Appreciation

I received a big order from a local pug rescue for some of my pug note cards last week. Today, I packaged them in their boxes and shipped them out. It was a day of getting caught up on a lot of things. The rain came down in torrential sheets for awhile this afternoon, but it was a good excuse to stay inside and pay bills, send out invoices, file articles, and organize my calendar. I realized that the AVA Juried Art Show closes at the end of July when I'll be away on vacation, so I decided to call them and ask if they could hold my art until August. When I gave my name, the woman at the other end of the phone offered some more unexpected good news -- my photo collage, Reflective Stroll, sold on opening night! Neither the big order of note cards nor the sale of the work yielded a fortune, but it is affirming to have my photography and artwork appreciated.

It's also wonderful to hear from the individuals who own my work. I've been meaning to mention one such person for a few weeks now. Vicki wrote to me the last time I was a featured artist in the Common Thread Give-a-way and I was so moved by her comments about one of my collages that I decided to give her one when she did not win the box of cards in which it was featured. Not long ago, I received a card from her in the mail. I opened it, read it and found the picture on the front appealing. I placed it in the basket where I keep my mail to file it later and it was only then that I noticed the logo on the back, Bedlam Farm. It wasn't coincidence I'm sure, since many of the followers of this blog have come here from referrals from Jon Katz and Maria Wulf, but it was neat how a card she had received from them, two people who have supported my work, found its way back to me in gratitude for my own.

Bloom

Deadlines loom this weekend. I have three articles due at once and have largely spent the last three days at the kitchen table transcribing recordings of interviews. Rain has been falling off and on throughout the week and while I have sat inside working, the plants in my father’s garden have grown and bloomed.

Dad wanted tomatoes and cucumbers this year; one of only a few attempts at gardening since we lived here. A few years ago, he decided on tomatoes just in time for a tomato blight to strike the region. Yet, in his eagerness to plant his garden this time around, he seemed to forget that he would not be home. Dad travels for work and thus, the ongoing maintenance of his garden became mine. I purchased a watering can, graduated to the garden hose, battled an unwavering onslaught of weeds and even borrowed four tomato cages from my best friend to ensure the plants would not topple under their own weight. Today, on a break from the rain and my work, I went outside to discover the cucumber plants had begun to flower, a marigold-yellow blossom peeking out amidst the green. It grew under my hand, but changed under my nose while I was busy with storms and work. Life happens that way -- all our efforts eventually yielding a surprising result. Growth leads to blossoms and amidst the rain and because of our work, we bloom – bright, yellow and glorious.

Encountering the Handyman

Early each morning before the rest of us are even awake, Sam, the handyman who has been overseeing the renovations to the upstairs bathroom lets himself into the house. The pugs, still sleepy, largely ignore him. Sometimes Alfie barks her gentle woo-hoo. Waffles opens one eye. Sam glides through the house like a dancer barely making a noise. He has become part of the scenery to the pugs; not one to bother about. If they are loose as he passes through they may acknowledge him by running up and standing on their hind legs to sniff his knees. They greet everyone this way – with sniffs and snorts and high-pitched squeals. Alfie, my watchdog, has a purpose in her shenanigans. She seems to examine guests, catalogueing them in her “Book of Scents and Identifications.” Waffles becomes excited in sympathy with Alfie. “She’s barking, so should I!” seems to be her overriding thought. Both, however, seem to primarily regard Sam as a piece of furniture, par for the course,  nothing to get worked up about.

All that changed yesterday. Sam was passing through the kitchen just as the pugs came in from outside. They ran in happily, their hindquarters shaking from side to side so frenetically that their rears almost touched their noses with each sweep.  Glimpsing Sam they ran to greet him with their customary snorts and sniffs. That done Alfie stood watching him, her mouth open, tongue half out, panting. Sam suddenly turned from his work, paintbrush in his hand and addressed Alfie.

“This one sometimes barks at me in the morning,” he addressed me, gesturing at Alfie with his paintbrush. She started and looks amazed, moving toward me like a young toddler seeking its mother’s reassurance. “He talked to me,” she seems to say. “He’s never done that before. Did you see that Mom? He talked to me. What do I do?” It might seem unfair to assign such thoughts to a dog, but from my all-too-human perspective, the message seemed all too clear. I couldn’t help but laugh. Furniture doesn’t talk, but Sam was not furniture. He may have become part of the ebb and flow of our daily lives as he works to ready the house for Mom’s approaching surgery, but as Alfie’s encounter indicates, we should not take him for granted.

