Baby Steps

When I finished college and my Master’s Degree I worked one day as a salesperson at a clothing store before looking around for newspapers at which to work. I started working as a proofreader and writer for a local business paper and soon turned it into a freelance career. I eventually began teaching memoir writing to others, encouraging them to tell their stories, to find their voices. Occasionally, I wrote personal essays for the local paper, but mostly I concentrated on journalistic pieces, saving my stories, my distinct point of view for Christmas letters.

Then I began to snap photos, create scrapbooks, take up my art again. Soon, I was showing and selling my photos and digital collage and I realized my stories were leaking out, not in words per se, but in images – the pugs and nieces and nephews I cherished were taking center stage in my work and their stories and my feelings about them manifested in spite of my verbal silence. So, I started this blog and a Facebook page to share my photos and occasionally wrote a sentence or two to describe them.

One day I received a call from a writer telling me about a writers’ workshop he was starting, so I applied and was accepted and soon I found myself blogging about the pugs in my life, my work and my photography. Suddenly, I had a voice, but it’s a bit of a challenge figuring out what it is I want to say. It’s like taking baby steps and teetering here and there. I find myself challenged to give context, to explain why this world of dogs and pugs in particular is important to me, to inform readers of why they should care. 

I know there is a story to tell about the home where I got my pug Vader, the place we call “Pugdom” and his breeder, Joan, a widow with a fascinating past living alone on the top of a mountain near Sugarbush ski area in a sprawling house with a heck of a lot of pugs. Her story is interesting, in part, because she was a concert pianist who toured the world only to return and settle in Vermont with a score of pugs. She even received her first pug from Clement Attlee, the former prime minister of England. Entering her home for the first time was like falling down the rabbit hole, but just like Alice, I found myself in a magical land, one complete with kings and queens and funny court jesters all clad in the disguise of flat-faced, curly-tailed pugs. To me her home became a microcosm of emotion – a place to witness birth and death, struggle and survival. It is not easy to be an older woman living alone in rural Vermont. It is even more challenging with a household of pugs. There is a scripture verse in the Bible that says, “..as you have done onto the least of these, my brothers you did unto me,” and I always feel that this applies to my friend Joan and her pugs and perhaps just as importantly to me. I go there often to help her, to help care for her pugs and learn from her care of them. Sometimes, I feel as if I am the lucky one, that I came looking and searching for something – friendship, meaning, purpose, a place to belong, creatures to care for and nurture, and sometimes I feel as a result, it was I, not them, who was “one of the least of these” and I am the one this magical place propped up and embraced.

So this is both my backstory and the beginning of my tale, the context for what I am starting to try to share. Why should anyone care? I believe one of the best things about our relationship with animals is that they teach us empathy. We may over emotionalize or anthropomorphize them and there may be harm in that, but I think there is also hope – we may fall short of getting it right, but we are trying to reach beyond ourselves to connect with something foreign. Pugdom is a unique and foreign place, a home with more pugs than people and the challenges that come with that. It is also a place where I have learned compassion, empathy and not to judge. There is joy and freedom to be found in defying convention and choosing one’s own path. And, I think we should care because that’s what we all want  -- to not be judged for who we are, to have our own voice, to write our own stories.

Jane and Sadie

My friend Jane adopted a pug, Sadie, a few months ago that was turned over to a rescue after her lifelong owner died. Last week, Jane brought Sadie to the vet because her eye was swollen. Sadly, the vet diagnosed Sadie with a tumor in her head. This week her face looks misshapen. The vet suggested putting her down right away, but Jane brought her home. Sadie has not shown any pain, she has been bounding up and down the stairs and across the lawn and eating with gusto. She responds to her name and begs to be lifted up on the couch.

