Another Day at the Shady Rest

The Shady Rest

2011-06-05T23:38:00.000-07:00

About Us - check out updates at www.theshadyrest.com!

Quick note - New Home

2011-02-13T21:23:00.001-08:00

Howdy, all!

If you're checking in looking for updated posts, I'm happy to announce that the Shady Rest blog now has it's own website! www.theshadyrest.com. C'mon over and see us there! You can register for the site to receive updates, make a donation (a portion of any donations will be donated to Ohio Pug Rescue, and the rest will go to maintaining the site and the Shady Rest itself) and/or leave comments, or just click on "blogs" to read the newest entries without signing in or registering. I hope you'll register and become a regular reader/follower/commenter at the Shady Rest!

Thanks!

December 11, 2010 - I Love You Best

2010-12-10T22:46:00.001-08:00

"I love you the best." I whisper in Sherman's velvety ear as I wrap my arm around him, pull him close, and scratch his chest. He leans his head back on my shoulder and listens as I tell him, "Mamas aren't supposed to have favorites, you know, so don't tell the others. We don't want to hurt anybody's feelings, but you're my favorite. I love how you always want to be with me, how you worry when I don't feel good. I love you the best."

"I love you the best." I murmur to Freya as I stroke her long, soft ears the way she likes. "Don't tell Sherman or the pugs, but you're my favorite. You're so smart, so loyal, such a help. I don't know what I'd do without you. You're beautiful too - the prettiest brindle in the house! I love you the best."

"Pssst, Spencer. C'mere, buddy. Everybody else is napping, so it's just you and me. Let me rub your tummy, buddy. I'm not supposed to have favorites, but you know how it is. You're my special pal, my big, burly, brave Spencer-boy. So handsome and strong! I just love the way you smile at me with all your lower teefies, and I'm proud that you're such a gentleman. I love you the best."

"Awww...hi, Loki." I croon as he pops up, periscope pug, by my desk and I caress his face in my hand. "How's my teddy bear pug today? I love you too, little man. Yes, I think you're sweet. Yes, I think you're adorable. Yes, you're mama's favorite, but don't tell the other dogs. They're already jealous of you, you know. It'll be our little secret. I love you the best."

"Archie! My man!" I chirp, rubbing his head in both hands, watching his ears bob up and down as he snorts in response. "You are such a good-looking hunk of pug! Look at that coat!" as I run my fingers through his thick, puppy-soft fur. "I have never seen such magnificent fur. That's why you're my favorite, you know, just between you and me. You're just so sweet and cuddly, such a huggable boy. I love you the best."

I scratch Sammie's sturdy, muscular neck, "Sam-bot! Yeeeessss, I'm happy to see you too! Of course I am! I know, other critters moved in, but you're still my favorite gargoyle. Yes you are! You'll always been my snaggle-toothed baby boy. Always. I love you the best."

"Dude! Atta boy!" I cheer Cannoli as he takes another step out of his shell, opening up some, learning something new from one of the other dogs. "Good "outside"! Good boy! C'mere, cutie! Let me rub that belly! Atta boy! You're my favorite, you know. Yes, you are. So polite and friendly, never cause a problem or an argument. I love how you get along with all the others, how you wait so calmly for dinner and treats and your turn for rubs. Cannoli, I love you the best."

Yeah.

I know.

I won't tell if you won't.

Y'all take care, now.

December 8, 2010 - I Heard Someone Say

2010-12-08T15:37:00.000-08:00

Howdy,

Yesterday, I heard someone say, advertising some adventure show or another, "Everybody dies, but not everybody lives." I just had to stop and ponder that. I do that now and then, just stop and ponder. I don't especially mean for the Shady Rest blog to focus on death, but at the same time, when you tend to cater to senior and special needs animals, in multiples, it is a topic that comes up perhaps a bit more often than in the average house with pets.

That's not to say the Shady Rest is a gloomy place, with death always hovering in the air. On the contrary, we celebrate life here! There's nothing like first-hand knowledge of just how short life can be to make every moment savory. Cj and I were working in the kitchen the other day, singing with the radio and watching the dogs dance along. When I came home today, they all pranced and spun and I pranced right along with them. We even woke up Archie! Last night I caught Freya playing with Sherman, all alpha-dignity tossed to the winds for a game of tag. When Cj arrives tonight, we'll all conga down the hall to welcome her back.

