Writing Prompt: The Fingerprints of God

The apocryphal Gospel of Thomas includes a passage that reads: "Split the wood and I am there; pick up the stone and you will find me there."

I understand these words, for it is in ordinary moments that I find God. I watch my pugs at their dance: a commonplace conversation to them, the mysterious, the profound to me. I am on the outside as they talk, privy to something beyond my understanding.Alfie grabs a toy or a rose petal in her mouth and Waffles comes for it. Alfie bows her head to the right, lifts her left paw and gently brushes Waffles' face. Waffles approaches and filches the bone or the toy or the flower from Alfie's mouth. Sometimes Alfie relinquishes it as if this is the expected outcome, sometimes she engages in playful banter. They speak. I bear witness.Sometimes it is just animals talking, sometimes in their conversation I see the fingerprints of God.Writing prompt: Where do you find the profound?

Smelling the Roses

On these soggy, autumn afternoons she drifts to the back stoop, you on her heels. You almost trip her as you rush the door. What are we doing you ask? What exciting thing is ahead?

She basks in autumn's dance between slate and rust, gray and gold, not moving from the steps. Sun breaks through like a spotlight, illuminating forgotten corners of the yard. You wander off to investigate, discovering mushy piles of fallen leaves and other smelly things. You savor their wet, earthiness. Nothing could be better. Your girl is nearby.

You check on her often, sometimes with a glance. Sometimes running back. She fusses with an object on the steps. You race to her. A container, holding pastel petals. You sniff. Are they good to eat?

They might be. These soggy, autumn afternoons with her are drenched in possibility. Life smells of food and fun. You bury your nose in velvet. Heaven!

Creative Time

A friend just sent me a message that she was jealous of my creative time. So that's what you call it, I thought. Of course, today was not a good example as I had no time to myself having spent the morning at the ENT in Hanover, N.H. and the afternoon getting a pneumovax titer in Randolph, V.t. But yesterday, home sick, I had plenty of time on my hands. I didn't feel up to doing much, however, I'm not one to let time go to waste -- that's how I accomplish creative endeavors -- in bits and pieces: sketching a drawing in the wee hours, snapping a picture between phone calls, writing a lede over breakfast. So, even while I sat at the kitchen table snorting saline solution and holding my aching head in my hands, I couldn't help but seize an opportunity when I saw it.

A few weeks ago my mother had told me about a site called Dog-Shame.com http::/dog-shame.com/. It also has a facebook presence at https://www.facebook.com/dogshame?ref=ts. The site basically asks people to submit photos of their dogs caught in shameful acts: tearing apart a stuffie, jumping on the table, begging for food. You are then supposed to write a note in the voice of the dog fessing up to the shameful deed. The photo gets posted on the page where people comment, vote, enjoy. As soon as she told me I knew I had to catch Waffles in one of her misdeeds. Her favorite is knocking over trashcans. I kind of forgot about the whole thing until opportunity presented itself. There, sitting at the kitchen table, I heard the dull thud of the large Rubbermaid trashcan hit the tiled floor. Sick as I felt, I reached for my camera and paper and marker, wrote the note, taped it to the can and righted it, so I could snap a photo of Waffles knocking it over again.

I knew I wouldn't have to wait long. Waffles trashcan tipping happens probably 20 times a day. She waits until she thinks no one is watching, sneaks over, peers in, then applies some pressure, rocking it over. If she can't get it to budge she lets out a war cry, circles around and tries again.
The challenge, however, was my stuffy head. I forgot to adjust the camera settings so my pics kept coming out blurry. I positioned my chair close to the can so all I had to do was lean over after each failed shot and right the can again. Then I just had to turn my head away or bury it in a book and a few seconds later, bang! But, I had to have my camera ready. If Waffles saw me with my camera aimed, she thought I was looking, so the trick was to be quick. That's how I spent my creative time yesterday.

And, I'm not sure why. I knew all of this was fodder for the blog, so it was not lost time, but I can't quite explain why it was so important for me, amidst tissue and cold medicine, to capture a photo of my dog doing something I shouldn't be letting her do in the first place. Somehow, although my ears hurt and I was worried about all my neglected tasks, this struck me as fun. It seemed like Waffles was enjoying herself as well. Instead, of hearing my "No, Puppy! Down, Puppy!" I was actually helping her out in her task. And, Waffles definitely deems this her task. It is a job for her. Every morning I hear the domino effect as each trashcan in the house falls over one by one -- thud, crash, bang! She doesn't root around beyond an initial glance, she just wants them tipped over in expectation of a big score.

