Prickly Mountain

Flower

 

I spent the day among friends enjoying good food, conversation, dogs and architecture. Yes, architecture. The party I attended was on Prickly Mountain in Warren, VT. It seems two architects fresh out of Yale settled there in the late 60s to build an unique community. I don't know all the details yet, but I want to learn more. I fell in love with the name "Prickly Mountain." I'm not sure the origins of it, but my friend Joan characterized the place as a bunch of architects all getting together and trying to outdo each other -- there seemed to me to be the potential for something prickly in all that competition. It seems like the perfect setting to a story, the words themselves tingle with possibility. And, today as the last days of summer blazed to a glorious finish, the mountain relinquished a bit of its prickliness as one of its crazy, unique home opened its doors to easygoing conversation, and the infectious warmth of friendship. Here, I felt right at home.

Dog Story

Batman_8_23

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.

Our New Addiction

I had to run to the store today to buy some ink cartridges, so I could print out the collage I am working on for the header of my new web site. This meant going past the Dog Park, so I decided to stop again. I admit it, I'm either in love or addicted! I stayed for two hours, basking in the sun, the dogs, and the friendly and surprisingly intimate conversation.

Once again these dog owners poured out details of their lives as if we had always known each other. Some didn't even ask my name. Others remembered me from yesterday and if they didn't know my name they knew Waffles and Alfie's by heart. Both are favorites with the dog owners there and my two soak it up. Both chose to sit at the feet of one elderly couple the whole time they were there. I got to know some of the dogs as well. I love Freddie, the black Puerto Rican street dog with piercing eyes. Murphy, a petite Yorkie, flirted with Waffles by nibbling at her ear. This she tolerated, but when he tried to go further by climbing on her back, she jumped up on my lap and watched him from a safe distance.
We met Ella, another black dog that is part Lab and part who knows what, his owner declares. She, I learned, would rather live with dog than a man because the dog is never ungrateful when you put a meal in front of him. I love these people -- their openness, their stories. Even the social drama is interesting to observe, although it was not as evident today. Today was smiles and sunshine. A little girl dressed in pink danced among the dogs, a young boy quietly came and scooped up Alfie.

"Be careful I warned, she doesn't like to be picked up." He just stared at me not in a belligerent way, but in a very still quiet way that said don't worry, she'll let me and she did. In fact, she sat with him for a long while -- until his mother called him away. I saw Alfie squirm just a bit, but settle down in his arms as if aware that he wouldn't hurt her and that he perhaps needed this. I think maybe she has the makings of a therapy dog someday.
Tomorrow I have appointments and lots of work, so no Dog Park for me, but I am already making plans for next week. I know cold weather will be here soon enough and end my  new favorite pastime, but for now my pugs and I are planning to frolic among the dog people.

Dog Park Part 2

Don't get me wrong. I indeed loved the dog park yesterday -- the interplay of dogs, the interplay of humans. I loved how all these various breeds of interesting canines brought us all to one place, even if occasionally some petty human dramas continued to be played out there. It was both similar to and different from the world outside. Similar in that the human likes and dislikes, social hierarchy and drama continued to be played out, different in that a community was forged in a way that we often miss today. We couldn't just pass each other by with a nod or a wave or nary a glance, we were all "stuck" there, at least until our dogs did their business and ran awhile. So, we had to chat and talk and even bond a little. Even the Real Dogowners of the Upper Valley had to converse a bit with the "underdogs," probably more than they would have on the streets.

I heard about church suppers, one woman's two children and how one was an angel, the other a slob. I can tell you what their dream dogs would be. I learned about another little girl's Grammie's death and how she appeared to her in a dream the night before. I learned a lot about each dog and its behavior. We shared about previous dog's deaths and our grief. This was all within the space of less than an hour. We seldom talk to people we don't know that long nowadays. Here, our dogs make us sit and stay a spell -- our canine friends lead us to revel in our shared humanity, the good and the bad, and to get to know each other.

