These are not our Christmas cards...

These Are Not Our Christmas Cards…

‘Tis the season to be jolly, but anyone whose ever tried to get two very active pugs to sit still for a Christmas card may realize just how difficult that is. I thought I had things pretty under control – I had purchased some great Christmas props – a shiny red bucket with jingle bells, pretty red Christmas dresses. I didn’t anticipate, however, how difficult it would be to fit two pugs in said bucket or how frightened Alfie would be of it.

Little Waffles is becoming a consummate poser. If I take her outside for pictures, she will eventually sit and pose pretty while Alfie stands guard, literally! She goes to the fence and stands there, body alert, looking out, barking at anything that goes by. Usually she is doing this in whatever silly hat or dress I put her in, which might be comical if it wasn’t so frustrating. “Just one picture, Alfie?” I beg.

She has yet to acquiesce. Instead, we usually play a game of chase – me chasing Alfie, that is, something equivalent to trying to catch a slicked pig. Alfie has no waist, no handles, no place to grab on and she manages always to stay just out of reach. Eventually, I am able to catch her; this time placing her in the bucket where she manages to stay because she is so scared. Now, I place Waffles in the bucket, who in turn becomes frightened when she realizes how little space there is and grows concerned that Alfie might show her own displeasure by biting her. Still, the two manage to sit still long enough for a couple of cute shots.

Still, this is not our Christmas card.

We go inside and we try the process again, this time in front of the stove. This time the two manage to sit side by side in the bucket as opposed to on top if each other, but little Waffles looked like she’d like to jump ship. The two grow warm in their heavy dresses in front of the stove and by the time we finish both are eager for their water bowl. This time my nephew holds out dog treats to get their attention. It takes all their willpower not to jump ship, but we capture the eager expression in their eyes.

Still, this is not our Christmas card.

I take off the pugs’ dresses and put on their candy pink sweaters with green trim. I place the two in front of my magenta Christmas tree and try to snap away, but once again need to bring in reinforcements. Waffles sits in a wicker basket but Alfie refuses to get close to her. Both look up at the promised treat. Waffles bends her head so far back only her bulging eyes become visible. The look is not traditional, but in true pug fashion it is comical.

This is our Christmas card. Only I can’t share it with you yet. You, like everyone else, will have to be patient and wait. It is the season of Christmas secrets and surprises.

Thank You

It has often been said that being an artist can be lonely work. Much of your time is spent alone in your head and alone creating. This can be a rewarding time for those of us who love what we do, but as people have noted it can also be isolating. One of the things I love about photography is that it is art form that takes place out in the world. I enjoy my free-lance work because it allows me to people during interviews. I love art shows because they provide a chance to share my work and hear instant feedback.

I recently launched this new blog and while I have enjoyed writing each night, today, I realized how thrilled I also am interact with all of you. The Common Thread Give-a-way brought many of you out of the shadows or to the site for the first time and I loved reading your comments. Yes, it was wonderful to hear your kind words about my work – every artist loves to be appreciated – but what I really enjoyed was hearing your wonderful stories. One woman emailed me about her daughter, a struggling artist in Berlin. Others shared tales of their dogs. I heard about cairn terrier/lhasa apso mixes, Airedales, poodles, Dalmatians, Aussies, Border Collies and more. An appreciation for art and for dogs brought you to this site and it is these same things that inspired me to start it. I just wanted to let you know how much I am enjoying this new connection.

Dog Dream

My friend and mentor Jon Katz is running an interactive storytelling experiment on Facebook. He asked his readers if they believed dogs dream and when the overwhelming response was "Yes!" he asked them to share their ideas of what their dogs were dreaming. As my dog Vader, who died earlier this year, aged, I would watch him in his bed and wonder as his legs twitched what he was dreaming. I even started a collage, which I have yet to finish, entitled "What Do Old Dogs Dream Of?" I am still working on that, but for now here is my response to Jon's experiment.

