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We had a great day at the dog show. My friend Joan showed her pug Lumpi in Veterans and I showed Alfie in American Bred. Alfie received a blue ribbon in her class. It was hot and Alfie seemed very nervous, balking on standing on the stacking table. The judge was patient and Alfie rallied right around, which made me very proud of her. It was a big improvement from last year and another one of the handlers commented on it. An even greater compliment, however, was when a spectator asked me about the breed, saying she was interested in a pug. She chose to ask me because she remembered me and Alfie from the year before. She said she noticed how attentive Alfie seemed to me and how well adjusted and happy. This was awesome because here we were with all these show pugs so highly attuned to their handlers and yet this woman remembered Alfie and me because she seemed happy. I love that we gave off that impression and I think Alfie was happy. She seemed interested in the other dogs and in getting out and doing something with me. I tried to have her photo taken by the professional photographer at the show, but it was difficult. Instead of looking straight ahead to the camera, she kept trying to turn to look behind her at me.
I think we'll be doing another show in August.
I believe in horse racing, in order to equalize the chances of the competitors, horses are sometimes given a handicap -- lead weights carried in their saddle pads. I'm not sure if my family was trying to equalize anything, but growing up conversations with my father, grandmother, uncles etc. often contained a handicap -- extra emotional baggage attached to almost any subject. These weights remain today. I call them the stickies, and after years of growing up in such a charged environment I grew receptors like Velcro ready to lock onto such content. Nothing was simply what it was. A friend could not sell a farm or take a new job without me having to explain why he might do so, and me, always falling short of a good explanation. A move was not a move, a sale not a sale, extra emotions were applied to the situations like sadness or grief, and the emotions were seldom happy ones. The one friend should not sell his farm; that is sad. The other friend was working to leave his job. He should be thankful to have a job. It didn't matter if the friends were happier to be moving on in their lives. It didn't matter that I was simply trying to relay some information. I frequently assumed the shame and guilt of not being able to adequately explain their reasoning. And, so I learned to take on these emotions and they weighed heavily, a lifelong handicap.
I like that dogs do not wear such baggage. They shake things off. When I brought Alfie to the pool the other day and took her in the water, she swam to the steps, jumped out and shook herself dry. A few weeks ago she was balanced on the back of the sofa when she drifted to sleep and fell. I was scared she might have hurt herself and indeed she looked a little stunned, but she got up off the floor, stood and once again shook vigorously before trotting off.
We have all heard the expression "shake it off," but it is not always an easy thing to do. Some things just seem to stick to us. Dogs don't let things stick. They know how to shake things off and romp and do not let things weigh them down. They seem to walk lighter on the earth and when I am with them I feel lighter, too. The only thing that that sticks to me from my pug is her fur and that is a handicap that I can embrace.
Worked with Alfie today getting ready for Saturday's show. She looked pretty good on the stacking table, but then I took her to the vets this afternoon to get her nails cut and her distemper shot and she acted terrified standing on the table there. She practically collapsed on all fours and her little tail went down. Granted, the vets is not the show ring, but she was not about to let the vet look her over, something the show judge will want to do. I'm hoping it was just the sounds and smells of the vets that got her jittery and that she will be better behaved come Saturday. Turns out my vets are going to be on hand at the show, so they may get to check Alfie out. We had a great time during the visit once Alfie got over her nervousness and warmed up to the vet techs giving her snacks. Everyone was making over the show pug and it reminded me how fun this can be.
My latest collage. I call it Kaleidoscope.
I'm hoping to post a picture tomorrow of Alfie training for the show ring. She is going to be in the Green Mountain Dog Show in Tunbridge, Vt. on Saturday. It's been awhile since her last show and to be honest, we haven't been very diligent in practicing and she wasn't exactly an old pro the last time around, but the show is close to home and it's a chance for me to do do something with my dog. That's what I keep telling myself and don't I sound nice and relaxed? I'm not.
Let's table the discussion on why I'm so attached to my pug for now and ask an even more pressing one -- why would I ever want to show her? Have you ever been to a dog show? These people take their jobs seriously. Most are professional handlers meaning they do this for a living. They practice for hours and show week after week, traveling around the country in air-conditioned mobile homes. They carry their dogs to the ring and keep them wrapped in cool towels until it is time to show. They do all this to walk around a ring for a brief few minutes for the chance of getting a ribbon and some points toward a championship, but boy, do you have to walk in a right way.
Conformation shows are all about how a dog stacks up against a physical standard or ideal for their breed, but a lot of attention is paid to how they "show," which often falls squarely in the lap of the handler. In this case namely me. Only, it's not all my fault, I want to shout. You see, taking your not-very-well trained dog to the ring is somewhat equivalent to taking your misbehaving child to the middle of a busy mall with everyone staring as it throws a temper tantrum. You're embarrassed, for sure, it is your child after all, but kids will be kids and dogs will be dogs and sometimes no matter what you do, they are going to act up. It just so happens they often choose to do so in very public places.
Alfie, for example, knows the routine when we're at home. She practically stacks herself (the formal stance assumed by a show dog), prances around our makeshift ring and lets me run my hands over her on the stacking table. Get to the real ring and she practically spins on her lead, clamps her mouth shut when the judge approaches and looks like she has no idea what is expected of her.
