Peekaboo

Tears

The rain falls full and hard against the windshield of Joan's Caravan leaving gray, cloudy streaks like skim milk along its surface. I pull the hood up on my powder-blue hoodie and open the door to face the din. The puppies clamor to get out of their crate after their three-hour ride and I reach to find a lead while trying to block their escape. I have never considered myself athletic, but if corralling puppies were a sport I would have an Olympic medal. One, two, three, catch a pug, block a pug, slip a lead on the first, toss it to Joan; catch a pug, block a pug, slip a lead on the second, toss it to Joan; catch a pug, slip a lead on the third and out we go to the grass to see if they will pee.

The small strip of grass in the I-Hop's parking lot crouches in a sea of pavement, creating only a slim runway for the pugs to do their business. They circle and shake, each trying to slip the unfamiliar leads snaked around their necks. They are 14 weeks old and ready to go to new homes.My cellphone rings and I scurry to answer it, pushing TarBaby off my tote on the front seat of the car. I grab the phone with one hand and block TarBaby with the other, feeling the tug of the lead wrapped around my wrist as the puppy on the other end, Kensington, I think, continues his struggle to be free.

"Where are you?" I manage.

"We just pulled into the I-Hop," Bonnie, our friend from New Jersey answers.

"That's where we are," I say as I glance over my shoulder and catch sight of her blonde hair. She sports a short, black coat, which she pulls tightly around her to block the rain. Behind her, stride two men -- her friend Sylvester and the perspective owner, I guess. Joan has screened him by phone and Bonnie knows him, but we have not met him yet. Bonnie greets me with a quick hug as I push TarBaby back in the car. A plump, cool rain droplet drips off a browning, treeleaf and slides down my back."Aww, aren't they cute," Bonnie squeals, while simultaneously introducing Sylvester and Bob. Sylvester holds his own leash with three dogs on the end, two shivering Japanese chins and a Pom. They and the pugs soon huddle into a tangle of tails and noses as they sniff and circle and check each other out.

We do the same, assessing Bob, in baseball cap and navy windbreaker, his dark skin wet from the falling rain. "Have you had other dogs? Why do you want a pug?" I ask. "I used to have Boston terriers," he answers as he launches into a tale about his 88-year-old mother and her health, explaining that a pug would be better suited to remaining at home with her all day. He starts talking about puppy toys and clothes, a Halloween spider costume for Kensington and even as Joan says, "You're mighty sure of yourself aren't you? Pretty sure you're going to get a pup?" I realize that I already like him. The vibe is good. I know he will be taking Kensington home.

"I pick Kensington up. Big, black orbs stare out over the white tuft of fur at his neck. "This may be your puppy," I say, handing him to Bob. Kensington balls up in Bob's large hand, a black glob of puppy love, all head and belly.

"Do you have a name picked out," Joan says. "Don't tell me, whisper it to her." She nods in my direction. Bob leans in and does so.

"Bunja," he whispers.

"Bunja," I mime back. "What does it mean?"

"It's African royalty," he says.

"Tell Joan," I say.

Bunja. She likes it, so do I. We don't like the puppies' names to change, but this one fits. Joan could have come up with it herself. It rings unique.

We go inside and over pancakes and coffee, we tell our stories and ask our questions. They hear the oft-told tale of how Prime Minister Clement Attlee bestowed on Joan her first pug. We learn from them their doggie pedigrees. They read through our packet of information and ask questions about food and shots. We ask where the puppies will sleep. Then back into the rain, still falling hard and gray. We yearn for light and warmth and a brief reprieve for a proper goodbye to no avail. Another hand-off ensues.

I hand Margot to Bonnie with a kiss, helping to zip her into her carrier. And, then Kensington.

"Goodbye little boy," I say, handing him to Joan, who in turn kisses him and passes him to Bob.

She raises her face to the rain and tears echo full and hard down the surface of her face. I stare wide-eyed like the puppies. I have stood by Joan seeing scores of pugs off in the time that I have known her and this is the first time I have ever seen her cry. The world slows down as I watch wondering, why this pug? Why now? Her face flushes red, two rosy splotches in what  has become a graying world. I reach out and pat her back. "Joan," I say with a half smile. "She never cries," I say to Bonnie and the men. "Joan?"

Salty tears mix with unforgiving rain, indistinguishable. The puppies blink, squint, and cock their heads, waiting and wondering what will happen next. They don't know they are leaving. I join them, perplexed. The world feels raw and tender and gentle like a baby's breath. Joan is feisty, strong, often unyielding. Here, she melts, offering a piece of her heart as a precious gift. Kensington, now Bunja, blinks away the rain. Joan her tears. Griffles, the puppies' mom, stares out from the crate in the car. Goodbyes are often wet and gray. Who knew that love looks the same?