His legs twitch and move beneath him. He is not a small, black, pug curled up in his oversized Orvis dog bed – he is a warrior, a prince, a wolf. He runs through the woods, leaping over twigs, darting through streams. He follows his nose and the scents are strong and thick. He smells a rabbit, a squirrel, a deer. This time he ignores them all. He plows through the growing darkness and stops short outside their den – the two-legged ones. He watches, lifts his nose to the wind; they smell safe, they pose no threat. He creeps forward. One spies him, one of their pups – a chubby, furless creature.. She reaches out to him, and as he has done many times in many dreams and many lives before, he bows his head and lets her touch him. He licks her hand. She giggles and pats his head again. Soon, he will join her by the warmth of the fire, lay his head in her lap, crawl into her den. Others of his kind will be welcome here. The prince becomes a willing servant, a wolf only in a dream within a dream within a dream…

Writing Prompt: To Be Remembered

One of my students writes a lot about people whom she has known – old teachers, co-workers, and people from her hometown. She writes with compassion, but she also writes truthfully and sometimes the memories she recalls aren’t all that flattering. Recently, she had the chance to do some research through old yearbook to learn more about an old and unpleasant acquaintance from childhood. She was fortunate to have run into someone who had in her possession a yearbook with the woman's photo. I wondered how many people cared about this woman, who frankly was not at all likeable from my student’s portrait. How many had formed a lasting impression of her? And, yet the impression left on my student was strong enough for her to write and conduct research on this woman many years later. What if that’s the only impression left of her?  I thought. It should make us more careful of our actions because we never know what the impact will be or the impression we will leave.

That was Thursday.

Friday evening I attended an art reception at the AVA Gallery in Lebanon, N.H. Two of my photographic collages, Nymph and Truths, are on display and for sale in their holiday show. While browsing around the displays, I saw a couple I knew. The wife I had interviewed for several business and art-related events over the years and the husband, a well known graphic designer, was one of the first interviews I had ever done. I had written another article about him years later, but the first one was my favorite. I remember chatting with him forever and learning so much. He was warm and friendly and his demeanor and build came to remind me years later of a mentor and counselor of mine who had played a very important role in my life. So when I saw the couple at the show I ran over to introduce myself. I barely had to say anything and the husband was already saying “You interviewed me over 20 years ago, you had a little dog that meant everything to you.” He touched his heart as he said everything.

“Yes,” I said, “Buffy, (my first dog)” surprised that he remembered that all these years later. Surprised and touched. If there is one impression I wouldn’t mind leaving people with it is this; there are far worse things and few better to be remembered as than a girl who loved her dog.

Writing Prompt: How would you like to be remembered? What kind of impression do you hope you give?

Big

For those of you who missed my earlier post, Big and Rob are a pair of Scottish Highland Cattle that are popular tourist attractions for travelers on the Route 4 corridor in Killington, Vt. The pasture where Big and Rob hang out was destroyed by Hurricane Irene and their owner, Craig Mosher, has worked hard to reclaim his property. I just finished writing an article about his reclamation and recovery efforts and Big and Rob's adventure roaming free for a few days following the storm. The piece will appear in an upcoming issue of Rutland Magazine.

I have more to write about today, but it is late, so please tune in tomorrow. And, don't forget to stay tune for the Great Common Thread Give-a-way on Monday, in which one of my photographic collages will be the featured give-a-way item. In the meantime, enjoy Big's vibe. For an 1,800 lb. beast, he is quite laid back and chillin'. Even during the storm as the river rushed toward him, his owner claims Big stopped to much on a passing tree. Priorities, I guess or someone who knows how how to take it easy. A good example to follow in any case.

Writing Prompt: Jackpot

Score! Jackpot! In a busy, crowded parking lot, this already fattened squirrel had won the Powerball. It seemed someone had left some food on the narrow strip of grass between the parked cars and the sidewalk and Mr. Squirrel was busy claiming his prize.