Nobody, human, dog, cat, other, is immortal. We're all dying; it's just a matter of when, not if. This really isn't a bad thing, though it can be painful. What would we accomplish with ourselves, if we knew we had forever? What urgency would there be to love, to laugh, to appreciate, if no one ever went away? Without nature clearing out the old and worn out, there'd be no babies, no kittens, no puppies.

"We all die. The goal isn't to live forever, the goal is to create something that will." - Chuck Palahniuk

"Some people are so afraid to die that they never begin to live." - Henry Van Dyke

So, anyway. This convoluted train of thought led me to the conclusion that the worst way to deal with life's limitations is to get a big, honkin' spotlight and aim it at them. If your pet has a medical problem, find out all you can, but if you don't have a diagnosis, quit reading about possible problems. Don't sit there, wringing your hands, mopping the occasional tear and taking Muffy's pulse all day, especially when Muffy has her ball in her mouth and just wants you to play. Get a copy of the Merck Veterinary Manual, a fine book with a ton of animal pathologies included. Thumb through it, tell yourself, out loud, "My dog could die of a whole bunch of stuff in here." Now, toss the damn thing in the back of the deepest closet you have, leave it there, and take the dog out for a small pineapple sundae and a romp in the park. Let it go. Enjoy the now that you do have with your pet and leave the maybes and whatifs and wouldas for when they come.

Most rescues have a hospice dog or six around somewhere, dogs too old or too sick to be readily offered for adoption (though if someone falls in love with one, an adoption would certainly be done, happily.) George was one, because of his heart condition and stroke. Nobody I know who cares for these marvelous dogs thinks of them as "dying." Their stories are told, they have fun with their humans and their toys and their treats, and as long as they enjoy life, their human caregivers enjoy it with them.

"Try as much as possible to be wholly alive, with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell and when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough." - William Saroyan

Go. Have some fun. Spit in the Reaper's eye.

November 8, 2010 - Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

2010-11-08T21:44:00.000-08:00

Howdy!

We let the dogs sleep with us Saturday night, or at least most of 'em. Freya prefers her crate, the only pug-free time she has to call her own (moms will understand, I'm sure) and because we're concerned that he'll get knocked off the edge in the night, Archie joins the pack by often snoozing on a blanket on the floor by the bed. Sammie, Spencer, Loki and Sherman, however, were delighted to all be allowed in. Most often, especially during the week, they're all locked out of the human's den - love 'em, but the mamas have to get some rest for work.

So, anyway, when I dozed off Saturday, it was with Sherman by my calf, chin resting on my ankle, Sammie by my knee and lower thigh, Spencer with his butt against my ribs, his head on Cj's pillow, and his front paw draped companionably across her head. Loki was on the outside, curled into the curve of her hip and thigh. It's quite cozy, if a bit crowded, on a cold autumn night.

When I drifted back awake Sunday morning, Cj had already gotten up, across the hall to watch some chick-flick and write her soldier for the week (we're both members of the Soldier's Angels Letter Writing Team). Sammie and Sherman had followed her, Loki and Spencer had opted to stay in bed. Spencer was aligned with my legs, Loki was snoring none too softly with his head comfortably pillowed on my stomach. It was so sweet I just stayed there for a bit, letting them both sleep, until a full bladder and aching hip demanded I move.

Pugs (and apparently beagles, I'm learning) are most excellent sleeping companions. Too much so, sometimes, if you have to get up and be somewhere at a particular time. I still have my job, I suspect, only because my manager is a dog-loving and sympathetic soul who's been a few minutes late herself a time or two because moving her two warm and snoring canine bedmates was more than her willpower was up for.

On the one hand, they DO tend to hog the space, steal the blankets, snore and fart, all of which can be profoundly annoying in a human companion, but for some reason are more cute than aggravating in a dog. At least the dog, having farted under the blanket, has the courtesy to not flap the blanket and share the wealth, and he's companionable enough to not mind if you fart or snore too.

