The surviving pup, Tough Twikett is having a tough time of it. Joan says it doesn't look like she is growing. Joan has been supplementing her with goat's milk and her Mama has been feeding her, but Joan says she feels so light. I worry that maybe Mama knew there was something wrong with this litter all along. But we haven't given up hope yet. This little one is a fighter and we'll see what happens. The above picture was taken a few minutes after she was born.
Marked
I'm headed to Georgia first thing in the morning to see my brother Paul graduate from boot camp. It's the first of three consecutive trips I'm taking and my nerves are frayed. I have articles to send off, money to deposit and a checklist to accomplish before I can go to sleep. And, what am I doing? Designing a tattoo for my 17-year-old nephew. He's getting his first and I understand his excitement and desire to get it just right. When you are an artist in a family you get requests like this a lot. My other brother, Mark, is a graphic designer as is his wife, Gretchin, and they too get these frequent requests from all of us. Christian asked me earlier in the week if I could help him and I started sketching above (don't worry, it's evolved a lot from there, but can't post the result until he gets it). He knew I had to leave and he had enlisted my brother Mark's help as well, but as his deadline approached -- he's scheduled to get his tattoo on Friday -- I could see he was ready to change his mind. Not because he didn't want the tattoo, but because we didn't have his design ready. My brother Mark and I both worried about rushing a job that would have such permanence. I even suggested Christian wait until his Dad got home (Paul is an excellent artist able to design out of thin air.) And, then I realized, there was more going on here. Christian's mom, Chesne, is scheduled to go with him to get the tattoo on Friday. She is getting one as well. This is a mother-son thing, but Christian also wants a scripture on his forearm just like his Dad. He wants it before his Dad gets home. This is a rite of passage involving both his parents, involving all his family. Mark and I helped design one of Paul's tattoos and now his son wants us to help him design his. He wants to show his Dad when he gets home; a mirror of the man. Family -- uncles, aunts, and especially parents -- all leave their mark on the next generation, sometimes unwittingly. Here, we have a chance to knowingly participate, to shape with image and with love, this boy soon to be man. And, so amidst my packing and my deadlines and all my frenetic chaos, I stop and I draw and I prepare to leave a loving mark.
Unafraid
Maybe it’s because as I looked around Maria’s Schoolhouse Gallery all my friends from the Hubbard Hall Writers’ Group were there with their supportive husbands or maybe it’s because I had really been hoping some of my family could make it to the Open House to see my work and hear me read. Or maybe it’s because I had been to see the Rodgers & Hammerstein musical Two by Two at Adamant the night before and everyone seemed to be paired up accordingly, but in spite of my smiles and the good time I was having, part of me felt single and alone. Part of me always feels that way. I’m not talking about having a mate, not exactly. I’m talking about the fact that when you don’t, what others view as independence can often feel just lonely. Don’t get me wrong. I love so much about my life. I love setting off on new adventures, meeting people, sharing my work, but as outgoing as I can seem on the outside, there’s a part of me on the inside that remains nervous, that can sometimes feels frightened and small. She doesn’t like setting out in the world alone – all the pressure falls squarely on her shoulders. There are no sheltering arms to retreat to, no one to offer a polite excuse if you need to get out of an unpleasant situation, no one to compare notes with on the way home.
Yet, I set out on my adventures and wear a happy face, because over all I am happy, but sometimes it also feels like I am being brave. It is brave to challenge yourself, to test your limits, stretch your comfort zone. It’s how you grow, but it doesn’t always feel comfortable. At first it feels scary, but to be honest, it gets easier and on some days, you realize your life really is an adventure. Because sometimes even though I feel small and frightened, I also have begin to feel strong and independent and I realize I am evolving.
Some of these thoughts were passing through my head yesterday as I walked around Maria’s studio-turned-gallery and surveyed her potholders. Colorful and bright each told a story and there on the wall was one that told mine: “Unafraid Yellow Hen Ventured Out on Her Own.” That’s me, I thought, snatching it off the wall and telling Maria I had to have it. I loved it. It is exactly how I felt as I loaded my artwork in the car and drove off to the Open House that morning. Yes, my family wasn’t with me, I didn’t have a partner, but I had my collages to show and my essay to read, things I had created and I was venturing out on my own, stretching my muscles, learning what I could do.