Dog Park

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I admit it. I have an idealist’s image of what it should be like to spend time with my dogs, a romantic notion of hitting the road with them in search of fun and adventure. More often than not my adventure usually turns into frustration and a tangle of leashes, yipping and yapping on their part, and shouts of “hold it, wait a minute, no, stop,” on mine. They are probably saying the same thing or more like “hurry, go, what’s taking so long, yes, go!”
In any case, I put up with the tangling and the hollering and loaded the pugs in the car today for a mini road trip. The sun was shining, but the air cool and I realized that in spite of the article I had to finish, our days of warm weather and carefree travels were numbered with fall around the corner and winter’s snow nipping at its heels. I decided on the dog park, a 20 mile drive, and was fortunate to arrive at a time of day when other owners were getting out of work and bringing their dogs to the park for some socializing. I say fortunate because my pugs had a glorious time sniffing, running and playing with a plethora of other toy dogs – a Chihuahua, a rescued Puerto Rican street dog, several white dogs whose owners characterized as Maltese, Poodle or Bichon, a baby beagle and the piece de resistance, a chug – Chihuahua/Pug mix. For the most part, the conversation amongst the owners was equally pleasant with discussions about Dog Chapel, Pug Socials and other dog-friendly events. “Here comes Sarah or Frankie,” I’d hear and quickly realize that the reference was to a dog not the person. If the approaching dog was not well known, we would play a guessing game about the breed, “a Jack Russell, no a Chihuahua,” we’d surmise. 
Then the tone began to change. I do not go to the dog park often and I always scoff at the people that make fun of dog owners for anthropomorphizing their dogs, but suddenly I found myself confronted by a woman who fit every stereotype of smothering dog owner. “Look, here comes Daddy,” she said to her pup as her husband approached. “Are you awwright, precious,” she murmured. “Nobody’s going to hurt you,” she said, picking him up and no doubt terrorizing him herself with an onslaught of kisses. “Those big dogs aren't going to hurt you,” she glared at my 13.6 lb. petite little Waffles, who was easily three pounds lighter and significantly more fine-boned than her “baby.”
Poor thing, every time he did anything even remotely doggie, such as initiate a play bow or roll over on his back, she’d scoop him back up for a tight hug. She didn’t stay long. Still, I realize that she was probably a very nice woman whose attachment had gone awry. 
Next, however, was a not so nice group of women, call them the Real Dogowners of the Upper Valley in reference to all those Real Housewives reality programs on TV. This group was dressed to the tee- at least what qualifies as such here in Vermont – blonde ponytails, short skirts, tanned legs. They seemed to accept my pugs and me all right since they were donned in their fashionable pink harnesses patterned with cute black and white skulls with bows on their heads. Everyone commented on the harnesses, my ticket into the in crowd. I knew we were in when I realized others were out. When a heavy set woman and her dirty-faced dog approached, one of the blondes whispered something in my direction. All I could make out was that she was “a townie” and the Real Dogowners soon disappeared after that. We remained to play with the townie and a group of friendly locals, who followed. If we have time we may return tomorrow. I think the Chug is a regular and the subtle dramas of the dog park make up for all those soap operas they took off the air.

Buddy

I drove to Glens Falls today to meet with Mannix Marketing about my new web site. I'm very excited about it and have a number of things to get together to get the ball rolling. We spent a lot of time talking about pugs, my writing, photography and design and my head was spinning. On the drive home, I decided to stop at Sutherland's Petworks and check it out. I had never been there before, so I was pleasantly surprised to be greeting at the door by a bulldog named Buddy. Buddy sat as still as a statue as customer after customer entered the door. The woman behind the counter told me that he sits like that until 5:00 p.m. and then will start looking for his ball to play. He did stir to sniff a young dog that came in and it was then that I noticed that Buddy only has three legs. I watched him loping along the aisles for awhile, until he went and picked up his squeeky toy and brought it back to the door. I got back in my car feeling refreshed. Dogs have a way of doing that.

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.