On the other hand, dogs are warm, really warm. It's not at all hard to really comprehend the concept of the phrase "three dog night;" i.e. a night cold enough to require a third dog on the bed to stay comfortably warm.

Mostly, I suspect, humans, whether we want to own up to it or not, are pack animals, just like dogs and wolves. Like them, we're hardwired on some deep, primitive, visceral level to crave the comfort and safety of sleeping in a bunch. We just sleep better when we're part of a "puppy pile," paws and limbs intertwined, touching, nestling like littermates. On some level, we know we're most vulnerable when we're unconscious, and feel then the safety in numbers. Over the centuries, humans have come to rely upon the keener senses of the dogs to be the first to notice a predator or enemy approaching our cave/tent/nest/home. William of Orange made the pug the national dog of The Netherlands after his pug, Pompey, alerted him to approaching attackers, saving his life. Dogs, meanwhile, have come to understand that, if they wake up their humans in time, the humans will put their brains and thumbs into defending the den. Sleeping in happy little piles has proved to be very beneficial to both sides.

Time for me to go, see if I can slide my foot out from under a sleeping Spencer, probably get to sleep with Sherman, who's quick as a snake if he sees a crack in the bedroom door, wish it weren't a work night, try to get some sleep. Y'all have a good night. Toss an extra dog on the bed if you need to. If you don't have an extra dog, look for a rescue in your area - winter's coming. You may need another one.

October 19, 2010 - As doG is My Witness...

2010-10-19T19:20:00.001-07:00

...I do not make this stuff up. These are actual moments, snippets of conversation, and bits of the day around the Shady Rest.

"Sherman, step off the cat. Thor, spit out Kali and leave her alone. No, I do not care who started it. I will stop it. Because I have the opposable thumbs, that's why."

"Honey?"

"Hmmm?"

"Who's digging?"

"Sammie."

"Any idea why? Sounds pretty frantic."

"Doesn't he? I've been watching and I still have no idea."

"What's he digging on, exactly?"

"The bed, the square one."

"Should be comfy, from the sound of it."

"You'd think but he wouldn't know. Just laid down right next to it."

"On the floor?"

"Yup."

I hear scuffling out in the kitchen, look around, count noses.

"Sherman?"

I hear paws trotting briskly down the hall from the kitchen to the office. A pointy little face peers curiously around the door frame.

"Yes, mama?"

"What are you doing out there?"

"Me?" The head tilts. "Nuuuuthin."

The face disappears back around the doorframe, the sound of trotting heads back toward the kitchen. More scuffling ensues, including what sounds suspiciously like the low growl of an annoyed feline.

"SherMAN?!"
The face appears in the doorway again, ears up.

"???"

"You wouldn't, by any chance, be aggravating the cat, would you, Sherm?"

The ears droop. He looks away. He grumbles at Loki on his way to the snuggle bed. I almost feel bad for spoiling his fun.

Small accomplishment for the day - Archie got to running down the hall and passed Spencer! Go Archie!

Cj and I are out running some errands and it starts to rain. We go to get out at the grocery store, and she hands me the rain jacket she keeps in her car. "Here, it's rainy."

"I see that. Why don't you wear the rain jacket?"

"Because you get cold easier than I do."

"So? You get cold too?"

"I don't mind as much. You wear the jacket."

"Oh, I see how it is. You want ME to wear the jacket, then you'll get cold and wet, get pneumonia, and expect me to wait on your sick, sorry butt hand and foot?"

"That's my plan, yes." as she hops out of the car and trots away, giggling, in the rain...

So, right now, Spencer is in the snuggle bed quietly watching it all, Sherman's on the bedroom floor, staring at the cat on the bed so hard I fear the feline may burst into flame, Loki's dragging his bed around the office, and Sammie's starting to fuss because it's...well...it's Tuesday, I guess. Through it all, Freya is asleep. My world - welcome to it.

October 2, 2010 - New Stuff, Fun Stuff

2010-10-02T19:39:00.001-07:00

Howdy!

