Sugar Plum Fairies

I’ve been writing. I’ve been writing web copy. I’ve been writing articles. I’ve been writing Christmas cards and scrapbook captions. I’ve been writing blog posts.

I’ve also been drawing and I’ve been painting. I’ve been snapping photographs. I’ve been creating. And, this is good. Creativity, I believe, breeds more creativity. But, you still can grow weary. I realize I reached my “creative cliff” if you will, when last night even my dreams ran out of steam.

I’ve been hearing a lot about dreams lately – my sister-in-law at www.yourmomisstrange.blogspot.com has been keeping a dream diary chronically some psychic phenomenon. My friend Maria Wulf has been writing about dreams as part of a healing, soul retrieval process you can read more about at www.fullmoonfiberart.com. My dreams, on the other hand, have become utterly mundane. They need no interpretation. Worried about a looming article, I dream of handing it in paragraph by paragraph to an editor who not only rips it apart, but demands more. Anxious about meeting a friend I have not seen in awhile, I dreamed that I was late for our appointment. Wow, how inspiring is this?

Tonight I had plans to write my annual Pugdom Christmas letter chronicling the comings and goings of the pugs at my friend Joan’s home and post it here, but the words alluded me. They’ve all scattered to the far corners of my mind where they play a scribe’s game of hide n’ seek. I’m left with an empty page like an empty room and I’d probably call it a day and sit and watch the X-factor, but I’m determined to at least put something on the page. This is it. Tonight I may dream about having to post on the blog and having nothing to say, but maybe not. This is the season of magic and mystery, where sugar plum fairies dance in our heads. So 1-2-3- elusive words and deeper meanings – ready or not here I come.

On the Run

We're on the run over here at Pugs and Pics trying to meet deadlines, write Christmas cards and letters, make gifts, etc. etc. etc. Tonight I wrote web site copy for some relatives, helped type my brother's homework and tried to complete some online Christmas orders. I need to be up in the morning to sit by the phone in hopes that an interviewee gets enough cell signal to call me so I can talk to her for an article. I'm supposed to meet a friend tomorrow evening and I can't quite figure out where to find the extra time I need in my day. And, while my back is turned and I am focusing on all that needs to be done, my pugs are creating their own fun. Tonight, for example, Waffles bit a hole right through the middle of my brand new shoe. No moral, no point here, just a glimpse into a very busy life. It's that time of year and I'm pretty certain I'm not the only one experiencing the hustle and bustle of the holidays. My best piece of advice, breathe, time passes quickly, and, if you have dogs like mine, hide your shoes.

Tough Guy

Yesterday Shim was young and tough. Not just tough, but the toughest of them all. Those who don’t believe in a pack hierarchy, who say the concept of Alpha dogs went out with wolves, have never met Shim. He was the one dog kicked out of Pugdom, my friend Joan’s home, because he couldn’t get along with other males. He picked fights with all of them and the only way to keep from drawing blood was to send him away. But not too far. Shim went to live with our friend Jane, who only had females and thus, everyone could live in peace.

She tried to show him, but if there were males in the ring, she was out of luck. He just wouldn’t get along. Jane took him to an animal communicator after one show, but what was said has slipped from my memory, probably because it did no good. He remained our Bad Boy. Jane tried calming herbs to no avail. Shim was young and tough, but that was yesterday.

Today, he is old and has mellowed. The mellowing happened slowly, over time. And, not to a point where we could ever say he was truly tame, but the aging? When did that happen? Yesterday, Shim was young and tough. Today, he can’t walk. He has lost the use of his legs in much the same way that my pug Vader did. So, when I saw him last night at my friend Joan’s and he began to whine to go out I went to him. I scooped him up and took him outside, holding up his rear in just the right way so he could relieve himself without soiling his front legs. I bent over him as he took his time, my back aching, my legs shaky and I felt thankful for the opportunity to serve him in this way.

There is a grace that often comes over elderly dogs, replacing what time and illness robs from them. Although they suffer the indignities of age, they gain a peaceful demeanor as if they have already moved beyond this world and found an understanding that we lack. I am privy to this now and I wish that he could talk to me and spill his secrets – tell me what you have learned Shim, I might ask. Tell me what happened to yesterday and how you ended up here.

And, as he finishes and I carry him inside and watch as he struggles to position his useless legs beneath him, I think, be tough old man, be tough.

In the end...

Every year I create a scrapbook for my friend Joan, Waffles’ and Vader’s breeder, and every year I send out a Christmas letter for her chronicling the deaths and births and other happenings at Pugdom, our name for her house. She never asked me to do either, but after repeatedly peppering her with questions about the myriad pugs that had come before, and learning that many of the details had been lost in the haze of life, I decided a scrapbook would be a good idea. Then, after seeing litters born myself, helping to name them and witnessing old ones pass away, I knew how much I cared and understood how many others might as well. So I appointed myself unofficial Pugdom Historian and the job title stuck.