Home

Kensington and Margot went to their new homes today. Joan and I met our friend Bonnie, who is taking Margot, and her friends Bob and Sylvester in Albany, NY today. Bob is keeping Kensington. Both pugs are getting new names. Bonnie is not straying too far from Margot's original name and is calling her Sassy Margot. Kensington's new name is Bunja, which Bob assured us is a name representative of African royalty.

Both pugs seemed happy and curious to see their new owners. Kensington sat in Bob's arms like the lump of love he always seems. Margot gave Bonnie kisses.

We all ate at the I-Hop together and discussed the pugs and their care before bidding them goodbye. Joan and I finished the day at the Birdseye Dinner in Castleton, VT.

In other news, Mannix Marketing of Glens Falls, NY presented me with a draft of my new web site today. Very exciting and I will keep you posted of the changes and when it goes live. In the meantime, it has been a long day. Alfie and Waffles are already snoring and I am off to bed.

Tune in tomorrow...

One more goodbye

Tomorrow two more of Griffles puppies go to new homes and Joan is wondering whether or not to bring Griffles along. "Who knows maybe she feels nothing?" Joan says, but you can tell she thinks differently. The thing is we don't know, when it comes down to what animals really feel and think, we don't know. So, we make assumptions based on what we feel or we guess based on the science, but we know nothing. Is Griffles prepared for her babies to leave? You can't answer by comparing her to us and you can't answer by comparing her to wolves and you can't answer by saying she's ruled by instinct and you can't answer based on emotion. We don't know. So, we're left with doing our best and trying to do what's right because the reality is the puppies need new homes. Joan can't keep them all and they will be cared for and loved in their new homes, each one as individuals. And, Griffles has a good home where she is loved and one puppy will be staying with her.

It seems like she can count though. When you pick a puppy up and it is gone too long she gets nervous and goes looking for it, but after Trump left Monday, Joan says Griffles seemed okay. "Who knows?" she says, but tonight Joan asked my advice on whether Griffles should make the trip with us tomorrow. You can tell Joan's not sure. Will Griffles grieve? Is it better for her to stay behind or see her puppies leave? Will she cease to look for them if she sees them go? Or will she ache the way a human mother does? What good does it do for us to observe and say she looks okay to us, she seems to be going on just fine? Are feelings any less strong because you've learned to survive them?

There may be an arrogance to assuming animals feel the same way we do, but there is also a danger in going too far the other way and not acknowledging the feelings they may have. What is the fine line separating instinct and emotion? Mothers know their children, dogs know their puppies. Will it upset her to see them go?

Griffles is our dog, so we do the best by her. We feel for her because as humans compassion is our birthright. It is at the heart of who we are. We grieve for Griffles and her puppies as they part because as humans saying goodbye is never easy and our instinct is to avoid loss.

Writing Prompt: Letting Go

Writing Prompt: Write about a time when you had to let go. What were the circumstances? How did it feel?

Saying Goodbye

Joan gives Waltham's Little Trump one last embrace before turning him over to his new owners and a new life as Goofy.

What's in a Name?

Trump/Goofy with his new owner

What's in a name? Apparently a lot when it comes to dogs. Think about it. There's a world of difference between Fido and Brutus, Rover and Killer. A name defines a dog, as it does any other creature, and sets it on the path of how it will be perceived forever after.

When I first visited Pugdom to pick out Vader, I already had his name in mind. A sci fi fan, I thought Vader, was the perfect name for an all black dog who snorted and breathed deeply like Star Wars' Darth behind his black mask and cloak. Joan, however, had already named Vader Zag and his brother Zig and I unfortunately did not grasp the importance of that.

When it came time to take him home, she handed me the paperwork, which included his AKC registration that she had already filled out as "Waltham's Zag," (Waltham being her kennel name).

"You can call him what you want, but I already put Zag done here," she said. Not fully understanding when I went to send his papers in I completed the form by adding "Vader." Waltham's Zag Vader, however, did not sound right  and since I was already calling him "Little Man" by that that time, I decided to officially dub him "Waltham's Zag Vaderman." I may have been one of the few people to receive a dog from Pugdom who got away with changing their pug's name on the official paperwork, but I am not the only one to give her pug a new moniker.

Now that I have known Joan for 14 years and helped her name and find homes for many litters of new puppies, I realize how many people want to give their dogs their own names. I also realize how unsettling it can be on the other end to see the puppies we have so meticulously dubbed and cared for receive new titles.