Well, it seems fall is upon us. That's fine with us - here at the Shady Rest, autumn is our favorite time of year. Still-warm days, crisp nights, that "fall" smell in the air, stunning blue skies. The leaves are just now starting to change to their orange, red and yellow wardrobe. The grass doesn't need mowing quite as often now, but there aren't yet any leaves to rake. Perfect.

The dogs are loving the cooler weather, and that the mamas tend to be in a better mood this time of year. I got home from work the other day and let them out as usual, then decided to go join them. We had a nice romp in the yard and everybody was smiling when we went back in. CJ. and I met in the fall, Halloween, to be specific, so October and November always bring back fond memories. The fact that it's always more fun to cuddle when it's cooler doesn't hurt any either...

Speaking of CJ., she's been having to work a bunch of overtime lately, mandatory, as her company rearranges to accommodate taking on a new client. In general, this is good - as much job security as one can expect these days and her company is growing, so that's good. Still, it means the dogs and I are having more quality time together by ourselves. We miss her, but we still have a good time.

I find I talk to them more when I'm home "alone" than when CJ's here too. I mean, we both talk to the animals often and at some length, but when it's just me and the kids, the conversations get even longer and more detailed. Part of it is because I don't always have anyone to talk to at work all day either, so by the time I get home, I'm bored, and animals are such great listeners. Dogs appear to hang on every word you say, fascinated. If I seem happy, they get happy with me. If I seem sad, upset or annoyed, they pull in closer, get quieter, seem to be both sympathetic and protective.

Sherman has lately developed a couple of new behaviors, or at least started displaying behaviors we hadn't seen before. For one, when I come home, he rushes to see me, along with the other guys, but that's not the new part. When I reach down to give initial pats, I only have one hand available. (They get a cursory pat, then I put away the purse and lunch bag and whatnot and then more thorough scritches are given with both hands. ) I try to keep it even - a pat for Sherman, a rub for Spencer, a caress for Sammie, and around one more time (the other three, Freya's still crated and Archie and Loki usually wait at the other end of the house for me to get there, preferring to avoid the rush.) That used to work fine, each getting a pat or two in turn, but now as soon as I try to move my hand off Sherman's head and onto Spencer's or Sammie's, Sherman will grab my sleeve with his teeth, just the tiny front teeth and very carefully, and try to pull my hand off of them!

It might be a behavior worth discouraging if he were pulling hard or trying to bite flesh, but he's so careful with the fabric and so careful not to get skin, that I can't help but chuckle at him. I tell him to wait his turn and he runs off. He then runs back bearing a toy! He never, ever used to do that, and I'm tickled he's opening up and wanting to play. Wiggling all over he runs to the kitchen, down the hall, to the living room, squeaking his toy all the way, the bounces up on the bed to get me to play grab with him for a few minutes.

I'm almost embarrassed to admit his other new "thing." He's started wanting to "spoon." Romantic with a partner, a little disconcerting with a beagle. This morning, for instance, I'm about half awake and feel something warm scoot up against my upper back, right between the shoulder blades. For one, very brief moment I thought it was CJ., until a cold, wet nose went "Fooof!" and blew a blast of exhale on my neck! Slowly and carefully, I turned enough to verify that yes, Sherman had crawled to the top of the bed, body still under the blanket, but head on my pillow, chest up against my back, one paw kind of over my shoulder. CJ was on the other side of him, her back to his, and Kali the cat was on CJ's outside, by her hip. Quite cozy.

I'd like to add that I'm quite proud of Archie. I had some errands to run today while CJ was at work and as I got ready to go, I realized that I was assigning tasks - "Freya, keep an eye on the house," "Sherman, don't eat Sammie"- and Archie was sitting up in the bedroom, awake and listening to the discussion. For some reason I felt a twinge of guilt, like I was afraid he was feeling left out, like I didn't think he was capable because he was older and nearly blind. So, I leaned down, rubbed his head with both hands and said, "And Archie, YOUR job is to guard this bedroom while I'm gone. You're between the door and the bed, so it's your responsibility to make sure nobody steals the bed or sneaks it out that door. Okay?" He looked at me and tapped his foot on the floor, which I took as sort of an Archie version of "aye-aye, ma'am."

