"Vaderman, Vaderman..."

The store clerk must have thought I was crazy today when at the register I burst into song. I had just found the perfect Halloween card, a black, googly-eyed pug dressed as Darth Vader. Perfect because of my pug Vader, who died last year at the age of 14. Seeing this large, paper model brought his memory to my mind, a smile to my face, and his song to my lips.

Most of my animals it seems have come with a soundtrack – I would sing to my old girl Buffy when I groomed her, “making Buffy beautiful, making Buffy pretty” in a soft singsong voice. My black-and-white cat Mime would often hear the refrain “Jesus loves the little kitties” sung to the tune of “Jesus loves the little children.” When I got to the part “red and yellow, black and white,” I would always shout out, “That’s you Mimee,” in honor of her coloring. I sing to Joan’s dogs when I visit, but mostly to her old blind pug Ghanny, Amazing Grace,  “I once was blind, but now I see,” I sing, hoping that some part of him does.

Vaderman had his own song. I think I sang it to the tune of another I knew, but I no longer remember the original. Instead, I remember shouting out Vader’s powerful melody, “Vaderman, Vaderman, if he can’t do it than no one can. He’s the wonderful amazing Vaderman.” And, he was.

I’m glad when I saw the card today it did not make me melancholy, but rather gleeful. “There you are little man,” I said aloud and proudly brought the card, along with a second for his breeder Joan to the register. As I handed it to the clerk and sang my ditty, I told her the story of Vader. She seemed ambivalent, like she’s seen it all before. And, as I looked at the cardstock cut out of my Darth Vader pug, I smiled remembering how I had once seen in my snorting little puppy, a resemblance to Vader of Star Wars -- black and raspy of breath. We’ve all seen things once or twice before, but where as my antics created a sense of bemusement in the store clerk, the whirling eyes of the paper pug conjured in me music and memories of a wonderful, amazing dog.

Making Friends at Bedlam

The day was warm and so were the people at The Bedlam Farm Open House yesterday. I was there to show my artwork and connect with many of the people I have met online and through Jon’s new Facebook group, The Open Group at Bedlam Farm – basically an online creative forum and blossoming community. One of the friends that I had met through the blog was Jackie Campbell, a woman who proved to be just as sweet and amiable as I had imaged through her comments. She took this picture of me with Jon’s daughter’s lab, Pearl, a sweetheart of an animal. In fact, she stole my heart and tried to steal the day. Although many were enamored with Red and Frieda, who came out off-leash to impress the crowd and Lenore, known as the Bedlam Farm love dog, Pearl managed to snuggle up to anyone who would love her and even tried to consume Jon’s therapy dog demonstration by nudging her own muzzle in to rest on the lap of the volunteer patient. She seemed intent on getting all the love and attention she could and as an old gal’ she had earned it!

Schnorkie

Last Sunday we took my niece Ellie to Quechee Village to ride the train there. While she and her parents shopped inside, my mom and I rested near the entrance. It was hot and we were soon joined by other weary shoppers looking for a seat and some shade. The most interesting of these was a tall, slim blonde woman and her dog, a teeny comical wisp of a creature, part Schnauzer and part Yorkie -- "a Schnorkie" her owner proclaimed her. At four years of age, she had reached her full height and weight. She was happy to climb up on the wooden bench next to her Mom (just out of sight) and pose for my pictures, stopping only to meet and greet the other shoppers passing by. Her exuberance and no doubt unique appearance brought a smile to every person who stopped to pet her. It was interesting to observe their interactions. Some people seemed annoyed at first to have a dog hop in their paths. They would start to walk on by, but her persistence would make them look down and in every single instance, they warmed to her -- a smile passing from their lips to their eyes. She seemed to excel at hospitality. She wore her self-appointed job well.

Two Old Dogs: Mother and Son

“Ma, let’s just sit here a spell. “Let’s.”

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His joints are stiff, his eyes clouded. Her knees pop out of joint. They are mother and son and they spend most days on a faded dog bed, on a stone wall in the front of a pale yellow house. They claim the summer sun. They sit like two black gargoyles, strange sentinels, appearing to guard the house -- a blind watchdog and his feeble though feisty mom. Life has slowed for these two old dogs, but they are content. Their dog days are now.

Old Dog

He sits war weary on the lawn, soaking in the golden light of his golden years. Not a soldier, but an old dog whose wagged his tail and done his faithful duty at the side of two women -- first one’s dog then another’s. In this moment his own man, surveying his first yard, the expanse of his kingdom, the battlefield, where his life has played out.  Now he waits as all good dogs do, without complaint, for his ladies, two friends, to return home. He laps at clean water, turns his face to the sky, and closes his eyes. It is well past mid-day, but the sun feels warm, the grass cool and even now there is still a wag to his tail.

He soldiers on – the symbol of perpetual hope, living in expectation that bones may rain down upon him, good fortune and good food come his way, and the people that he waits for may now turn the bend. Old dogs have the patience and faith of saints. What else do they hope for, what more can an old fella’ want than a patch of sun, a pat on the head, and to hear the words “Good Dog” echoed like bookends at the beginning and end of his days.