Jane worries, however, about what might happen next. Will she know if Sadie is in pain, when will the time come to put her to sleep? Surprisingly, it is not an easy decision and one that we do not often have with humans. Animals cannot express their wishes in this matter. If they were in the wild, left to their own devices, they would not have the choice.  When my 14-year-old pug, Vader, lost the use of his legs and began to soil himself and get severe bedsores, I had to decide if it was his time to go. If he were not a pet, this option would not be a question. He would not be able to hunt for himself. Yet, he was a pet and so is Sadie and it is not nature or fate that gets to decide their outcomes, but us as their owners.

Vets and friends often have more objectivity, urging us to ease our pets' suffering. Some suggest that prolonging their lives is for our benefit not theirs. Maybe, maybe that is true. So many humans believe that if they were in the same situation they would rather die than suffer or live in a helpless or painful state. My mother always says she would not want me to keep her alive if this were the case. My 91-year-old grandmother says she would like to hold onto life no matter what. It seems an individual choice and not one we can impose on another or another's pets.

Even in his last week of life, Vader feasted wholeheartedly on McDonald's fish fillets. He basked out in the sun. He watched my nieces and nephews with apparent interest as they played around him. When I propped his head up in a dog stroller, he stared out over the edge at his familiar haunts. Was he sad, melancholy, content? I may not know for sure, but on his last day, I sat with him under a tree looking up to the heavens. I could feel his body move gently up and down with every breath as he snuggled next to me. We gazed up at the leafy green canopy above us and at the dappled light peeking through the branches and warming our faces. We shared a lifetime in this moment. I may never know if it meant as much to Vader as it did to me, but I heard his soft pug snorts, felt the nuzzle of his nose in my armpit. He seemed content and I felt loved. All I can say is I hope Jane and Sadie get to share such a moment.

Saint and Sinner

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No sooner had I written my post espousing the virtues of my pug when her long anticipated fly magically materialized. Ah, I thought, a miracle! A perfect testament to the diligence of faith. Alfie trusted and like Abraham and Moses in the Old Testament she was rewarded for her faith. Instead of the Promised Land, she received the Promised Fly buzzing around her head as if summoned by her watchful gaze. How exciting to witness this blessing!

Alfie seemed caught up in the moment as well. She followed the fly with her eyes and then jumped up to the head of the bed to get a closer look. Before I knew it, she was standing on her hind legs reaching skyward in adulation. The Promised Fly! Her tongue hung out, her eyes glazed over and in an instant she leapt in the air, her jaws closing on the tiny creature. She swallowed it whole in one gulp, even licking her chops in satisfaction. Then, she sat back on the bed, her murderous frenzy at an end. She returned to staring at the ceiling expectantly, waiting yet again for another just reward. In under a minute my sweet pug had gone from saint to sinner and back again.

I sat reeling from this theological dilemma, so happy only moments before to hold my pug up as a model of steadfastness, content to see in her a faith we all should live by. Confounded, I found myself comforted by scripture: Romans 3:23, “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God…”

Ah, my Alfie, no worse than me, no worse than any human. And, perhaps in this act, too, she still could serve as a spiritual model. Although she had fallen and given sway to the power of sin, and in typical pug fashion, gluttony, she did not wallow in it. Unlike we humans, who so often allow guilt and shame to keep us in a piteous state, she dusted herself off, exchanged her pitchfork for dented halo and resumed her walk of faith.  Still, an example I could follow.

Ever Faithful

Hebrews 11:1 reads, "Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see." If this is the true definition of faith then dogs must be the holiest of creatures. We humans spend endless hours attributing emotions to them, debating if they have souls, running scientific experiments, but there is something to be said for simple observance.