I ran my errands, met up with CJ in the driveway as we got home about the same time, went to grab a bite and came home. I went to the bedroom and there it was, the bed, still safely in place, with Archie still in the doorway, still sitting up (or, more likely, sitting up again after a bit of a nap). I told him how very proud I was, what a brave and good guardian he was! He seemed pleased at the praise, getting up to march off down the hall to the kitchen pee pad. I should leave him in charge more often.

Ya'll take care, now. Take a second to look at the leaves and sniff the air while it's still autumn-crisp. Winter'll be here before you know it.

September 21, 2010 - Never Thought I'd See That

2010-09-21T17:16:00.000-07:00

Howdy!

"Never thought I'd see that." I say that alot around the Shady Rest. There's always something going on that I've never seen before, never even considered that I might.

For example, we had a guest Sunday night. Saturday was Santa in September 2010. It went well - donations were down, as they seem to be everywhere, but thanks to a lot of good will and good donations, all went smoothly, everyone had a good day, and every penny we did get ($409.50) went right to the pugs. I got to spend some time talking to all the rescues that attended - good folks, rescuers. Go to some rescue fair or adoption event and visit with them, if you get a chance. Meet a few other breeds and the people that love and care for them. It'll be good for your spirit and you might learn something while you're at it.

Anyway, come Sunday, I got an email from the min pin folks, thanking us for having SIS and inviting them, and asking, too, if I knew of any place that did boarding at a discount for rescues. Seems they had a min pin boy that needed out of a bad situation in a hurry, and a place to bunk until a long-term foster home could be found. I offered the Shady Rest, if they didn't mind a pug person instead of a min pin person minding him for a bit. They didn't, and Max came to spend the night. A happy, handsome nine-year old red/rust min pin, he fit right in and got along just fine.

As I got ready to go to work Monday, I poked my head in to tell Cj goodbye (She gets up about an hour after I do). Sammie was dozing in my spot on the bed, Sherman was behind Cj's knees, and then Max's slender head and long muzzle rose from in front of her hips, to blink at me and make sure I wasn't planning on making anybody get up. I wasn't, and as I looked at that slender-as-a-deer-fawn form curled elegantly on the bed, I thought, "Never thought I'd see that."

Even more unlikely, I woke up the other day and saw Kali, the hermit-cat, sound asleep on the bed. That alone used to be as rare as hen's teeth, but what really made me shake my head in awe this time was her companion. Barely a foot and a half away, also sound asleep on the bed, lay Sherman. The cat best known for being afraid of everyone in general and dogs in particular, sleeping next to the beagle, the breed best known for trailing prey and small running creatures it thinks are prey, completely comfortable just inches apart. Never thought I'd see that.

I hate to sound like I'm boasting, especially since I don't really take any personal credit for it, but I often think there's something about this house, this place. It was here when we moved in, part of what made us want to settle here in the first place. Something peaceful. I don't know if it's the actual house, or the little patch of earth on which it sits, but something.

There are occasionally spats, sure. Whenever more than one living being inhabits a space, there will be disagreements, but no yelling, no throwing, no hurting. Max was returned to rescue because he was peeing in the house. A bit of investigation found that he'd been perfectly house trained when he was adopted, but the couple who had him argued nearly constantly. They yelled, at each other and at him, and threw things (only at each other, far as could be determined.) His sensitive system couldn't take the stress and he started forgetting his house training. I'd have been peeing on the floor too, subjected to that kind of environment. We were told Min Pins are sensitive, he's likely to be nervous at first, a little jumpy, not want to eat. Not at the Shady Rest. He walked in, sniffed around and visibly relaxed. He toddled around with the other dogs, walked fearlessly under Freya's legs, barked at the neighbors with Spencer, and ate his dinner like a champ. He was, for just one evening, one happy, relaxed, tummy-tickles-and-peace-and-quiet evening, a Shady Rest dog.

Never thought I'd see that.

Y'all take care.

September 10, 2010 - Up and Down, Young and Old

2010-09-09T22:44:00.000-07:00

Howdy!