So why did I sign up to do this again, I wonder? When I first got Alfie I was excited to discover she had an amazing pedigree on her sire's side, tracing back to Tugboat Willy, a well-known name among show pugs. After years of helping my friend Joan show her pugs, I thought it would be fun to have a try at showing my own. The thing I forgot was that queasy feeling in my stomach every time I helped Joan out.
Nerves, I could conquer, I told myself and set about training Alfie to be a show dog. But while other people do this full-time I am doing it part-time. I took a few handling classes and instead of traveling in my spiffy mobile home, I usually arrive in Joan's cramped van, five or six of her pugs traveling alongside me. Instead of arriving the day before to relax and check out the show grounds, we usually arrive 20 minutes before the show (if we're lucky), tired from an all-nighter spent in the van. We maybe do four or five shows a summer. If we were to get really serious, we'd do it every weekend all season long, maybe more often than that.
But in my own way, I am really serious. I know we'll never beat the professionals and at this rate probably not even earn a championship. We may win a ribbon or two, but that's not really the point. For us the point is in the doing, in the trying, in learning to work together. I have no idea if Alfie enjoys walking around a ring, but she seems to enjoy being with me, getting her treats for a job well done. And, I who have never felt quite at home in my body enjoy the sense of pride I feel when we make it out of that ring, job completed, knowing we at least took a shot. For a moment, we are part of something larger than ourselves, we are part of a pack; each taking part in the show.
Alfie
Hmm, a lot of interesting response to my post today and I've been encouraged by some (namely my Esteemed Writers' Workshop Leader) to delve deeper into my attachment for pugs. No doubt I will likely do this in the days ahead, but not tonight.
One of the things I love about pugs is that they don't seem to think too hard and although I can only venture as to what might be going on in their heads, I doubt they have any concern over why they are attached to me. I'm not saying they are dumb, they're not, but other than an overly stressed look that usually crosses their faces when they are begging for food and worried that this time they may not get it, they seem to utterly enjoy the moment and not sweat it too much.
This is not the case with me, although I wish it were. I worry too much and I think too much and to be honest, I am seldom accused of not going deep enough. Truly, I have spent a lifetime overthinking and over-worrying and over-wondering over just about everything. That's why I think my pugs are good for me. They are the antithesis of all this. They make me laugh. They are good company. They do not give me time to dwell in my own head.
Take tonight for instance, I am curled up on my bed with my laptop intent on reading up on attachment theory and pets to see just what my Esteemed Leader is driving at, when Alfie, my two-year-old fawn female and sole pug at the moment, jumps up on my keyboard demanding my attention. She has a bone and wants me to play the game -- is it a game -- I'm never sure what role I'm supposed to play in it -- where she drops her bone and I look at it. Then when I take it, she tries to get it back. But, if I ignore it, she just sits there staring at it.
Tonight I give it a half-hearted look and she must know my spirit isn't in it because she picks it up in her teeth and drops it on the keyboard and then jumps on the keyboard alongside it, stretching her head up to plant a big, wet kiss on my mouth. In the process, she shuts down the Word document I am typing and messes up the audio CD I am burning. It doesn't seem likely I am going to get much done tonight.
Just as I'm warming up to worry about all this, she jumps off the bed and tucks in her rump to do that swift, tightly-wound circling that pugs do that I have heard called "the butt run." My former pugs, Buffy and Vader, were masters of this, each able to tuck their butts under and go in clean, fast circles that rivaled the Tasmanian Devil. Alfie is short and small and can never seem to tuck her body under enough to gain the proper momentum, but she tries very hard.
Those of you who have a pug know exactly what I'm talking about, those of you who don't will just have to witness it one day. I'm not sure if other dogs do something similar, but whether or not they do, there's just something hysterical about seeing these short, stout little creatures performing these donut-like spins. Pugs are not exactly aerodynamic, so it seems a miracle of physics to see them move this quickly and thus, always elicits a laugh. You cannot help but laugh. So, I watch her and I laugh and she turns faster, spinning herself right into her nearby crate. And, I laugh harder because she seems surprised to find herself there. And, she stops and looks at me then plops herself on her butt, almost Lotus style, exposing a Buddha-like belly. And, I laugh and look at her and wonder what I was doing and realize it doesn't matter because for just an instant, I am outside of myself. And, it is easier than prayer or meditation to transcend the confines of my mind and experience in this moment love and laughter and Bliss.
Vader
I sat down to lunch with friends one day last month and in a non-offensive, matter-of-fact way the wife said, "I don't get the pug thing." The husband, in turn, asked, "Why pugs?"
I didn't have a ready reply. A couple of months ago I interviewed the board of a local pug rescue and asked them a similar question. I received a lot of funny replies that you often hear among the pug community -- "Pugs are like potato chips, you can't stop with just one" or "Pugs are proof that God has a sense of humor." Cute sayings, but they don't really say anything, at least when it comes to explaining the appeal of pugs over any other breed of dog.