Dog Birthday Party

“A dog birthday party? That’s ridiculous!” My 17-year-old nephew Christian exclaimed in response to my answer as to where I had been all day.

It was ridiculous, silly and fun, which is also what made it so special. I thought about the dogma, beliefs, and debate that had been hurled at me over the last few weeks – conversations about salvation, damnation, global warming, politics -- I’ve been assigned an article on Obama Care, for goodness sakes – and the Sweet 16 birthday party for a mascot at a local gift store in Waterbury, Vt. seemed the most carefree and sane thing to do among my list of prospects: It was pure fun!

I was a tag-a-long on an invite my 18-month-old niece Ellie had received. It seems she and my sister-in-law are frequent visitors at The Tiny Acorn gift shop in Waterbury, where Isabel, the 16-year-old birthday girl, reigns. In addition to the array of toys on display, Izzy seems to have attracted my niece’s attention and subsequent devotion. She smothers Izzy with hugs and kisses and thus, earned an invite to her party. Upon learning of the event, I begged an invite. So last Saturday, the four of us – my niece Ellie, my sister-in-law Gretchin, my brother Mark and me – all headed off to The Tiny Acorn where we were greeted by a nicely groomed Izzy in the glass doorway and a sign above announcing her party. Hardly through the door, we were given balloon animals in the shape of dogs and the opportunity to make each a bedazzled collar that could also serve as a bracelet. I wrapped mine around my wrist. Gretchin adorned Ellie’s with an E and I chose a B, since my nieces and nephews all call me Auntie Bee. I noticed yesterday that Ellie’s was still intact, while I somehow managed to lose all my beads, jewels and letters by the end of the day.

We searched for bones and were awarded with a grab bag of goodies when we found one and we even ate bone-shaped sugar cookies as our desert. We also had our faces painted. Gretchin, Ellie and I with flowers, while Mark, after a little coaxing, sported a pirate’s patch. Ellie kept touching the flower on her cheek, smearing it before the paint dried. She spent the rest of the day saying, “I like my flower” even after her mother washed it off. Mark, Gretchin and Ellie all cleaned their faces shortly before returning home while I kept my flower on for the rest of the day, reluctantly washing it off at midnight.

The girl who painted our faces wants to be a writer and is considering attending Champlain College, my brother and sister-in-law’s alma mater, so we exchanged writing tips and college advice.

We finally left the store a couple of hours later after a lunch of grilled hotdogs, Costco lemonade and a promise that we would send  photos and that Ellie would return again soon. Before she left, she took a display of tiny folded rain jackets and placed them in a half-circle around Isabel – her gifts for the day. She then lovingly bent down and gave the old girl a hug, a pet, and a kiss.

My nephew may have rolled his eyes when I returned home and people may question why a 46-year-old has let her life go to the dogs when there are more serious issues to attend to, but I am convinced that should we burn in an apocalypse, freeze in a global ice age, collapse under an economic meltdown or survive another 1000 years, when we go to meet our maker it will be the hugs, pets, and kisses that count. We could do worse than dog birthday parties and the wag of a tail.

For more photos from the party check out my personal facebook page. 

Farewell, Tuff Twikett

“Like all of us in this storm between birth and death, I can wreak no great changes on the world, only small changes for the better, I hope, in the lives of those I love. – Dean Koontz

This is not a post I wanted to write as it is not a happy one. I called home from Georgia the other night and heard from my Mom that Joan had called and left a message that our little Tuff Twikett, the sole surviving puppy in Releve’s litter had died. Death is an omnipresent entity in the short lives of dogs and the longer I am around them, the more I realize how true this is. Not all puppies survive birth or the short weeks following and this time around there must have been something truly wrong because Releve never really accepted this litter. But Twikett was indeed tough and survived a couple of weeks.

Why? That’s always the question isn’t it? Why is life so short? Why does this one die and this one survive? Grappling with death is an ongoing debate. Some prefer to avoid it. What’s there to add? It happens to us all. This is especially true with dogs. The discussion can become repetitive, maudlin, overly sentimental because something touches us to the core when we lose one of our companions and we all struggle to make sense of it; sometimes dwelling in this stew of emotions. But Twikett hadn’t been around long enough to be such a companion had she?

She had. That’s what my time at Pugdom has taught me. It has become a microcosm of life and death, helping me to understand the process, to deal with the pain and questions. Twikett’s life was so brief yet she made her presence known. Joan’s friends gathered at her house to help her be born. We held her, named her, fed her. We grew from our care of her and from our support of each other. She knew the hand of a human, the warmth of her mother’s breast. She crawled and cried, snuggled and suckled and like with all of us, her time was too brief, but she lived. She may never have opened her eyes, but for two weeks she made small changes on the world. We may forget her name in the years to come, but not her presence. Life brings change and growth. It can’t be dismissed, overlooked or glossed over. Tuff Twikett survives in the love we gave her.

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.

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

author Russ Ryan and Beck Valley Books

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 !! 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

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…”