Have you ever observed your dog waiting for something it expects? Snack, owner, chipmunk, bug? As I write this my pug, Alfie, is at the foot of my bed, staring up at the ceiling looking for a fly that I haven't seen in days, but every night there she sits looking up, certain it will return. When I leave her behind for a day I am told she waits faithfully for long stretches in the hat basket by the window, looking out, watching expectantly. If I am gone too long she will leave to eat or play, but diligently returns to her post. When I am eating at the dinner table there she sits, looking up at me with big wide eyes that seem to be trying to hypnotize me into giving in to her demands. I tell her, no, wait, sit and she does, but she still looks certain I will give in and I frequently do. Some might call this begging, I call it spiritual practice akin to prayer or meditation. She knows that food is coming. She knows I will return. She knows there is a fly. She knows that if she just waits, what she hopes for, what she expects will come to pass. Remember faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. By that definition Alfie is a saint!

Pug Woman

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I went to see Batman tonight. I have to say I loved Anne Hathaway as Cat Woman. It made me think about symbols – how the Dark Knight chose a bat as his symbol, a mysterious creature that lurks in the darkness. Cat Woman turns out to be a cat burglar, slick and stealthy.

I started to wonder what symbol I would choose if I were to become a superhero, when my mother suggested the obvious choice – a pug!

Pug Woman, of course! Sure, I could master the coy head tilt, the seemingly meaningless running in circles, butt tucked under, the hypnotizing master stare that says “Give me Food!” But, what virtues does a pug represent? Loyalty, stubbornness, clownishness…According to the American Kennel Club, pugs are even-tempered, playful, outgoing and loving. Admirable qualities, but how do these play out when it comes to fighting bad guys?

Last night Alfie became quite ferocious when she thought she saw a giant Bad Guy on the bed. Her fur stood on end, she growled, barked and attacked. She put on a good show. Only thing was, the Bad Guy turned out to be a pillow bearing a larger-than-life-sized image of a pug. Tonight, she seemed to have forgotten the evil scoundrel and sat next to “him” on the bed, waiting for a snack. Based on her example, I think if I were Pug Woman, I’d likely be fighting bad guys from the sofa, after lunch. Come to think of it, that’s just about my speed. And, I just thought of another plus, pugs even come with their own mask so I wouldn’t have to put myself out making a costume either. 

The Unseen Dog

Alfie

 

I am the unseen dog, but I have been there from the beginning. You wanted to take me home from the time I first curled up in your lap, but you were committed to another. So you brought her home, but thought about me and wondered if you could take two. You purchased two crates, the same size, in case you decided to return for me. You then chose not to use a crate, but an x-pen so there would be more room for me alongside the other in case you brought me home. But, she was wild and you thought not now. Still, you brought family to visit me and talked about making me yours. You left space for me in your home and I continued to fill your  heart. But time passed and she was growing and your older dog was weaker and it didn't seem the time. So I waited, but I was there. When he passed you thought of me, the unseen dog that you took home two years ago. The unseen dog, begging for your heart. It's time to make me yours.

The Secret Spot

Obviously, this is not a picture of me, but I feel as if it captures my spirit. It is a picture of my niece, Tori, and my pug, Alfie, prancing across the plot of land my family calls "The Secret Spot." It is my land, 10 acres, where one day I hope to build my house. But before it became mine legally, it belonged to my grandparents, part of the acreage that accompanied the one-room schoolhouse that they grew into a camp and in turn, a home.

They purchased the schoolhouse in Bethel, Vt. back when my mom was young and they would travel up from Long Island to visit there. The Secret Spot became her spot, the place where she would run to be alone, pray, write songs. Secluded, it hid from the road, an open meadow dwarfed by sentinel-like trees.

After I was born and I heard the family stories, I somehow adopted my mother's Secret Spot as my own. My grandfather, BZ, would take us grandchildren for walks there in the evening with kerosene lamps and we would catch fireflies in a jar. Like my mother, I would go there to cry and dream and I dreamed of a day when I could call this land home.

When my grandfather died and my grandmother decided to sell the schoolhouse, I claimed this land as mine. She subdivided giving me my plot and selling the schoolhouse to my brother. I plan one day to live here. When I first adopted Vader, I was sure he and Buffy would make their home here with me. It didn't happen in their lifetime. Buffy, Vader and Mira passed, but Alfie is here now roaming the field with Tori and the ghost of the child I was and the dreams of the future that remain. One doesn't need a house to call a place home.