So, this is how I spent my creative time yesterday and this post and hopefully a pic on Dog-Shame is the result. I do a lot of interesting things with my dog -- attend pug socials, enter kissing contests, dress in matching costumes. I travel 60 miles or more to dog parks so they can run for 20 minutes. I have literally "Gone to the Dogs" and I can't quite explain the payoff. I think the outings, the socials, the doggie play dates expand my sense of community, but yesterday as Waffles and I played tip-the-can no one was around. It was just me and my dog engaged in our own creative endeavors. While we as a society may never quite figure out why that time spent together is so appealing, I know it is never a waste.

Feeling Social

It's hard to pinpoint a favorite moment from the 10th Anniversary Green Mountain Pug Social. Because I was sick, I arrived late this year and didn't enter that many contests. So, no Pug Kissing or Fanciest Costume awards this year. Alfie and Waffles both ran in the Pug Races, which is always a highlight -- seeing those chubby bodies run with butts tucked and ears flying is a hilarious thing, an act of valor and redemption for those non-athletes among us. You don't have to be aerodynamic to win!
The costumes were amazing and imaginative. Here, is a sample of my favorites. One family dressed up the Star Wars clan complete with Jedi fighters, Princess Leia, and of course, a Yoda pug. Another fave? The group from Alice in Wonderland -- White Rabbit and Mad Hatter among them.
I donated two photographs to the silent auction and was happy to meet the family that took home my photo called "Blue Smile" of my pug Alfie.
My favorite part of the day, however, had to be the end of the event after the contests and races had died down and everyone sat quietly on the lawn waiting for the Silent Auction, Chinese Auction, Quilt Raffle and Poop Raffle winners to be announced. It reminded me of those Sunday School scenes from the Bible where people sat quietly on the hillside listening to Jesus. Although there was no Pug Messiah present, a general peacefulness descended on the tired crowd.
As the sun died and the air chilled, pugs snuggled in wagons, baby carriages, blankets and laps. Owners slunked down in the grass beside them. People seemed happy to just sit and share in each other's company. You could hear a shriek of glee here and there as people won their favorite treasures. Joan bid on a print of a Pug Gnome, one of the last items announced, and was the proud winner.
I scampered around taking photos of the resting crowd. And, of course, I do not exaggerate the only pugs not snoring or sitting pretty were ours. In our x-pen, Alfie stood on tip-toe panting wildly, scratching to get out. Waffles and Joan's Tar Baby let out long woeful banshee screams and hollers.
"You're pugs are ferocious," one neighbor announced to me as Tar Baby and Waffles screeched and growled at their pug, a big, black who barely moved the whole event.
"No, they're not," I defended. "They just sound that way."
I don't think she believed me. I eventually put all of ours back in their cars, windows down, and came back to sit on the grass and stare at another sleepy, black dressed in a Harley Davidson outfit, who was making himself at home first in his comfy chair and then by his owner's foot.
As tired as we all were, as ready as some of the pugs were to get home to dinner and their beds, I don't think any of us were happy when the last prize winner was read. It was the kind of day where everyone was feeling social, caught up in a shared moment of bliss.
And, in the car our pugs barked on....

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Day of Rest

I have 85 email messages to read, hundreds of photos from GMPR's pug social to size and send off, blog posts to write and respond to, student papers to mail off and lessons to prepare, but today I decided to do something I rarely do especially when my to-do list is so long -- I stayed in bed. Waffles, Alfie, my Kleenex box and I curled up in bed with Gone Girl, a book my friend Maria passed on weeks ago. I dozed and read while Waffles snuggled beside me and Alfie dove under the covers. In spite of my stuffy head, I have to call it a good day. I did succumb to a sketch to commemorate the experience and to this blog post and am now updating my computer software and watching the Emmys, but I am heading back to bed soon where I will tuck in with the pugs to finish that book. Tomorrow I'll get to the email and work and posting those pug social pics. Tonight the pugs and I are catching up on some R & R.

