Sacred Practice

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Every culture has its own sacred practices especially when it comes to death. Some of these rituals and practices may seem strange, scary or gruesome to outsiders, but to those within the group these are holy rituals, infused with purpose -- they help make sense of life and death, give it order and allow us a way to explain or at least deal with the inexplicable.

Such is the case with Pugdom. Some of the rituals I did not understand 14 years ago when I first arrived to buy my pug Vader and later returned to visit as a friend. If you had told me then that I would be participating in them now, I'm not sure what I would have thought. Perhaps I would have been repulsed or thought it strange. Today, I take part in these understanding that in doing so I am partaking in something holy.

I refer to the death rituals surrounding the pugs. My friend Joan lives on top of a mountain in rural Vermont. Often the pugs die at inconvenient times -- nights, holidays, weekends. So, their bodies must be cared for until they can be taken to the vet. This often means wrapping them in blankets or towels, then plastic Ziploc or garbage bags and placing them in the freezer until they can be buried or taken to the vet. Often times, the bodies are kept until the rest of us -- the friends who have played a role in the pugs' lives -- can arrive to see them. Thus, I got to see Batman's diminutive form this weekend.

I know it may sound peculiar to those who do not love dogs and those removed from rural life, but there is also the practical side to death and the freezer is a place to protect their bodies from decomposition and other animals until a hole can be dug or they can be cremated. And, there is something beautiful in the care Joan takes with these tiny corpses. She has special blue blankets -- "I love  blue," she says, specifically for the deceased. Batman, she had wrapped, in a washcloth-slice of such a blanket. He looked peaceful, untouched, his long black-fur still shiny. He had grown in the time between I last saw him and his death and it seems a cruel joke that he could have been growing and thriving even while his body was betraying him. Lying there in his baby-blue blanket, he was precious as was our love for him.

I will bring a picture of him to Joan -- the last picture taken while he was alive -- like I have been doing for all the dying pugs since I became a part of Pugdom and she will place in the house. This time she will include the name tag Norma created for him nearby. She plans to bury him alongside his sibling that died at childbirth, down the drive near her new house, which we call 3C.

The viewings and the photos help us cope, to honor the pugs that pass. We talk about their lives, which whether they were 14 years or 14 weeks old, all seem incredibly too short. We are bound by love and ritual and respect for powers greater than ourselves. These are profound moments and I no longer find anything unusual in wrapping the body up and placing it in the freezer until we each have seen, until there is a place to bring it. It is after all, this ritual that helps bring new life to the deceased pug -- carrying its spirit from this world and cementing it in our collective heart forever.

Labor Day Dog Days

My friend Joan brought her pug Mister Egg to the gathering on Prickly Mountain yesterday. There we met a couple of dachshunds -- long haired AJ, who was not very cooperative in getting his photo taken, though I managed to sneak a few, and short-haired Hailey. All the dogs gathered around as we ate hotdogs, sausages, fruit, dip and guacamole and enjoyed good conversation and the waning dog days of summer.

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.

Pug Rescue

Transport

Yesterday I met in White River Junction, VT with Green Mountain Pug Rescue to photograph a transport of 10 pugs and two Yorkies coming into the rescue from Missouri and Arkansas. GMPR wanted pictures taken quickly to put up on their web site to help get the word out about them.
I had never done this before and was unsure what to expect. Yes, I was nervous, but also excited and curious.
I arrived at McDonald's early, at 5:45 p.m. for the 6:30 p.m. delivery and decided it made more sense to go across the street and grab a bite to eat rather than sitting in the hot parking lot waiting. When I returned at 6:27 p.m. there were no pugs in sight. I checked my phone and discovered that the transport time had changed to 6:00 p.m. and I worried I had missed it. Fortunately, I hadn't. After some worried Facebook messaging and phone calls I discovered that the transport had arrived at the nearby Comfort Inn instead. Directed to the back of the parking lot, I arrived to controlled chaos. The first thing I spotted was the huge transport truck. One of the volunteers informed me that a retired couple had renovated a large horse trailer and were spending their time transporting dogs across the country to rescues.
Volunteers milled around several x-pens of whirling pugs most of which were scratching away at sore, balding bodies. It seems most of the rescues have either mange or a severe flea allergies. Several also had eye problems. The head of the rescue was teary-eyed and said that this was one of the worst groups she had seen in her 10 years of rescue. I quickly went to work shooting photos of the little ones while the foster families moaned over them, shocked and worried over their condition.
I understand how they felt. The poor little creatures were unable to stand still, they were scratching so hard, and yet, there was something else I noticed. In spite of their conditions and skittishness, these were still pugs and many were demonstrating such "pugish" characteristics as friendliness, gregariousness, curiosity. Some, if not all, might have been nervous, but they also seemed happy, doggy, with tails a waggin'. I know it was hard for the rescuers and foster families concerned with vet bills, logistics and the plight of all the other pugs who go unrescued to see, but my distance behind the camera gave me the vantage point to see the the potential of the dogs in front of me, many of which seemed friendly, happy even. Yes, they may have some rough days ahead as they heal and certainly the rescue faces financial challenges in caring for them, but these pugs will be pugs and it made me think a bit about resilience and survival and how personalities and souls can remain intact and thrive even when bodies don't.
Green Mountain Pug Rescue http://www.greenmtnpugrescue.com is taking donations toward the care of these pugs and it is much needed. I respect the work this group does, the long hours they put in and the tears shed. These dogs are lucky dogs for their effort. As dogs they know how to wag their tails in the face of adversity and enjoy themselves when they sense the opportunity. They do not live as victims. They may hurt and itch, but they also lick and love and I am happy I got to witness that.

