Another wonderful concert, another late night. Sheila and I traveled to Burlington, VT to see Brandi Carlile at The Flynn. Came home and drew this sketch and now to bed. Did stop at Old Navy and purchased a hat for a photo shoot with the pugs that I will hopefully get to this week and post pictures. Puggies were happy to see me when I arrived home.
More tomorrow...
The day I picked up a camera the world became a more interesting place. Tonight, I walked out of a bookstore and looked down at the grate on the ground. Three small yellow leaves created a path almost like footprints along its path. I took out my iphone, since my camera sat in my car, and snapped the above photo. The result is less organic than what I saw, more abstract, but I love the result. It seems this fall has been in a mix of gold and gray to me and I love how this photo captures both.
A thin strip of trees stands in the middle of the K-Mart parking plaza. I have taken pictures of the branches and the berries and birds singing in those trees. At night the street lights shine on them and through them casting a golden glow. I noticed it as I came out of one of the stores and walked toward my car. Again, I whipped out my i-phone and as I approached the scene, I realized one of the trees created a perfect frame for the others. Since I started creating my collages I am particularly drawn to pictures like this that can serve as a background for a story. This picture, however, also works well on its own. It draws me into a secret, magical world that stands right there out in the open -- like a parellel universe living alongside this one, that one can only see if one's eyes are open.
Writing prompt: When have you seen things differently?
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?
My best friend Sheila and I really wanted to see the Dalai Lama when he visited Middlebury last weekend. He had come to Middlebury shortly before we started school there in the late eighties and right after we graduated in 1990, so this was supposed to be our time. Unfortunately, we could not get tickets even though I woke up a 6:00 a.m. on the day of the sale, while I was ill with a horrible head cold mind you, and tried for over an hour and a half. There was so much traffic that Middlebury's server kept crashing and although I managed to secure tickets in my cart twice, I was never able to make it all the way through checkout, so I finally gave up and went back to bed. But, I was disappointed and frustrated.
I tried to find tickets to see him elsewhere, but the pricetag on these was too hefty, so I decided to console myself by purchasing tickets to a guru of another sort. The Dog Whisperer, Cesar Millan, who was coming to Vermont for an event to benefit his foundation and a local humane society. Tickets prices were not cheap, but they were tiered -- you could spend extra to meet Cesar up close and attend a reception or general admission; thus, you could be a Top Dog or a Pack Member. I decided on the cheaper option and thus, with Sheila in tow, we attended as members of the pack.
The event took place tonight and it was a blast. I do not follow Cesar's show religiously -- not really sure if I buy into the alpha dog thing and the funny noise Cesar makes to dominate and train the dogs-- but I loved his program tonight. He was hysterical, acting out canine, feline and human behavior in an effort to show us our problems in communicating with our dogs. "We are all eyes, ears and no, nos" "They are all nose, ears and eyes," he explained.
He emphasized that dog's pick up on our energy, something I have learned from taking Alfie into the showring and when he took two shelter dogs on stage to demonstrate his technique I started to see some of the things I have been doing wrong with Alfie, who by the way, has learned how to dig in her heels and slip off her harness regularly as she did at the Shelburne Gone to the Dogs day.
When Cesar arrived on stage the girls behind us screamed as they would for a rockstar. They did it again when a dog named Dave came on stage. I learned from eavesdropping that the girls were Vet Tech students at Vermont Technical College and Dave was one of the dogs with whom they frequently worked.
"I love how this is a substitute for seeing the Dalai Lama," Sheila joked when I expressed my appreciation for her coming, but in reality there were some similarities. The girls acted like Cesar's appearance might be on par with the return of the Messiah, after all. And, while the Dalai Lama spoke of our commonalities and the Dog Whisperer spoke of human and canine differences, both emphasized communication and education and offered messages of hope and the prospect of peace and harmony.
Driving home with my best friend discussing our work, her child, my dogs, and laughing so hysterically that I had to say between snorts and gasps for oxygen that someday our laughter would be the death of me, I had to believe I had achieved a form of Nirvana -- a life spent among good friends and good dogs may be as perfect as it gets.
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...
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.
Joan gives Waltham's Little Trump one last embrace before turning him over to his new owners and a new life as Goofy.
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.