GMPR Pug Social

What's better than a pug? How about hundreds of pugs and pug lovers all in one place? And, when pugs and pug lovers come together that means pug tee-shirts, pug license plates, pug costumes, cookie jars, photos, paintings, bumper stickers, magnets, notepaper, the list goes on and on. Who could miss such an opportunity even if one had a head cold? Not me! So, Alfie, Waffles, a box of Kleenex and I set out to Killington, VT this morning for Green Mountain Pug Rescue's 10 Anniversary Pug Social and it was well worth the trip. I took a lot of photos had Alfie and Waffles run in a pug race and chatted with lots of pug folk. The rain held off and it was a beautiful day in more ways than one. Problem is pugs and I are tired and vegging on the sofa, so photos will have to wait until later. Here's one my friend Joan snapped of me and her puppy, Trump, in front of the pug hay bale sculptures -- I warned you there's all sorts of pug paraphernalia!

Not Beyond Here

It's been a long time coming but I finally finished my Mermaid collage. I'm calling it "Not Beyond Here." I was under the weather today, but being at home in bed gave me some time to do the sewing on the collage. So now it is complete.

As I said before, this one was a difficult one to pull off because of the black background and the light layers of the images, but I like how it turned out looking like water. The not beyond here signs were actually signs used after Irene to keep people from certain flooded areas. The mermaid tails were from a restaurant sign I passed one day. The moon in the corner was an actual reflection of the supermoon on my parent's pool cover. The pug belongs to my friend and the little girl is my niece Tori. but here, she has already taken on another identity for me. She is the mermaid. She looks older than my niece. Her eyes are different. She and the mer-pugs here are creatures of another world. One that simultaneously dares us to enter and warns us to stay away.

And, sometimes it's hell

It's not all bliss. Take the other day for instance. Sure, I described the Shelburne Museum Goes to the Dogs event as heavenly, but life with dogs isn't always peaceful even in Paradise.

After strolling the grounds and browsing vendors, I was eager to make my way back to the Round Barn to hear Luis Carlos Montalvan talk about his book Until Tuesday: A Wounded Warrior and the Golden Retriever Who Saved Him. Amidst talking to other dog owners and taking in the sights and sounds, I lost track of time and was already 20 minutes late for the discussion. As I approached the building, I realized the event was still going strong. I could hear the author talking in a low, steady voice. I reached the doorway and started to lead my pugs inside what seemed like an intense and serious environment.

The basement of the Round Barn was exactly that -- a basement. I don't know about most dogs, but mine have never liked going into basements. I always wondered if they feared being trapped or if it was something else, but on this occasion, Alfie slammed on the brakes and wouldn't proceed. I can't say I exactly blamed her. As much as i wanted to hear Montalvan talk, the atmosphere didn't seem entirely welcoming. I don't mean to give the impression that it was unfriendly, but the subject matter did not seem to be eliciting a bunch of laughs. I managed to get Alfie through the doorway, but she would not move beyond a certain point to let me sit down in a chair. I stretched as far as I could, trying to move a chair so it would be closer to Alfie, but it was a long reach.

At this point, Waffles too, seemed to be picking up on the nervous tension in the room. Luis Carlos Montalvan was still talking in a deep, low voice about trauma and how we are all going to experience it at some point when Waffles started in on her banshee scream. I love my new little pug. She is sweet, quiet, petite, almost cat-like in the way she studies the world, but she has created some challenges in training her -- anyone know how to stop a pug from overturning trash cans -- and she has a wild cry, not typically heard in nature.

Prior to getting Alfie I had read about the pug "whohoohoo," a gentle barking noise. None of mine had made this, but Alfie did, and I loved hearing it the first time. Waffles, on the other hand, has a screech and a scream. It isn't pretty. She started in during the talk, barking at another dog sitting quietly beside its owner's feet. It didn't seem to disturb Montalvan's drone, but just to be sure I tried to move her out of view of the other dog. This would have been easier if Alfie and she weren't coupled together on one lead. When I tried to pull Waffles left, Alfie moved right and pulled. She exercised enough energy to slip her harness over her head. She was loose.

Those of you who have well trained dogs may not understand the implications, but I live on a main road and there is little safe space available to train my dogs off lead. Add to this the fact that Alfie associates being caught with doing something she doesn't want to do. Yes, I know, there are rules you should follow in training her -- give her food, don't put her in the crate each time you catch her, etc. But Alfie knows that food comes with a price and it's not just her crate she doesn't want to go in, she doesn't want to go anywhere she's being MADE to go and she knows how to avoid this -- Don't Let Them Catch You!

So, Alfie heads for the door at a run with her harness hanging from the other end of Waffles' lead. Waffles jumps as the thing waves beside her and begins a second chorus of screams. A woman outside yells "Loose Dog."