I loved how Maria’s potholder read “Unafraid Yellow Hen” because a Yellow Hen is Happy, she stands out against the gray cloth about her. She blazes her path. And, this hen was not Brave, she was unafraid. Brave to me still implies fear, an emotion one dons like an armor to do battle with the scary undercurrent. But Unafraid? That’s the opposite of fear. It leaves no room for doubt. I haven’t achieved that yet, but I have my moments and that’s the feeling I want to have, that’s the me I want to be. Sure, I still want to find a partner, two by two sounds good, but I am learning to love venturing out on my own, it’s how I’m learning every day to be Unafraid.
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Alive and Kicking
The surviving puppy, the second one born, is alive and kicking. She is strong and well. She knows how to nurse, kneading her mother like Rocky Balboa going to town. I have taken to calling her Balboa, but Joan is calling her Tough Twikett (spelling uncertain) and I imagine that will stick. For some reason we all keep calling her a "he." Her Mama is letting her nurse now and Joan keeps supplementing her. I think she's a fighter and a beauty.
Early Morning
It's an early morning tomorrow. I have to get up and make the almost three hour trek to Cambridge, NY for the Open House art show/reading at Bedlam Farm. I'm selling some of my photo collages and note cards and reading one of the pieces I wrote for this blog. I loaded the car earlier today as I had a busy night. The basket contains my boxed and loose note cards and the bags my matted and framed collages.
Give-a-Way: It's Just a Dog
Several months ago I began reviewing dog books on this blog. Russ Ryan's book, It's Just a Dog, was a blast to read and I'm glad to be a part of this give-a-way that offers three winners a chance to receive his book.
This Dogtastic Giveaway has been brought to you by
Open Worldwide
Ending on Sunday 11th August at 11.59pm EST
What if your dog died and then came back as a ghost…that could talk? Would you welcome him back with open arms or run away scared to death?
This is the premise of IT’S JUST A DOG, a new novel about love, loss, and one man’s dog who rises up yapping from the grave.
Charlie Keefe is not just your typical dog lover –– he’s a world famous dog painter, a.k.a. “The Picasso of Pooch Portraits”. Unfortunately, Charlie’s beloved muse, Pete, his lovable Jack Russell terrier, has just died. And he’s totally devastated by the loss of his furry best friend.
So, after months of grieving over his dearly departed soulmate, Charlie reluctantly agrees to foster a new puppy –– a cute Cavalier King Charles spaniel named Brownie from the local animal shelter. Soon after, Charlie is surprised to find himself falling head over heels with this new puppy girl, his ‘Rebound Dog’, as he calls her –– as well as being romantically attracted to Janelle Jordan, the head hound at the dog
rescue.
But then complications arise when the ghost of his old dog, Pete, mysteriously reappears one night and comes back to haunt him and the new puppy –– setting off a bizarre chain of events that throw Charlie’s life, career, and entire belief system into chaos!
If you’ve enjoyed such classic dog books as The Art of Racing in the Rain and A Dog’s Purpose, then you are bound to find a place in your heart for IT’S JUST A DOG.
IT’S JUST A DOG
is not just for dogs. It’s for anyone who has ever lost a pet –– and learned to love again. If you’re a feel-good fan of dog books, make IT’S JUST A DOG your special treat!
Enter Below and Good Luck !!
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Enchanted Place
My friend Joan's house always fulls me with wonder. Pulling up the driveway, whether it be summer or winter, is like entering a magical land -- the snow-covered enchantment of Narnia, the lush greenery of a secret garden, the mad fall foliage of a manic wonderland. Regardless of the season, the place seems enchanted to me. I can't put my finger on why exactly. It is in many ways a place of chaos, but always of hope and perseverance. There is a lilt to the land, the same energy Joan carries in her fingers as they dance across the piano keyboard. It is easy to get lost in time here. There are many clocks, but none tell the time -- some by accident and some by design. The hours pass and you wonder if you are under a spell: have you been here five minutes or five years. Pugs gather around you and you feel as if you are a visitor in their world, where they hold court and host teas. And, Joan is the wizard, the good witch, bringing life to it all.