Although we have tried to give various litters themed names in recent years, the naming of the pugs frequently occurs haphazardly. Take Batman for instance, I looked at this tiny creature with the small pointed ears a day after he was born and exclaimed, "Joan, he looks like a bat. He's a little Batman." And, the name just stuck.

His brother resembled their mother Griffles so much that I kept fiddling with names that had Griffles in it, arriving finally at Gryffindoor. Our friend Jane though Margot fit the elegant little girl and Joan combed through a name book another night, choosing Kensington and Trump. We fell in love with the name Waltham's Little Trump from the getgo. It just seemed to fit this strange and petite little fellow. It was short and sweet like him, but also had an air of aristocracy to it -- it was at once a cute and gentlemanly name. And, it endeared him to me even more.

When our friends from Massachusetts approached us about taking one of the puppies, they said they wanted one with lots of personality and Trump sprang readily to mind. Kensington is a sweetheart, just a lump of a pug who will cuddle with you endlessly, but Trump, he's a character, I noted. So, they called Joan and decided on Trump and we were happy. Our friends already owned two of Joan's other pugs and while they had changed Connie's name to Jerry to go along with Ben (as in both the icecream and the other pug they owned), they had kept the name of Truffles. I think we just assumed they'd keep the name Trump as well.

We were wrong. Joan called me one night and announced they were changing Trump's name to Critter. Crittter? If Trump is the name of a gentleman, Critter may be just the opposite. We might as well change the rest to Jethro, Bubba and Ellie May I complained. "How Redneck," Joan expressed to them.

I think our friends may have been hurt. Critter had special meaning and I felt bad, even if none of us at Pugdom could quite make the adjustment in our head. Well, I changed Vader's name, I reasoned, and we could call him Little Trump Critter, I said, trying to placate Joan. It had started to sound a little cuter, I thought. "We better be careful because we'll probably get used to Critter and they'll come up with something else," I prophesied and sure enough I was right.

We gave Trump to his new owners on Monday and Tuesday I received a call from Joan saying, "Guess what? They took a look at his funny face and floppy ears and changed his name to Goofy!"

Goofy? Not exactly the vision I have of little Trump. Yes, he has some peculiar physical features -- too big ears and some funny behaviors -- but our sweet, dignified comical little character was evolving into someone else. Comparing Trump to Goofy was like trying to compare Charlie Chaplin to Jeff Foxworthy and yet, I knew our friends loved the little guy and the name Goofy was given out of pure affection and the joy of watching the fella play and making them laugh. They have the right to recast him in a new light and I  honor that, but I have a feeling Joan may be picking on them, just as she did me, for the rest of Trump/Goofy's life and in her head and heart, Goofy just won't stick.

On the other hand, I think Trump/Goofy doesn't care at all. The name he carries will not change his looks, character or little pug heart, whatever our perceptions of him. He will run to his owners whenever they call, whatever they call.

Mister Egg

Mister Egg used to be a puppy. Now he is an old man; going on 13 to be exact. He is another of Joan's dogs -- one of her car dogs -- which means he holds the special distinction of traveling around with her everywhere. Of the many dogs she owns, he, and nowadays, mostly he, alone, is always guaranteed a ride in the car. He is perhaps more traditionally like a pet to Joan in that way than the number of others she loves and who share her home.

In his youth, Egg was an athlete, a natural, skilled in taking leap after leap over the gates used to separate dogs and rooms. He didn't have to think about it. Like an Olympic hurdler he sprang and sprang and sprang again over multiple obstacles. He does not spring anymore. Like his uncle, my pug Vader, poor Egg, is losing the use of his back legs. He can still prop himself up at times, but his days as an athlete are finished.

Egg was once so adept at making these leaps that something had to be done. Because Joan breeds to show, most male dogs in her home go unneutered as did Mister Egg. But suddenly, we were finding that Egg's prowess in jumping was helping demonstrate his prowess to the ladies in other areas. In order to prevent any unwanted puppies, Joan had to clip this habit in the bud, which meant clipping Mister Egg. Fortunately, for him, this meant he had the luxury of now becoming Joan's car dog -- his neutered state, which calmed marking and other unwanted male behaviors, made him a better traveling companion. And, to be honest, it never deterred Egg from a pretty lady. We often still found him enjoying himself with one of Pugdom's many girls.

And, now, former Ladies' Man and Olympic Hurdler is old and it's hard for all of us to wrap our heads around that one. He traveled with us to the Pug Parade this weekend and while Alfie and Waffles and Fanny May and the puppies dressed up and enjoyed the socializing, Egg snored soundly in between the drivers and passengers' seats in front of Joan's van. When the event was finished and we were getting ready to leave, Joan mentioned that poor Egg hadn't gotten to wear his sweater, a hand-me-down from one of the other pugs. So, I helped dress him in the pumpkin-colored garb and took him out on the grass to pose.