I trip over a chair trying to get outside where I see Alfie following a little girl. "Hey, can you hlep me?" I call. She stares at me blankly.

"If you sit down I think my dog will come to you and I can put her harness back on," I said.
The girl doesn't move.

"Hey!" I tried again, trying not to let panic rise in my voice. "Could you please help me catch my dog?"

What's the matter with this kid? I thought. It wasn't until I got home late at night that I thought about the warnings we all give our kids. Don't trust a stranger even if they offer you an icecream or a chance to pet their dog. This poor kid who I was getting so angry at was probably just well trained or very smart. Heck, I probably wouldn't have trusted this frantic lady dragging a little black dog and an empty harness down the sidewalk either.

Struck down by the girl, I turned to a vendor packing up her supplies. Yes, her hands were full, but she was the closest to me and my dog was quickly moving away. "Could you please help me with my dog?" I asked, thrusting Waffles lead into her hands. I then fell to the ground, trying to attract Alfie's attention. She saw me, but remained just out of reach. "Come here," I murmured.

"Do you have a snack I could give her?" Now, I was screeching like Waffles. The woman I asked was sitting at a table full of bags of dog treats, but she didn't answer me.

"Do you have a snack I could give her?" I repeated. When she didn't answer I jumped up and approached the table, ready to grab a bag myself.

The woman holding Waffles shouted. "She's right behind you. You're dog is right behind you."
I knew this, but I also knew that if I turned around and tried to grab her she would just back up and move further away. But, to this woman I probably looked clueless. Just as I was getting ready to rip open a treat bag, the woman behind the table sprang to life and handed me a liver treat from her pocket. I tried to lure Alfie with it, but she only backed up.

"Make her come to you," the woman instructed as if I had never thought of this.

Alfie came, but not close enough. Anyone who questions an animal's intelligence should know that they understand advanced mathematics. Alfie demonstrates this over and over by being able to calculate the exact right distance she needs to maintain at all times to be just out of reach. This time, however, I was lucky and was able to spring upon her fast enough to grab her fat, round body.

Holding a pug is just about as easy as holding a slick pig. There is nothing to grab on to, no handles so to speak, and they wiggle their chubby forms right out of your hands. Fortunately, Alfie has a lot of fur so I just grabbed on.

"You better get that  harness back on your dog," the woman holding Waffles barked at me while simultaneously snapping at the barking Waffles to calm down. I barely got the first strap closed before she was handing Waffles back to me. By this time, I was a sweaty mess with a migraine. Also, I was fearful about getting Alfie back to the car now that her harness had been stretched out of shape and could even more easily slip off. And, I desperately needed to go to the bathroom.

Yes, spending time amidst dogs can be a taste of heaven, but sometimes spending time with them can be a bit of hell, too.

Foraging

My friend Joan and I went foraging on Friday, not for nuts and berries, but for intangibles to ease the burdens of winter. Sunshine for when the icy temps cut through our layers of flannel and wool; waves lapping a beach to balance December's fierce whistling wind; hot sand on bare feet for numb toes wrapped in two pair of socks and heavy boots; an unlimited horizon to remember when faced with mountains of imprisoning snow. These are things we went looking for when we piled the puppies into her Caravan and drove two-and-a-half hours to North Hampton Beach on Friday. We found them and like squirrels gathered all we could, burying them deep in memory's storehouse for the bleak times. We hit the jackpot.

The day blazed with the heat of July offset by a gentle ocean's breeze. The melancholy of a changing season hung in the air as pungent as the salty sea. We held our breath absorbing through our pores the last embers of summer. The crowd was sparse -- too old ladies wobbled on unsteady legs to the water's edge, bending over to pick up sea-smoothed rocks, tossing most back in. A man and his daughter brought father and child-sized fishing rods, casting them into the ocean. A toddling sister-and-brother darted into the surf, squealing from delight and cold.

Joan set up camp overlooking the water, watching the seagulls totter across the sand, observing a retriever frolicking among the rocks. She set her face toward the sun, shut her eyes, absorbed it all. I waded in the water until my toes were January numb. Sun, sand, surf road veins to my heart. I love the ocean. My mother grew up on the water. It is in my blood.