Friday Night in Good Ole VT

Sadie
Jane
Joan

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Living in rural Vermont you have to take your excitement where you can find it and tonight the excitement for many pet lovers in the central part of the state was the grand opening of the new Petco in Berlin. Tonight my friend Joan and I each drove 30 miles from our perspective homes to meet our friend, Jane, and her pug, Sadie, to check out the place and maybe get some grand opening deals. Joan was looking for dog food and formula for her litter of new puppies; Jane, a raised food stand to make life easier for her pug, Sadie, diagnosed with a tumor, and me, checking out the scene for any goodies for my potential new pug, Waffles, (should Joan ever see to let me adopt her.)

The store was hopping with both humans and dogs and we each found something to take home. It's funny what an excursion it became. We roamed each aisle, reading the labels on all the dog foods, discussing the layout, perusing the photographs of the professional pet photographer who was on hand. It felt akin to exploring a museum.

The most enjoyable part for me was witnessing Joan, Jane and Sadie's fun. Sadie rode in a shopping cart and genuinely seemed happy to be out and about. Jane only recently adopted her and was told she had lived with only one other owner her whole life. We often play the guessing game with the rescue dogs, wondering what their lives were like before they found their homes among us. Tonight we wondered if Sadie had shopped other Petcos with her former owner -- she seemed right at home. It is good to see her enjoying the time she has and in turn, this makes Jane beam.

When I first met Joan 14 years ago, I was struck by her relationship with her pugs. Her affection for them seemed almost childlike. Today, I also happened to take my pug, Alfie, to the vet. Two little toe-headed girls were there to pick up their own pug and when they saw Alfie, the youngest dropped to the ground squealing with glee. Joan still acts like that sometimes when she sees animals. At Petco tonight, the birds entranced her. She leaned as close to the glass as she could and murmured to them.

"Look," she too squealed, "that one has its head all the way back, look at him." She stopped at each animal display with the same delight. She cooed at a chinchilla nibbling on some twigs for so long that he darted back in his blue, ball-shaped house to hide. She exclaimed over the spooning ferrets. It reminded me of taking my four-year-old niece to the zoo or a circus.

Admittedly, there is a flip side to the Petco opening. Right down the street is a small independent pet store whose parking lot was empty this evening. I suggested stopping back and buying something as we went by, but we forgot. But that's another story of rural life, tonight's tale was a diversion -- a chance to forgo the boredom of yet again doing the same thing on another Friday night, a chance to ward off the sadness of Sadie's impending fate, a chance to revel in something that is really quite ordinary -- to make our own fun where we could find it, to spend time amidst friends in rural Vermont.

Petey the Poodle from Oodles

I went to visit my friend and former student, Sally, today at her shop, Oodles, in Fairlee, Vt. She recently got a new dog, a Moyen Poodle, named Petey. Petey had an interesting and perhaps unsavory backstory, perhaps delivered to Sally from a puppy mill. Ever a writer/storyteller, she has recreated his origins, dubbing him Pierre Moyen from Paris and creating a tale in which he was raised by a peasant woman and forced to chase chickens all day long. He escaped this tragic fate by jumping a ship to the United States where upon touching shore in New York, introduced himself as Pierre to a native on the docks, who said, "Hey, Petey, get over here." The story continues.

What I loved about this, in addition, to hearing one of my former students telling a story is the way she turned something tragic into something comical. Petey's real journey to her doors may  not have been that happy, but she turned it around, now making others laugh. And, I loved hearing her repeat her new introductory spiel to customers, "Welcome to Oodles, this is Petey the Poodle at Oodles." Keep on telling stories, Sally, you make me smile!

View from the Porch

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The Hubbard Hall Writers Project met again this afternoon, this time at Bedlam Farm. We had conversation over scones and fruit and bread and jam. The atmosphere was productive and creative. Then spent the evening with Jon Katz and Maria Wulf, eating Jon's roasted vegetables, sharing stories of dogs, art, music, our latest I-pad apps. As the night wore on the air cooled down and each of us took to our computer, laptop or iPad to blog, check our email etc. Jon put on a cd of Willy Nelson and U2 and Maria and I listened as I sketched this scene. It is their dog Frieda looking out at the view off the porch. The sheep bleated from the fields, the cats worked out a disagreement, the frogs croaked their song. I talked with Maria about the strangeness of drawing with the iPad and not being able to feel the texture of paper beneath me and the sense of a pen or brush as I drew the shapes. These tools help me know I am here, that I have left my mark. She shared how she likes to use her sewing machine, because she has to work with it to achieve what she wanted, there is a song and dance, and it slows her down and lulls her as she figures out the rhythm. I like the feel of brush and paper, but I am enjoying learning the rhythms of my iPad, the freedom that comes with not having to be perfect as I learn the program, the creativity that comes about from the challenges. It is the same with the Writers' Project, this blog, even showing dogs, it all seems a little foreign at first but as you work through the challenges, something happens and soon you find yourself dancing.
Please forgive me if this pic doesn't post correctly. I can't figure out how to turn it around so it is landscaped view. Will repost tomorrow if it isn't right.