Attending a Reading: A Dog Walks into a Nursing Home

The Norwich Bookstore was filled to capacity tonight when my best friend Sheila and I walked through the door.

“Did you make a reservation?” the young woman at the door inquired.

“Did we have to?” I responded.

“Yes,” she said. “But you can sit on the stairway.

We climbed the steps took a seat and looked down to watch author Sue Halpern and her therapy dog, Pransky, wind through the crowds to the front of the room. We were there to hear a reading of her new book, A Dog Walks into a Nursing Home, about her therapy work with Pransky.

I, of course, was drawn to the reading by my interest in everything dog, but also by the fact that Sue Halpern is a teacher at my alma mater, Middlebury College, and is married to climate change guru Bill McKibben. From my high perch on the steps I had a wonderful view of Pransky, a golden Labradoodle with whom I and the rest of the crowd fell quickly in love, but once the introductions started Halpern seized my attention in her own right.

I hadn’t yet read the book, but I can’t wait to do so, as this is more than another dog story, though Pransky and her work are prominently featured. As Halpern talked I learned her book is organized around the seven virtues.

“What do you do at the nursing home?” one of the members of the audience asked and Halpern’s answer was very revealing.

“I soon learned it was not about doing but being,” she said.

She explained how while she was looking for something to do together with her intelligent and active dog, her own interest in memory led her to want to work at a nursing home where many people were dealing with dementia. She had a selfish reason as well. People with dementia don’t always look ill and the thought of working with people at the end of their lives or suffering from serious illness did not appeal to her, causing anxiety at the thought of confronting their and perhaps her own mortality. She soon found herself, however, working with that population and soon realized that while she may have been nervous her dog was anything but. She was just happy to be with the people who were happy to see her.  Halpern sensed there was a story in all this and suspected that a patient in the nursing home would eventually reveal themselves and share a gem of wisdom from which a book would be spun, a la Tuesdays with Morrie perhaps. Halpern noted that this didn’t happen. The story she realized was about the collective experience of all these patients and their effect on her dog.

“I started to ask the big questions such as how do you live your life?” she said. “I began to ask myself what am I learning?”

These questions soon led her to ask more – was working at the nursing home an act of charity or an act of self-interest?

So often dog books are viewed as something frivolous, something to be dismissed as part of the new cultural obsession with everything canine, but seldom have I encountered a dog book that is simply just about being a cute dog. Many like Halpern’s seem to address larger issues. Interestingly, dogs seem to have a way of making us more human. I can’t wait to read Halpern’s book and discover more about her journey because each dog book seems to take me on my own.

Under the Bigtop

Taking Waffles to the vet yesterday was a bit of a circus. First, I decided to take Alfie along and get her weighed while I was there so I could figure out how much flea medicine to buy. Bringing Alfie with me automatically doubled the chaos. You would think my dogs never leave the house. At the sound of the leash, Alfie started yipping and yodeling; both she and Waffles spinning in circles around my legs. Waffles began panting in the snuffling/snorting way that only pugs can do. Within seconds she sounded worse than any lifetime smoker and I was sure she would die. Since I hadn't originally planned to bring them both with me, I hadn't put their seats in the car, which meant getting those out of the garage and buckled in while Waffles and Alfie went to work hog-tying me with their leashes. Unraveled and undone, I loaded  the pugs into their seats, making sure to put them on opposite sides to where they sat last time, since the two always manage to crisscross, tangling themselves in the process. By the time I got to the front of the car, they had already made the switch back to their original seating position. I couldn't win. I rolled down the windows to let in some air as Alfie's tongue was already hanging down to her feet and Waffles snorts had become asthmatic gasps. When we got to the vets, the vet tech claimed she could hear them as we drove up.