"We better remember this come winter," Joan admonished. We sat, I sketched, until the sun drained away and Joan reached for a jacket. I let my bare, sun-kissed skin greet the cold, unwilling to call it a day. When Joan could no longer take it, we packed the chairs up and I went back to the Caravan for Griffles and her puppies. Leashing her neck, I crated her puppies, toting them to the sand. There, I set them free. They jumped out of the crate like bunnies, hopping through the sand like snow. Some buried their faces in it.

We drew a crowd. A woman stopped with her 12-year-old Shepherd mix. He lowered his head and one of the puppies stood upright to sniff his nose before collapsing and resting his own head on the big dog's paws. Another woman gushed that she had a pug at home and two Doberman. She was a photographer, there to take pictures of a wedding rehearsal with the wedding scheduled for the next evening. She worried that she would lose the light and it would become too dark for picture taking. Two skirt-clad members of the wedding party approached and the puppies wouldn't leave them alone, bounding along after them as they tried to leave.

"Is there anything cuter than puppies on a beach?" one woman asked, just as a young mother tottered toward us; a baby girl in pink beach hat, magenta onesie and tutu, strapped to her chest. Puppy and baby stared at each other in a cuteness smackdown. Not sure who should win, I called a tie. An elderly woman held one of the puppies to her chest not wanting to relinquish it. Griffles shivered. Perhaps from chill, perhaps from nerves as so many people grabbed her puppies. We gathered them to us and returned to the van. We held treasures from the day. At the heart of winter, I will take them out and count them like precious heirlooms in a hope chest: the heat of sun, the roar of the ocean, a puppy's kiss. These are enough to keep me warm.

For more photos of the day, check my facebook page at www.facebook.com/kjgiffordphotography

Well Loved

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We've all heard the warnings about anthropomorphizing animals, but what about stuffed animals? Today, I found myself feeling sorry for one of my pug's stuffies. It seems that Waffles had gotten ahold of it and ripped out an eye and was now working on the second. My mother, the overly concerned pug Grandma, found out and insisted on removing the second eye, so her beloved pug-grandbaby wouldn't succeed in working on it and accidentally choke.

 

Mom's mutilation of the poor creature was probably worse than anything Waffles could have done to it, but in the end she pulled out a half-chewed eyeball, which  had a wet, gooey, fleshy feel even if it was plastic. The eyeless, stuffed dog looked sad, forlorn, blind.

"It used to look so cute. I feel sorry for it," my mother said.

I tried to console myself with the fact that it belonged to the pugs and they had a right to do with it as they pleased and this was the consequence, but then I got to thinking of the day I brought the fluffy dog home to Alfie. Since Vader wouldn't share his humpie doggie with her, she needed a stuffed dog of her own. Because she was only a puppy then, the little golden dog dwarfed her two times over. She loved to drag it around and shake it, but she never tried to eat its eyeballs. They say a dog's life is too short, but this poor stuffed dog's youth was even shorter -- blinded, stuffing pouring from its eye sockets, it didn't look well-loved, it looked abused. Then again, it kind of was.

Maybe we should have let nature take its course and not interfere. If Waffles had removed the eyeball herself, would the stuffed dog look less injured? Would it have worn the expression of a cherished toy instead of a decomposing zombie? Aren't dog toys intended to be torn apart, but by dogs not people?
This stuffed dog was not the first I worried over. As Vader's condition started to worsen, I often wondered what I would do with his humpie doggie. He had loved that stuffed animal his whole life -- playing with her, sleeping with her, even getting frisky with her. I thought of putting her on a shelf with his ashes, but I wondered if that was fair --stuffed dogs are meant to be loved and played with, not just sit abandoned on a shelf. The vet solved the problem by telling me that Humpie Doggie could be cremated with Vader, and she was. I know, now instead of sitting next to the ashes, she was ashes, but this seemed appropriate somehow. She and Vader were together, both had been loved.

Okay, I know, this is kind of pathetic. These are inanimate objects, I realize. I blame it on my Mom who read me too much Velveteen Rabbit  as a child. But, it is also she who taught me that love is love in all its varied forms and while these animals may only be made out of cloth and stuffing, they provide their flesh-and-blood counterparts with hours of pleasure and comfort and in some cases as with Vader and Humpie Doggie, something that closely resembles love.

They also say that love sees no wrong, so maybe Waffles and Alfie won't notice that their stuffie no longer has eyes. Maybe it doesn't matter that my Mom interfered. The fate of the dog was always the same. It was meant to be chewed and torn and to wear love's battlescars.