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Aria (left) and her sister (right)
Aria's Song
When I left the newborn puppies at Joan’s house the other night, they were noisily squealing, earning the first-born pup, the nickname Aria. The second, another girl with a cockscomb hairdo, we mistook for a boy and took to referring to as “he.” The third was born two hours later, seemingly big and strong and healthy. By the 9:30 a.m. feeding, she was gone. Aria lived long enough to earn a name and steal our hearts. She had passed away later the next day. The second puppy lives still and seems to be going strong. Her Mama still doesn’t want anything to do with her, but Joan is making sure the pup is fed. We are trying to supplement her with a goat’s milk product I picked up at the Blogpaw’s Conference in May. I planned to review it on my blog. Instead, it feeds a tiny life. Several times a day, Joan holds down the mama long enough for the pup to suckle.
We are left to ponder why. Why did these two pups come into being only long enough to receive a nod and a smile before dying? What is life and what makes it so fleeting? The questions are the same whether one is an hour old or ninety – life always seems so short, death so familiar and yet, so foreign; something we recognize, but never truly expect. As Joan and I worked to bring the puppies into existence, then to keep them alive, her daughter and son-in-law stood vigil at his mother’s bedside. She died in this span of time and they made plans to return her body to her home in Puerto Rico. They make funeral arrangements even now. “There are so many flowers,” Joan’s daughter says.
To hold a puppy in your hand, no bigger than a bird, is like grasping a living heartbeat. You feel every fragile pulse and yet, in that teeny body with such very big lungs, I also felt a universal strength. She was alive and moving, full of energy, full of life. She made her presence known. In the hours after she was born, her bigger sister cuddled with her. Resting her head against her back, not unlike the way my Alfie sleeps with Waffles. They were small, but instinctualy they knew how to keep warm; they understood the rhythms of life.
Once another of Joan’s pugs had a large litter of puppies. One died each day until they were all gone. I can remember holding one, no bigger than my finger, naming the coal black creatures after the blackest of things – Blackberry, Black Bear, Blackbird and singing away the minutes, “Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take your broken wings and learn to fly, all your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.” Singing, until her own time came…We tried a sip of vodka in a last ditch effort to jumpstart the tiny heart, it did no good and the last little puppy, wrapped in a stark, white napkin, died. There were others that did not live long. I remember one we called Winnie from another litter and then of course, last year, our little Batman, seven-weeks-old, growing strong, then suddenly inexplicably gone.
It’s so easy to see the heartbreak, to be crushed by death’s uncompromising greed, but during my time at Pugdom, Joan’s house, where the birth and death of dogs is a regular occurrence, I have become intimate with the cycle of things. My heart has been tugged at, broken and mended with the waxing and waning of each small life. Once touched by these heartbeats I become part of their pulse. I weep at their passing, but I see the flowers. There are so many and though they shrivel and wilt, they bloom glorious for a time. Life is something to relish, however brief. It demands celebration and notice. No matter how fleeting it is incredibly strong; unapologetically real, unforgettable! It leaves a lasting song.
“…you were only waiting for this moment to arise…”
Newborn Puppy Videos
Releve's first puppy was born after 8:00 p.m. yesterday. Her second puppy shortly after 10 and her third, a big girl, arrived at 5:30 p.m. about an hour-and-a-half after I left Joan's. It was a long labor. I have been at Joan's when puppies came so quickly it was difficult to clear them from their sacs before the next arrived. This was all about waiting. Releve was stoic, getting up out of her box in Joan's kitchen to pace, but otherwise remaining almost silent -- no panting or moaning for her. The first puppy had bulging eyes and was so teeny and cold. Releve wouldn't feed it and we worried that perhaps she was rejecting it because she thought it was too weak and wouldn't live. The second puppy was a bit larger and perhaps stronger, although it took a lot of work on Joan's part to get it to breathe. I didn't want to leave Joan, but she convinced me it made little sense for both of us to lose sleep. After I left, the third baby, a big girl, arrived. Before leaving I held Releve while Joan coaxed the two puppies to eat.
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New Life
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It's 4:00 a.m. and I left Joan's house in Warren and two new little pug puppies in my wake an hour ago. It is a long night as the Mama still has more to birth. The two little ones are very tiny and Mama has not been up to feeding them, so Joan and I had to help out. First, giving sugar water and then holding Releve, the mother, still and forcing the pups to suckle. If another puppy doesn't materialize by early morning, Joan will meet the vet who has already been called. I have dubbed the first born girl Aria already because in spite of her small size, she has been singing her lungs off all night.