Surprisingly, the pugs tugged on their leashes and rushed for the door as if they were off on a hunt. Once inside they began barking as loudly as possible at all the other dogs, cats and staff they encountered. I tried to place first Waffles and then Alfie on the scale, but they kept jumping off. Alfie weighed 20 pounds then 19, then 20 again. I couldn't get her to sit her plump little rump down long enough to get an accurate reading. Waffles was much the same, although she looked like she might faint. Once in the office it took two vet techs to hold Waffles down while they clipped her nails. Meanwhile, I got a serious lecture about keeping them cool during the heat. I had a feeling, the techs considered me a careless parent as they listened to the pugs' heavy breathing. "They don't do this at home," I tried to assure, but I'm not sure they could hear me over all the snorts and squeals. As I tried to take Waffles off the table and make the switch so Alfie could get her nails trimmed, the pugs seemed to begin a gymnastic routine, circling and falling all over each other as they practically did somersaults. I expected Alfie to whip out a clown's hat and start squeaking her nose. "They're so well behaved," I joked.

The one good thing about the whole experience is that we caught Waffles hot spot early and were prescribed medicine to dry it up. The vet suggested it may have been caused by taking her swimming in the kiddie's pool the day before. So while the whole event seemed akin to being under the bigtop, the diagnosis at least brought some calm.

No one had informed my pugs, however, that the circus was over. Instead, the two chose to make a dart for the open door in an effort to circulate among the crowds and draw more attention. Although my pugs may never pass  as model patients, I'm sure they could fill the roles of circus barker if anyone should be in the need for one.

Book Review: It's Just a Dog

 

Book Review:

I love dog books, but I admit some are better than others. Russ Ryan's It's Just a Dog is one of those. The thing is I wasn't expecting it to be. Before I turned on my Kindle and began the first page, I had pretty low expectations. You see I knew nothing about the book or its author other than the fact that it was a novel about not only a talking dog, but a talking ghost dog! I seldom turn down a dog book, that's why I'm reviewing them here on the blog, but my taste typically gravitates toward memoir not gimmicky or cutesy talking dog stories.

Ryan's book is neither of these. It is at once heartfelt and hilarious! And, cleverly engaging. I fell in love with the voice of his protagonist dog painter Charlie Keefe from the get-go and would have continued to the end just to listen to him tell his story, but there is more to this book than a charming style and amiable narrator. The plot may be a wee bit light and episodic, but this book has heart and like all the best comedy, a bit of soul as well. Any dog lover will identify with the emotions of Charlie, who loses and grieves for his dog Petey (who must be put down while he is away on vacation) until said dog reappears as a ghost.  Charlie welcomes him back with open arms as any dog owner would. Ryan, who admits in the acknowledgments to having had a Petey of his own, manages to deal with grief and the loss of a beloved pet without getting schmaltzy, in a way that is both fresh and fun. The actual plot is secondary and maybe a little light for some readers, but as an artist myself I had to admit I identified and enjoyed Charlie's career challenges. I also thought his romantic entanglement to ring true, but what delighted me the most were the emotions familiar to all dog owners that managed to make me both smile and empathize with Charlie's plight. Ryan may have entitled his book "It's Just a Dog," but this novel is anything but your typical dog story. It's a fast and fun read with hidden depths.

Book Description:

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 - Part Book, Part Blog, ALL DOG, (Okay, there may be a few cat videos, too, to show some love for the other team!)

Buy the book from….

Amazon.com – printed book

Amazon.com – ebook

Barnes and Noble

About the Author 

Aside from being a dog lover and a dog widower, RUSS RYAN has written and developed screenplays with the Hollywood producers of American Pie, Final Destination, and Fireflies in the Garden. He was also a writer on a really bad teen comedy, National Lampoon’s Repli-kate, starring Eugene Levy. This is his first novel.

In addition, he is the creator of Meansheets, a vintage movie poster blog that focuses on the greatest artists and illustrators from the 1940′s-1980′s.

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1.	Monday 24th June - I Heart Giveaways
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I received this book to review through Beck Valley Books Book Tours, all the opinions above are 100% my own.