As the years have passed I have found how relentless that haze can be; time and the hustle and bustle of daily life often swallow the details of memory and clamp shut their jaws, so now while I still tend to remember who has come and gone, I often have to confer with Joan and our friend Jane to confirm the details. Joan has gotten so used to me sending out her Christmas newsletter that this year she gave me names of random people who had called inquiring about puppies to add to the list. I do not mind. It is a role I cherish although I have difficulty formulating exactly why.

“Is it just about the pugs?” someone asked me a few weeks ago, referring to my friendship with Joan, this blog, my writing. And, the answer to all is the same: “yes,” “no,” “yes.” They have come and gone in Joan’s life – show pugs and rescues, puppies and old-timers. Pugs remain a constant even as the individual dogs and friends and husbands have passed on, and something about having seen these creatures as the individuals they are makes me want to mark them, make note that they were here. They lived good lives, they gave their love. They should not be lost to the haze. Although they can’t speak in words, they were not without a voice. They may have relied on us for food and care, but they were not victims. None of us are. We were their stewards and I want to remember their faces and their quirks, although they moved through our lives too quickly.

I know there is also a psychological root – my own desire for a voice, my nurturing of my own inner child, Joan of hers. I like caring for these creatures, tending them, giving them voice, noting as I would like to be noted, that they were here, that they mattered, that we all do. I like their survival stories – the rescues who arrive having escaped a hardscrabble existence; the geriatrics, having survived the passage of time; the puppies setting out into the world full of hope and promise Their years will pass quickly. I admire their independence, the part that we cannot touch. They may need our care, but in the end, they are their own souls. I may not have gotten all I needed as a child or even as an adult, but in the end I am also.

When I come to Pugdom, I hold church with my own wide-eyed, curly-tailed congregation. I pick up blind Ghanny Man and sing Amazing Grace, my voice always rising with the words, “I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see.” There are those that question the existence of a dog’s soul and those who do not. I walk among the pugs belting Christmas carols, cutting nails, bending down to lift them up and cuddle them close. I pray for those who are sick, I offer Christmas blessings. I glide through the rooms at Pugdom, socializing with the young and ministering to the elderly. It is a congregation of love and I return and I chronicle because I find in this communion between dog and human, between Joan and the brood she cares for, between me and the aid I try to give to her and this pack, something akin to holy ground.

It is a genesis for me, the beginning to understanding. Pugdom is a microcosm of birth and death, a lifecycle played out before my eyes. I learn how to give and how to let go. I am my brother’s keeper. In caring for these creatures and in chronicling their story, I discover my own. The years pass quickly, time devours us all. In this haze, what better mark to leave than a song in the darkness, the hand of a friend, a note of a name, a wag of a tail, an act of love for another, whoever that other may be. In the end it is about the pugs. In the end it is about each other. It is about finding the love we crave through the acting out of the same. It doesn’t matter whether it is dogs or humans, whether we are combing matted fur or helping a friend feed dogs and stave off loneliness for an evening. Love is love – in giving, we receive.

Off to the Big Apple

 

I'm headed to NYC and won't be returning until Sunday. I may try blogging from my iphone, but have not done so since the new site is up, so we'll see how it goes. In the meantime, I'll leave you with this pic of Waffles in front of my magenta Christmas Tree (and no, this still isn't our Christmas Card, but almost!) Have a wonderful weekend. Thanks to all of you who are supporting the blog and my work.

Winter's Nap

Writing Prompt: A Wag of a Tail

I intended to include a sketch with this post, but for some reason the email with it attached has not made it from my I-pad to my computer and both are quickly running out of batteries, so I'll post the sketch of Alfie and Waffles napping in front of the stove tomorrow. For now, here's the post. Waffles stares, so does Alfie. But when Alfie stares into my eyes I have the feeling she is trying to communicate with me. Her eyes are brown puddles of love. Waffles stares at me in the imperious way of cats. I have written that there is something decidedly feline about her. She is independent, her affection metered out on her own time. She stares and I wonder what she is thinking. She seems to be assessing me.

I have known Waffles since she was born, but she has only lived with me since August, so we have been getting better acquainted, figuring out where we fit in each other’s lives.  I love her, but I don’t know her. A few months after she joined me, I noticed something. She and Alfie were standing in front of me and I was talking to them.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” I asked. Alfie cocked her head as if to say, “What are you saying?” I said it again and her butt started wiggling, her tail started wagging. Waffles seemed excited. She jumped up and fell back down her paws whacking Alfie’s back, but she did not wag her tail.

I tried something else. “Waffles, do you want to play with your toy? Where’s your ball?” She stared hard and then ran off to get her toy, but she did not wag her tail. I reached down and pat her head when she returned. She tilted her face to look at me, still no wag. I tried food. Didn’t work. Waffles doesn’t wag her tail, I thought. And, I wondered was she happy. Would she ever learn to be?

Over the last few weeks, we have been getting better acquainted. She has started to stake her claim over certain toys and spaces. She has even been seeking me out to jump in my lap and give me the occasional kiss. Sometimes I think she is trying to escape Alfie’s insatiable play drive, other times I think, maybe, just maybe she really wants to cuddle. Mostly, she still stares.