I apologize for how long I've been silent (it's probably some kind of record for me.) What they tell you before you have bypass surgery is "you may experience some post-surgical depression." What they fail to note, and probably sensibly, is "you may experience anything from a mild case of the blues to a full-blown case of homicidal bipolar lunacy that will have you making that crazy hag from Stephen King's Misery look like Mother-flipping-Teresa." Unfortunately, particularly for Cj, I seem to have landed at the crazy-hag end of the spectrum. Bless her heart, she's trying nobly to keep up with my insane mood swings and tendency to either cry or yell for no reason she, or any other rational person, can see. Even Spencer just stares at me sometimes, head tilted, confused. "Mom? If that bowl of ice cream is gonna make you cry, I'll eat it for you." Bless their hearts, they want to help.

As you can understand, this little emotional roller coaster has made it somewhat challenging to be the laid-back, mellow observer of life that you've come to expect from the Shady Rest's Innkeeper. Hence, the big gap since my last update. Still, there are good days, stable moments, and, as always, critters to watch and help keep me semi-sane.

OPR got in a little fellow today, Kashi by name. All of twelve weeks old! Rescues don't usually get too many of those - they're still too cute and smell too much like puppy breath to throw away yet at that age. This little guy, however, was already on his third(!) home, and had already been relegated to living in the yard(!!), possibly for just being too energetic. Happily, he found his way to rescue while still happy, healthy and in good shape. As I looked at the pictures sent along by his new foster family (NOT us), I couldn't help but smile. I also couldn't help but imagine what the sedate residents of the Shady Rest would do if something that young and cute and energetic came bouncing through the door. Then I giggled so hard I almost needed to get myself a pee pad.

Really, can't you see it? You've hung out here with me, many of you, for a while. You have a fair idea of the atmosphere. Can't you imagine injecting a hyper, wall-eyed pug puppy into the place? Freya would probably be fine - she gets the concept of "cub" and would take him in paw for some doggy training.

Sherman would probably flip, wearing himself out completely just trying to keep up with the puppy and ensure he was always, always in between the puppy and Sherman's human. As it is he gets most of his exercise sliding between me and Sammie or me and Spencer. He'd probably need canine plastic surgery to iron the crinkle out of his lip by the time the puppy got adopted.

Loki wouldn't mind too much, as long as the puppy was nice to him. He's always been good about sharing - his space, his treats, his people - but he's always been a little intimidated by puppies, too. I think their energy overwhelms him a little, especially as he's gotten older.

Sammie would be interesting to watch. Most of the time, I forget just how old he is; not that he's ancient or anything, but he acts more like five or six than he does 12 going on 13. I think he'd be happy to play with a puppy, at least in spurts...as long as puppy didn't even look in the direction of Sammie's dinner.

Archie. Ah, Archie. He'd be the most fun to watch, but then, I'm not sure I could do that to him. He'd be so confused by a puppy running past every few seconds, first here, then there, never still. Archie's a seriously game little guy - age and impaired vision be damned, he'd try to keep up. In some ways, it would probably be good for him - good muscle-toning, a little more fun in an otherwise quiet life. On the other hand, I have scary visions of a puppy seeing Archie as a trampoline or something, pouncing him mid-nap and scaring him into a stroke or worse. He is nearly 14, after all.

It'd be nice to have a puppy around again, just once more before I die. But maybe, for now, it's just as well that some other foster home is enjoying the puppy breath tonight...

Ya'll take care now.

July 24, 2010 - Where to Begin

2010-07-23T21:51:00.000-07:00

Howdy!

Oh, my. Time sure flies when you're in a daze. I'm not even sure where to start with the updates. In one sense, there's been a lot going on; in another sense, I've not actually done much at all.

Okay, I'll try to keep this short and not too tedious. Back in May, I started having more and more chest pain (for anyone who doesn't know, I had a fatal heart attack back in 2004, and another, less severe one, in 2008, but I'd been doing pretty much okay.) By May 24, it was pretty severe; I could barely walk from the bedroom to the bathroom without needing a nitro tablet for the pain. I called my cardiologist, who told me to go to the ER and get evaluated. I wasn't having another heart attack, but they did admit me for an angiogram and a few other tests. It was found that the blockages we knew were there had gotten worse and while I hadn't yet had another attack, I was definitely heading for one. So, they sent me home to wait for the anti-clotting meds to clear my system and scheduled a triple bypass for June 15. I was pretty much told to not DO anything. Just rest and stay calm.