Crazy Love

Alfie visiting Joan

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Last week one of my students wrote an essay about her pet cat that became ill and how she went to great lengths to save it after it helped her survive the tumult of her divorce. “I don’t usually share this for fear of being labeled pathetic, another crazy cat lady,” she said.

I have joked on this blog about my own fears of being a crazy pug lady. My cat-loving student, who comes from a dysfunctional background, noted that abused people are often drawn to animals and some experts on the human-animal bond suggest people turn to pets when we can’t find emotional fulfillment elsewhere. I know that when I entered Joan’s house years ago in search of my first-real dog, my “independence pug,” I was in search of community and I found it.

I wonder, however, where the “crazy” label comes from. Do we as a society think the search for connection is an insane pursuit, that somehow a person is not quite right because they turn to cats and dogs instead of people even when people fail them?

It seems a hypocritical notion. Everyone turns to something – food, alcohol, God, sex. We are born to connect. Even the Bible says, “It is not good for man to be alone.” So, we seek out what we can. Perhaps that is something we share with dogs – the need to be part of a pack, perhaps that is what drew them out of the wild and into our caves and led us to embrace them.

Does the idea of crazy enter when one is deemed to go too far, when the bond with animals replaces that with people all together or when the sheer number of animals becomes too many? Is it crazy to go to pug socials and hold kissing contests? Is it crazy to own 18 dogs? What is the line and who determines it? Do we know it when we see it or are we scared we won’t, so we label the whole kit-and-caboodle insane?

I’m not sure I have an answer, but I have an opinion. I think we are lucky to have a cat to help us through a divorce or a dog to keep us from being lonely. I think, given the alternative, we would be crazy not to love such creatures.

Puppy Love

Too tired again tonight to write much of any value, so I am leaving you with another pic of Joan and one of the new puppies. All five are well today including the runt, "Batman," who is lively and eating. This is one of his siblings.

 

Many of you expressed interest in my I-pad drawings. I am having fun with them and hope to do some more. For those who missed it I am using an I-pad app called Brushes.
I entered Alfie in another dog show in Keene, NH today to take place at the beginning of August and hope to also do one in Saratoga, NY the week after.

Alfie and I had the chance to visit with Waffles yesterday when we were at Joan's to see the puppies. Waffi tried every chance she could to jump in my car so I guess she is ready to come home with me whether I've decided to take her or not. I'm actually thinking of bringing her home in August.

Pug Pups

When I went to Joan Foster's house 14 years ago to buy my pug Vader a whole new world opened up to me. While I had already fallen in love with the breed after adopting my brother's pug Buffy I had had little exposure beyond her. When I entered Joan's house, I entered "Pugdom," a kingdom ruled by these foreign, curly-tailed creatures. They were everywhere. I relished learning their names and how to tell them apart. I loved hearing their stories and pedigrees and most of all I loved seeing them born.

Joan calls the little ones "peeps" and last night Griffles, the sister to Waffles (the pug I plan to adopt) had a litter of six. One of them died and we are left with five -- four boys and one female. The little runt (pictured above) reminds me of a tiny bat, so I've been calling him Batman. Naming the litters is an important job at Pugdom. Each litter has a name:  the Umps, for example-Lady Lorelei Lump, Countess Connie Crump, Baroness Bonnie Bump and Dr. Poohbah Gump. In the last litter born two years ago we had Waffles, Truffles and Griffles. This litter does not have a name yet, but it is already becoming part of Pugdom. We have called our friends, others who own Pugdom Pugs, and sent out word, heralding their birth. Now we watch them grow. In the days ahead, they will open their eyes, learn to walk. They grow quickly and we will pick out new homes, but we name them first before sending them on their way because once you enter Pugdom, soon you belong.