It was rainy and he wasn't exactly sure what was going on, he likes to keep his eyes on Joan at all times and at first she was out of sight, so it was difficult to get the perfect shot. Then Joan came over and sat with him and I took a couple. They will go in the annual scrapbook where hopefully he will appear again next year. But just in case, we snapped this picture to include now, because Mister Egg is no longer a puppy and we want to remember all his rides and this day in his sweater and to make memories that will leap from the pages of the scrapbook and grab our hearts just as Mister Egg has always done.

Metaphor and Understanding

There's a line at the end of Star Trek II in which Kirk delivers a eulogy for Spock and says, "Of all the souls I've known, his was the most human." being an avid Trekkie, I've read commentary about that line with some people suggesting being called "human" would have been an insult to the logical, half-Vulcan Spock. As I was writing my post about Alfie and seeing the person she is, this line came to mind.

I know many people worry about anthropomorphizing and attributing too many human emotions to canines when they are very different creatures, but I think there is also a danger inherent in that approach. Just because animals may not think and feel in exactly the same manner we do does not mean that they do not feel and think at all, that they are devoid of "personhood" or "souls' or whatever makes them individuals.

I once heard former President Clinton speak at Middlebury College and he delivered a speech about the importance of seeing each other and how studies had shown that in the end all humans are genetically 99.9% the same. And, that we should therefore forget our differences and concentrate on our commonalities. I loved this speech for many reasons and was sharing it with a friend, who asked "But do we have to be same for this to matter?"

I was taken aback by her question because to me this really hadn't been the point, but I could understand what she meant. At the same time, we can only understand in the ways that we understand, through the means that we already have. Hence statements like "you can't truly understand someone until you have walked ten miles in his shoes, etc."

Someone, some creature, some thing does not have to be like me for me to respect it, but I will only identify with it and understand it by comparing it to something I already understand -- it is metaphor and simile and we need them to make the connections, to have any insight into things that otherwise are unfamiliar, so while Joan's pug Grifles may not mourn her puppies as they leave one by one in the same way that a human mother would grieve or worry over the absence of a child, she seems to feel something and I call that thing grief because it is all that I know to call it. Alfie may not be human, but when I look in her eyes I see "Alfie" and when I look at Waffles I see "Waffles" and the things that make them unique. Is it behaviors or instincts at work that make them act in the individual ways that they do? Perhaps, but we can also debate whether it is behavior or instincts at work in us as well. What makes us human? What makes them canine? We can debate the theological and philosophical nature of the soul, but I know when I look at my niece, Ellie, her child soul looks back at me and when I look at my pug, Alfie, her soul looks back as well. I have no other words for it. It is a metaphor I understand.

Isn't She Lovely

I wasn't really planning to have Alfie and Waffles enter the costume contest. Yes, I had brought their costumes along, but I knew I would be busy helping corral the puppies and the other dogs we brought and was content just to have my two take part in the Parade. Then, we walked passed a couple of people who saw my pugs in their matching Halloween collars and they suggested that we should take part in the duo competition.

"I have better costumes than this," I announced and I ran back to the car for the kimonos. Only problem was these costumes are the kind a dog has to slip its paws into first before connecting the Velcro on the back. Alfie and Waffles would not step into their outfits or keep their wigs on their heads. The Velcro kept getting stuck on the silk fabric and tearing pieces of it. We were supposed to register our dogs and get a number, which we were to pin on their leashes. Alfie and Waffles kept eating away and stepping on their numbers until they fell off. I repeatedly placed their wigs back on their heads only to have them shake them off a moment later. I was frustrated, entangled in leashes and ready to give up. Alfie, in particular, was frustrating. People were staring at us and trying to take pictures. Waffles had wrapped her paws in my camera strap, which was also around my neck and was choking me by stepping on it. Everytime the judges looked over one of the wigs would fall off.
What the heck am I doing, I thought as I managed to free the camera. I asked someone standing by to take a picture and rather than snapping away they tried to pose us just so in the viewfinder to no avail. I finally grabbed for the camera and tried taking some pics of my dogs myself. Again, they kept twisting and twirling and knocking off the wigs. I was about to give up with it all together -- the photo, the costumes, the competition when suddenly Alfie looked up at me and into the camera with the expression above. She stared at me and I knew I was seeing her soul. My heart melted. And, the wigs didn't matter nor getting the perfect shot nor winning the competition. I forgot how aggravating the tangle of leashes and paws could be. I looked into those eyes and I saw the person she is.

Isn't she lovely, I thought.