The other day, a new friend from this blog, "Vinny the Pug," replied to this question with a metaphor: "Pugs are very much like 'Jazz.' When the late Louis Armstorng was asked, 'What is Jazz?' Armstrong's reply was 'if you have to ask, you won't understand the answer."
A better answer, I thought, one that helped explain my own inability to formulate an adequate response -- I can't explain because it is something intangible, something that if you have to ask you wouldn't understand. Still, at least when it comes to my own personal response, I still can't help feeling this is a bit of a cop out. Why pugs? What is the pug thing to me?
A part of me thinks that I may have loved any dog to which I was first introduced. After all, I wasn't crazy about the idea of a pug when my younger brother brought one home. I was worried she would bother my beloved cat and besides the only image I had of a pug was a snaggletoothed one in a Harley outfit on the front of a Hallmark Greeting Card -- aren't they kind of ugly? I thought. Then Paul brought Buffy home, a tiny, precious little wisp of a thing that jumped up in my lap and barely left my side for the next 13 years. She has never left my heart.
I had a psychology professor who asked all of us in our class what our transition objects were -- those items like Linus' security blanket or a favorite teddy that we kept and whose giving up signals our turn to independence -- he analyzed us from our answers and told us a bit about ourselves. Mine was indeed a favorite teddy, actually a stuffed Boxer dog named, Sam, that my Grammy gave me when I was just a baby and who I still have to this day. I took him everywhere until I became concerned that he might get lost and would be safer left at home. My professor said that from this story, he could tell I was a very nurturing person, and so I think, I may have nurtured any little creature that jumped up in my lap and stayed there no matter how funny they looked, maybe even because of it.
But would I have been as crazy for another breed of dog? Would I have put their name on my license plate, attended socials, screeched to a halt and jumped out of my car to assault fellow pug owners with a stream of questions and oohs and ahhs? The other day I embarrassed a friend at a stoplight when I leaned out the window of our car and yelled into the open window of the car next to me, "I have a pug, too!" just because I saw a decal reading "I love pugs" on the rear window. My friend seemed even more surprised when the happy pug owner next to us smiled, waved and honked her horn in acknowledgment. What is this pug thing that makes us act this way?
The husband at the beginning of this story, suggested that it is not really about the dog, but about the people; that certain types of people are drawn to certain types of dogs. Thus, much in the way we are often told we look like our dogs, perhaps we act like our dogs, too. He suggested pug people are enthusiastic, friendly, outgoing and I agreed, he is right. And, yes, so are pugs. They are enthusiastic, happy little clowns who love people, seem to love to make them laugh and yes, happen to love a good meal, too. Another thing with which I can identify.
Yes, I think it is about the people, but also about the dog. The pug motto is "multum in parvo" which supposedly translates to a lot of dog in a small space or as we often hear, a big dog in a little dog's body. And, it is to the pug's chutzpah that I am drawn. At 5' 4" and ______lbs. (no, I'm not telling) I sympathize with the pug stature, but more so with their guts -- they do not shrink, they aim for more than what is expected of them. They are bigger than their circumstance.
My first real pug, the one I chose for myself and did not first choose me, was Vader. I went to pick him, almost 14 years ago, from a breeder who would become a friend. He was to be my Independence Dog, the one that would venture out with me into my brave new adult life. Yes, I was in my thirties by then, so some would argue that I was already an adult, but my twenties had been filled with illness, financial troubles and family situations that kept me from being able to claim the life I wanted. With Vader, I pictured moving forward to my own home. My friends might be marrying and making families, but I'd be staking my own claim in the world with my dog.
Things didn't really turn out like I expected on that front either and I am still waiting for a house of my own, but I made a life. From the time I walked through the doors of Vader's breeder's house I became part of something bigger than myself. I found a community of friends, I traveled places I never would have gone, I learned about life and death from watching puppies born and old pugs die. I entered a house filled with magical creatures and found a home in a realm we dub "Pugdom." Maybe it could have been another breed of dog, but it was not and somehow I don't truly believe it ever would have been. There are many breeds of dogs with many admirable qualities, but I have chosen a big dog in a little dog's body as my own and together we are aiming to be something more.
Like a wise man once said, and Vinny the Pug repeated, "if you have to ask, you won't understand the answer.
Waffles
Okay, now that it's established I'm a pug slut, it's time to turn the tables and address a new subject -- commitment. What happens when you get tired of playing around and begin to think about giving your heart away to that one special pug?
It's you I'm talking about -- you with the big soulful eyes and tight curly tail. You won me over with that coy tilt of your head and sly, little butt wiggle. Now I'm thinking of making you mine. But I worry. Sure, we're having a good time now, it's all fun and games, the romance is on, but at the end of the day we still return to our own homes.
What happens when we share one? When those kisses and little love snorts turn to drool and slobber and all-night snoring? What happens when your cute little furry body becomes a big, sweaty lump taking up All the space in my bed at night? Don't worry about it you say, staring at me with eyes that seem to see straight into my very soul. But I know the drill, it won't be long before all you want from me is food on your plate and to clean up after you.
Is this a match made in heaven? Maybe yes, maybe no. It doesn't matter. Good or bad, I think I just may be in it for the long haul.