I spied him as I left the bookstore and snapped a pic or two with my cellphone, but his proximity was so tempting that I decided to dart to the car and grab my camera. When I returned, Mr. Squirrel took off -- treat in mouth -- for the tree, climbing up where he assumed he was out of reach. From my hands maybe, but not from my camera. I pointed upward and started to snap when Mr. Squirrel made a move down the tree and then suddenly flew toward me. I felt like the Paparazzi being  slugged by an angry Sean Penn. Squirrel leaped out of the tree and straight at my face, but fortunately my camera lens was there to protect me. He then scurried off. Rather than being frightened I burst into laughter. Mr. Squirrel was brave and daring and I was rude and invasive. Still, I wouldn’t trade the joy we shared in those few moments – he over a prized treat and me over a prized photograph.

It had been a hard morning. I had traveled over an hour to Burlington to talk to the allergist about my scary reaction to an allergy shot and had to be back to teach. The bookstore was my brief break and reward in the day. It was too brief and I was in too big a hurry. Earlier at the doctor’s office my heart rate had been off the charts. Mr. Squirrel made me stop for a minute and share in his pleasure. We may not be able to know everything animals think, but I am sure of two things: 1. Mr. Squirrel was mighty happy with what he had found on the ground, and 2. Mr.Squirrel was none too pleased with me.

I hope somehow my laughter as he hurried off was able to convey across our species divide the pleasure our encounter gave me, and I hope he doesn’t carry a grudge.

Writing Prompt: What makes you smile? Write about it.

Drive-Thrus

Back when my pug Vader was alive going through a drive-thru of any kind was a real experience. That’s because Vader saw every drive-thru as a McDonald’s and McDonald’s meant Fillet O’ Fish, his favorite treat. He loved them so much that on the day he died, I took him through the drive-thru one last time and let him eat away to his heart’s content. I’m not sure he had ever tasted them before that; he used to practically inhale them. But on that last day, I saw him really savoring the last bite, not able to finish the third fillet I had purchased.

Because Vader loved his fillets, going to the drive-thru bank was problematic. He would start to salivate and moan and whimper and bark believing that instead of cash and a dog biscuit, the window held the promise of his treasure. The dry, old milk bone that the teller offered with a smile hardly sufficed and he would bark so loudly and whine so badly that I would have to make the 10-mile trip, one way, to  the closest McDonald’s.

Vader is gone, but going to the bank hasn’t gotten any easier. Perhaps Alfie remembers Vader’s behavior and what it produced or perhaps she and Waffles find the sight of the teller too exciting, but as we approached the drive-thru today the two started screeching. Alfie was hopping up in her car seat and Waffles throwing herself at the window in the hopes that she would slip out of her harness to freedom. The teller smiled a sinister smile as if she were immensely pleased that she was safe behind the window glass. She offered two tiny dog treats, which rather than appeasing my duo, set them off on another frantic rush at the glass. I drove off without counting my money, my car screaming.

I’m not sure what’s happened, but my two charming little female pugs have become treacherous gremlins as late. You know, like in the Steven Spielberg movie – “Don’t ever feed them after midnight?” Yet, while little Gizmo came with this pertinent instruction, I have no idea what has set my two off.

Before Waffles came, Alfie was finally bidding her puppyhood goodbye. She has become a seasoned couch potato, the perfect writing dog, always by my side or my feet. When Waffles came the two became enamored with each other, playing together, sleeping together. I almost could have gotten so jealous if it wasn’t so cute. There’s been a little adjustment with Waffles – I still can’t stop her from tipping over every trashcan in the house – but overall it seemed like she was fitting right in. I couldn’t tell who was top dog, the two seemed to take turns relinquishing their food or toys to the other, but I figured they’d work it out.

A few weeks ago things began changing and I’m not sure what changed. Alfie turned into a whirling dervish, always alert, always panting. She and Waffles play like mad, but suddenly Alfie is not seeing or hearing me at all. The two have stopped eating unless you lock them in their pens and sit with Waffles. You can’t take them for rides in the car without them going ballistic. If Alfie gets loose, she refuses to come to me. My sweet, best friend doesn’t seem to care much for me at all and sometimes it hurts.

Today, I was ready to pull my hair out. After going through the drive-thru, I turned to look in the back and saw Alfie had toppled her car seat and was hidden beneath it. Waffles was panting and snorting badly as if she might faint and I suddenly realized she had managed to wrap her seatbelt around her leg and if she moved much more she might break it. At that moment, my father called on my cellphone to report on my mother’s doctor’s appointment.