Today, I found her in one of her favorite haunts – in front of the red Vermont Castings stove in the entryway. She sits in front of it and bakes, her black coat becoming too hot to touch. “You’re cooking,” I tell her, but she remains, stretching out and exposing her belly.

I decided to get down on the floor with her and pet her as I used to when she lived at her breeder Joan’s. There, she would sprawl out on Joan’s bed instead of the floor, but she always loved a massage. This time was no exception. The more I pet her the longer she stretched out. And, then I noticed it – an ever so slight twitch. Her tail was wagging. I removed my hand and the twitching stopped. I placed it back and it began again. “Waffles, you’re wagging your tail,” I exclaimed.

It was a tiny thing, almost imperceptible, but like a wave approaching shore, it gained momentum and caused my heart to swell. A tiny tail wag, but a big statement. My aloof little girl was happy and in her impenetrable eyes I finally thought I saw small pools of love.

Writing Prompt: When did you know you were loved (by person or pet, parent, significant other, friend, etc.) What were the signs?

Peekaboo Painting

 

When I was younger I used to draw and paint all the time. When it came time to apply to college, I had to decide what I wanted to major in and I chose art. I applied to schools with that major in mind and was even accepted at Rhode Island School of Design. Instead, I chose Middlebury College and after two semesters in the art program decided to quit because I didn't like the fact that the critiques were making me lose my love for art. It wasn't that I couldn't handle the criticism, although that is never fun, it's just I found all the analysis and critique was robbing my joy of something I really enjoyed doing. I continued to draw and paint on my own, but life and work seemed to get in the way and it wasn't until recently when I discovered photography and photoshop and collage that my desire to draw returned. I began printing out my digital collages and adding drawings and pastel accents and suddenly I found myself sketching on my i-pad. Recent, I decided to break out some paint and try my hand at it again.

A while back I posted a photo of my pug Alfie hiding among some flowers. I loved the "peekaboo" quality of it and thought it would be a fun subject for an "off-the-cuff" watercolor. Actually I should say gouache.  I always end up treating my watercolors like acrylics and piling on a thicker layer of paint because I like the texture. It was fun to use real paint and paper again. There is a different feel from a stylus against a tablet, a different type of energy. I find I enjoy both.

Calendar Girl

 

A while back my photo of the Lincoln Barn in Bethel, Vt. made it into a juried exhibit at The Darkroom Gallery in Essex, Vt. The gallery recently asked  if they could use the photo in their 2013 calendar. Today, I found out that the calendars are out and available for sale for $12.99. They feature images from a year's worth of gallery exhibits at The Darkroom Gallery and are an excellent way to support a small, but vibrant and vital Vermont art gallery.

Remembering May

On this hot May day, a week before Vader’s death, the sun breathes strong upon our necks like a welcome lover. We bask in its whispered promises. Tori, my four year-old niece, and I are headed off into our shared world of wonder and imagination. We are taking Vader with us. He is failing. He has lost the use of his back legs and now his front. He can no longer use his doggie cart and a sore has appeared on his front leg. We place him in a doggie stroller and push him to the small grassy island of flowers across from the house. We lift Vader out and place him in a secret pocket carved amidst the flowers.

“Vader is going to have to go to heaven soon,” I tell Tori.

“When?” she asks.

“In about a week,” I say. Vader labors in the heat, but I want him to have a moment outside. I prop his head up on the stuffed yellow dog he has loved since he was a baby.

Tori, decked out in her fairy wings, leans in planting an angel’s kiss on his head. “We’re going to miss him,” she says matter-of-factly. “Why does he have to go?”

“He’s old,” I tell her. And, tired I see now.

“Oh, poor Vader,” she says. She doesn’t cry. Instead, she kneels in the grass beside him. I snap their photo – stealing a cherished moment out of time’s clenched fist.

Now, on this December evening, near the end of the year, I search my hard drive for photos to place in the annual scrapbook for Vader’s breeder. I stumble upon this picture of child and dog, angel and fairy. To look at him now I see his withered body, the glassy eyes already staring beyond this world, I feel a twinge of pain because I can see how ready he was to go, how little of him remained here. I know I kept him longer than many would, unsure how to end this life. But, I also see him through love’s eyes and I remember his soft breath, his ceaseless cravings for fish fillets, the way he’d raise his head and stare directly in my eyes as I bathed his weary body. Back then I saw his tender soul and wondered who am I to choose his fate? In a week he made his journey. We miss him as Tori predicted. It is December now, but in the end, I choose to remember May – the sun, the fairy, my dog and me setting off on a grand adventure.

I smile now because I know a secret– in an ocean of time that rolls endlessly forward, exist tiny islands outside the daily flow. A small triangle of grass standing at an intersection of town roads becomes a garden hideaway, a magical world where a sweet young girl and a precious dog revel in the sun and the whispered promises of life.