and I reach to find a lead while trying to block their escape. I have never considered myself athletic, but if corralling puppies were a sport I would have an Olympic medal. One, two, three, catch a pug, block a pug, slip a lead on the first, toss it to Joan; catch a pug, block a pug, slip a lead on the second, toss it to Joan; catch a pug, slip a lead on the third and out we go to the grass to see if they will pee.

The small strip of grass in the I-Hop's parking lot crouches in a sea of pavement, creating only a slim runway for the pugs to do their business. They circle and shake, each trying to slip the unfamiliar leads snaked around their necks. They are 14 weeks old and ready to go to new homes.My cellphone rings and I scurry to answer it, pushing TarBaby off my tote on the front seat of the car. I grab the phone with one hand and block TarBaby with the other, feeling the tug of the lead wrapped around my wrist as the puppy on the other end, Kensington, I think, continues his struggle to be free.

"Where are you?" I manage.

"We just pulled into the I-Hop," Bonnie, our friend from New Jersey answers.

"That's where we are," I say as I glance over my shoulder and catch sight of her blonde hair. She sports a short, black coat, which she pulls tightly around her to block the rain. Behind her, stride two men -- her friend Sylvester and the perspective owner, I guess. Joan has screened him by phone and Bonnie knows him, but we have not met him yet. Bonnie greets me with a quick hug as I push TarBaby back in the car. A plump, cool rain droplet drips off a browning, treeleaf and slides down my back."Aww, aren't they cute," Bonnie squeals, while simultaneously introducing Sylvester and Bob. Sylvester holds his own leash with three dogs on the end, two shivering Japanese chins and a Pom. They and the pugs soon huddle into a tangle of tails and noses as they sniff and circle and check each other out.

We do the same, assessing Bob, in baseball cap and navy windbreaker, his dark skin wet from the falling rain. "Have you had other dogs? Why do you want a pug?" I ask. "I used to have Boston terriers," he answers as he launches into a tale about his 88-year-old mother and her health, explaining that a pug would be better suited to remaining at home with her all day. He starts talking about puppy toys and clothes, a Halloween spider costume for Kensington and even as Joan says, "You're mighty sure of yourself aren't you? Pretty sure you're going to get a pup?" I realize that I already like him. The vibe is good. I know he will be taking Kensington home.

"I pick Kensington up. Big, black orbs stare out over the white tuft of fur at his neck. "This may be your puppy," I say, handing him to Bob. Kensington balls up in Bob's large hand, a black glob of puppy love, all head and belly.

"Do you have a name picked out," Joan says. "Don't tell me, whisper it to her." She nods in my direction. Bob leans in and does so.

"Bunja," he whispers.

"Bunja," I mime back. "What does it mean?"

"It's African royalty," he says.

"Tell Joan," I say.

Bunja. She likes it, so do I. We don't like the puppies' names to change, but this one fits. Joan could have come up with it herself. It rings unique.

We go inside and over pancakes and coffee, we tell our stories and ask our questions. They hear the oft-told tale of how Prime Minister Clement Attlee bestowed on Joan her first pug. We learn from them their doggie pedigrees. They read through our packet of information and ask questions about food and shots. We ask where the puppies will sleep. Then back into the rain, still falling hard and gray. We yearn for light and warmth and a brief reprieve for a proper goodbye to no avail. Another hand-off ensues.

I hand Margot to Bonnie with a kiss, helping to zip her into her carrier. And, then Kensington.

"Goodbye little boy," I say, handing him to Joan, who in turn kisses him and passes him to Bob.

She raises her face to the rain and tears echo full and hard down the surface of her face. I stare wide-eyed like the puppies. I have stood by Joan seeing scores of pugs off in the time that I have known her and this is the first time I have ever seen her cry. The world slows down as I watch wondering, why this pug? Why now? Her face flushes red, two rosy splotches in what  has become a graying world. I reach out and pat her back. "Joan," I say with a half smile. "She never cries," I say to Bonnie and the men. "Joan?"

Salty tears mix with unforgiving rain, indistinguishable. The puppies blink, squint, and cock their heads, waiting and wondering what will happen next. They don't know they are leaving. I join them, perplexed. The world feels raw and tender and gentle like a baby's breath. Joan is feisty, strong, often unyielding. Here, she melts, offering a piece of her heart as a precious gift. Kensington, now Bunja, blinks away the rain. Joan her tears. Griffles, the puppies' mom, stares out from the crate in the car. Goodbyes are often wet and gray. Who knew that love looks the same?

Home

Kensington and Margot went to their new homes today. Joan and I met our friend Bonnie, who is taking Margot, and her friends Bob and Sylvester in Albany, NY today. Bob is keeping Kensington. Both pugs are getting new names. Bonnie is not straying too far from Margot's original name and is calling her Sassy Margot. Kensington's new name is Bunja, which Bob assured us is a name representative of African royalty.

Both pugs seemed happy and curious to see their new owners. Kensington sat in Bob's arms like the lump of love he always seems. Margot gave Bonnie kisses.

We all ate at the I-Hop together and discussed the pugs and their care before bidding them goodbye. Joan and I finished the day at the Birdseye Dinner in Castleton, VT.

In other news, Mannix Marketing of Glens Falls, NY presented me with a draft of my new web site today. Very exciting and I will keep you posted of the changes and when it goes live. In the meantime, it has been a long day. Alfie and Waffles are already snoring and I am off to bed.

Tune in tomorrow...

One more goodbye

Tomorrow two more of Griffles puppies go to new homes and Joan is wondering whether or not to bring Griffles along. "Who knows maybe she feels nothing?" Joan says, but you can tell she thinks differently. The thing is we don't know, when it comes down to what animals really feel and think, we don't know. So, we make assumptions based on what we feel or we guess based on the science, but we know nothing. Is Griffles prepared for her babies to leave? You can't answer by comparing her to us and you can't answer by comparing her to wolves and you can't answer by saying she's ruled by instinct and you can't answer based on emotion. We don't know. So, we're left with doing our best and trying to do what's right because the reality is the puppies need new homes. Joan can't keep them all and they will be cared for and loved in their new homes, each one as individuals. And, Griffles has a good home where she is loved and one puppy will be staying with her.

It seems like she can count though. When you pick a puppy up and it is gone too long she gets nervous and goes looking for it, but after Trump left Monday, Joan says Griffles seemed okay. "Who knows?" she says, but tonight Joan asked my advice on whether Griffles should make the trip with us tomorrow. You can tell Joan's not sure. Will Griffles grieve? Is it better for her to stay behind or see her puppies leave? Will she cease to look for them if she sees them go? Or will she ache the way a human mother does? What good does it do for us to observe and say she looks okay to us, she seems to be going on just fine? Are feelings any less strong because you've learned to survive them?

There may be an arrogance to assuming animals feel the same way we do, but there is also a danger in going too far the other way and not acknowledging the feelings they may have. What is the fine line separating instinct and emotion? Mothers know their children, dogs know their puppies. Will it upset her to see them go?

Griffles is our dog, so we do the best by her. We feel for her because as humans compassion is our birthright. It is at the heart of who we are. We grieve for Griffles and her puppies as they part because as humans saying goodbye is never easy and our instinct is to avoid loss.

Saying Goodbye

Joan gives Waltham's Little Trump one last embrace before turning him over to his new owners and a new life as Goofy.