“What the heck’s that noise?” he asked. I’m not sure if he was referring to Waffles hacking snorts or Alfie’s frantic panting. As he went on talking about knee braces, osteoarthritis and surgery, I tried desperately to untangle Waffle’s while body blocking Alfie who was ramming her head into my side to get out of the car.

“Um, I think I’m ready to sell them,” I only half-joked.

Seriously, I would never get rid of my dogs, but I have to wonder what happened to those idyllic visions of a peaceful life spent with animals. These two are definitely not acting like man’s best friend and I’m not sure what has set them off. Most training books would probably trace it back to me, but I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong.

I have decided to probably forgo drive-thrus for a while, at least to the pecking order is established and the screaming has stopped.

Our Companions

Today I visited my cousin Christy. She has two girls in her life. Her dog, Willow and her seven-month-old daughter, Madison. Although I didn’t get a picture of them together, I watched the two play – Maddy in her Johnny Jump-Up, Willow at her feet, offering a toy. Christy says that Willow has given up on bringing her toys to play with and instead brings them to the baby. She showed me a video of the two engaged in such an exchange. I loved watching the interchange between these two species – dog and child, the trust between the two. Funny, that two such very different species not only coexist, but also, so amiably exist, together.

The Biblical tradition says we once dwellt in a peaceable garden where we communicated with the animals and God walked among us. Perhaps our dogs, so often referred to as man’s best friend, are a reminder of those days – a gift from God to keep us company in our exile, companions until the lion lies down with the lamb.

The Christmas Story

My Christmas tree is pink and my theology unorthodox, which is why after the last glass pugs, paw prints and Best-in-Show ornaments are hung on the tree and my Santa Pug tree topper placed on the table (it is too heavy for the artificial limbs), I sit on the floor with my pugs and unwrap my Nativity scene.

The pugs sniff at the box and the crumpled newspaper that hold the figurines. First, I unwrap the stable, purchased at Wal-Mart years ago – the smallest and quaintest I could find.  Its roof is mossy. A rustic, wire star hangs from a nail at its peak. I peel back the papers and take out the three black, porcelain pug figurines – Mary Pug, Joseph Pug and a third, perhaps one of the Three Wise Pugs? Finally, I take out the black pug puppy in the manger, gold halo on his head and blue bird at his feet. I special ordered these online shortly after I got my first black pug, Vader, 14 years ago and each year I set it up on the table beside the tree. I let my pugs nose the figurines and in the candy-colored glow of the multi-colored lights, I sit and share the Christmas story.

I tell my pugs how once someone very big became someone very small and vulnerable, appearing in a form that we could understand to bridge the gap between us. My pugs sit in my lap enjoying the warmth and the sound of my voice. They are tired from the excitement of the tree and the hanging of the ornaments. They are willing to listen as I explain that at that moment, in a stable meant for animals, heaven met earth, so one day all creation could be restored. Waffles licks my hand and Alfie sniffs my eyes, twice in each eyeball before letting out a snort and spritzing my face. I call these her love snorts; it’s more likely her way of checking on me. I pet both their heads, fingering the figurines and placing them one at a time in the stable. The Baby Pug Jesus goes in last. When I am done I say a prayer for long lives for both my dogs. They stretch and get up to play. I do not worry about people who may question my theology or my sanity; I figure this oft-told Christmas tale, the ultimate love story, is big enough to encompass us all.

Sketch Give-a-Way

I'm launching another give-a-way this week. This one is for two 5 x 7 i-pad sketches called Ever Faithful and Saint and Sinner, featuring the divine and demonic sides of pugs/dogs. In order to qualify for a chance to win just leave a comment on my blog this week. I will announce a winner next Sunday. Please spread the word.

Also, for those of you who missed out on my Pug & Petals Greeting Cards, I have added them as a boxed set for sale as well as individually in the gallery section of my web site.

Thank you to all of you who have visited the site thus far. Come back for more pug tales in the days ahead.