 

printed book          ebook version

Hot Spot

I'm scheduled to travel to Glens Falls tomorrow to meet with my web designers about some future plans for the blog, but just about an hour ago I noticed a nickel-sized spot on Waffles where her fur is missing. It looks relatively dry, just her skin with a few darker red dots. I think it's probably a hot spot, a case of moist eczema in dogs that is more common in the summer. I have seen Joan's dogs get them at times and know it is possible for them to spread quickly, although this is not always the case. I've also seen cases where pugs have become ill very quickly from bites, scratches and hot spots because of bacteria trapped under the skin, so I think I'll call the vet first thing in the morning. I'm hoping that I can work out getting Waffles checked and still making my appointment in Glens Falls.

Being Near

I experienced two deaths this week -- the grandmother and matriarch of a family with whom I am close and my 94-year-old great aunt. There was a huge funeral for the first, while my great aunt will have a tiny graveside service Monday with only a few family members in attendance. In both cases, the grief experienced belonged more to others than myself. I loved my great aunt, but she had been in a nursing home for almost a decade, having lost most of her mind to dementia. She was not the type of person who would ever have wished this for herself (who would?), but in a family of three sisters, she prided herself on being the intellectual. She felt my grandmother was the pretty one, and by being an artist, writing poems, participating in myriad church and community groups, having strong opinions on culture and politics, that she had a role to fill. Leaving behind a good obituary was more important to her than an actual funeral service. My grandmother is the one truly feeling the loss. This was her last surviving sister, now she is the only one of her generation left and at 92 her own mortality must weigh heavily on her mind. Today, she reminded me, “you are my precious granddaughter, I want you to know that.” I do.

The grandmother of the boy I love was not someone with whom I was close, but she set the rhythms of his family. Holidays and visits were about going to Grammie’s, seeing Grammie, making sure Grammie was all right. Like an old family clock that chimed regularly to tell the hour, her family dinners and holiday gatherings foretold the comings and goings of this clan. And, while I knew she would be missed, I was not prepared to deal with my boy’s pain. He choked back tears at the funeral home because he is a man and the eldest grandson, and he does not make a display in public. So I sat with him in our stiff backed chairs, our bodies pressed close together, my arm around his back, his around mine as people chatted around us and looked upon each other with sad and soulful eyes.

In these moments, the eyes talk the loudest, saying more than words. They hold tears and smiles and questions and comfort, because few words would do. Words are good for so much – explaining, informing, sharing, letting another know that he is not alone, but when it comes to pain, they are a mild elixir, at best . So I sit and sit some more until decorum causes him to rise and serve his function as pallbearer. We follow the line of cars to the burial site, good soldiers all in a row, acting out the order of nature – life then death. And, on a bright Friday noon hour, I stand near him to bid his Grammie goodbye. We return to her house for food prepared by others. Stopping first for a picture – my friend, my brother and I. The three of us have not been together like this in years. Once we rode on wind and music through the night, enjoying the concerts of our youth. Today, time and responsibilities have claimed us, but we gather and we pause and we return to the home that his Grammie left where everyone changes clothes, eats food, and reminisces. We fall back into the rhythms of life.  Still, I sit by my friend and call my own Grammie. I show love simply by being near.

At the Funeral

I stand in the funeral home

Near the boy I love

And his family

Thinking about death

And life

And the passage of time

Each day a small glass bead

Strung onto a chain

precious, transparent, delicate

slippery

too soon each slides to the floor

in a heap

And, we try to scoop them up

In pictures and

Memories

Remember when Mom was young?

That’s you as a baby…

Was that your graduation?

Her wedding?

Your prom?

They roll between the cracks

And under the furniture

And lodge in dark places

Where each of us holds them

Stringing them on

To new chains

That’s what we’re left with

That’s what we’re given

A legacy

Of slippery glass beads

That roll into our

Hearts and

Break at the strangest of times

Leaving sharp shards

That both cut and comfort

And, I reach for his hand to hold it

As I stand near the aging women

Once beautiful

And, the young women

Once children

And, see how little we

Change

Because things looked different

Reflected in glass

Our future held in

its transparent orb

that shows everything

But the slippery truth

I stand in the funeral home

Near the boy I love

And his family

Thinking about death

And life

And the passage of time

And how it both cuts

And comforts

Because what it cannot show

or ever reflect

Is the face love takes

And, how it will look

with age,

wearing the scars

we carved

And, the grace

we gave.

Busy as a Bee