So, Cj took over most of the stuff around the Shady Rest and, with the help of the furry nursing staff of the Rest, taking care of me too. Me, I just mostly waited. We lost George on June 2, but I told you about that. I went back to the hospital on June 7, by ambulance at 2:30 AM and stayed until the 9th, while they adjusted my meds to get the angina, and my heart rate, back under control. When I got home, all the critters were delighted to see me, as they always are, but Sherman was particularly effusive. He was also in a panic when I started to get out of bed that night, intending only to go to the bathroom. He crawled into my lap, whining, refusing to let me up, terrified I was going to go away in the middle of the night again like I'd done the last night I was at home. I finally convinced him he could come to the bathroom with me and make sure I came back and he did. He didn't calm until we were both back in bed and he was cuddled close to my side.

Finally, the day came, June 15, and bright and early, Cj took me back to the hospital. We were there by 5:45 AM (AM!! Us!) and by 8:00 AM, I was off to surgery. I'm a bit fuzzy on what happened after that, for several hours (well, okay, to be honest, I'm completely blank on everything from "I'm just going to give you something to relax you" until I woke up in CCU four hours later...and a little vague on the whole rest of the day...) Cj tells me the surgery took a tad over three and a half hours, and that I was very entertaining to talk to when I first started to come to. They ended up only doing a double bypass, as one of the clogged arteries was just too small to do safely. I shouldn't really notice the difference.

So, on Wednesday, I was already doing so well they moved me down to the cardiac step-down unit and started pestering me to walk. They also started waking me up at 4:00 AM just to weigh me, again at 5:00 AM for one pill, vitals at 6:00 AM, then wondering at breakfast time why I seemed a little cranky and did I want a pain pill? If you aren't crazy when you get to the hospital, you will be by the time you escape. They finally let me go on the following Monday, and I happily returned home to the loving care of Cj and the critters.

I had all kinds of plans for all the free time I was seeing ahead - I had at least five weeks before I'd be allowed to work again, and I figured I could get some writing done - work on my herbal notes, keep up with the blog. Yeah. Right. Between underestimating how much pain there'd be, especially at first, and the concentration-killing effects of the pain killers and being way off normal schedule, I was definitely over-optimistic. I did get a good bit of reading done, while I hung out in bed with my swollen leg propped up (for reasons no one really understands, the leg from which they harvest the vein for the bypass usually hurts worse and causes more problems than the chest incision, which, if you're interested, is about 9 inches long and not too gruesome at all, or the split sternum underneath, now held together with glue and wire until the bone knits back together.

Of course, summer is still the season of pet rescue events, and there was a BIG one on July 10, The Mars (as in Mars, Inc., makers of wonderful candies like M&Ms and pet foods like Pedigree and Whiskas) Adoption Day. The Mars folks volunteered their time and space, hosting a bunch of area rescues and shelters. Vendors and entertainment are limited, so the focus is on people looking for animals to adopt, and animals needing adoption. Mars even sponsored $40 toward every single adoption fee! Nearly two dozen pets found new forever homes that day, including our own, beloved Sherman. Sherman, after getting his adoption day picture taken and picking up his newly-adopted-pet food goodie packet (a HUGE amount of food and treats, donated by Mars), trotted happily home with his delighted new Forever Parents... me and Cj. We'd been talking about adopting this charming, smart and exceedingly cool dog anyway, and his faithful, gentle care and worry while I was sick and recovering clinched the deal. The fee donation from Mars didn't hurt any either, but it only sped up the inevitable.

So, this adventure, this chapter in the annals of the Shady Rest is about to come to a close. I still have some sore spots, swollen spots, raw places that aren't quite closed, but overall, I'm a bit ahead of schedule on recovery. I feel better than I have in months, maybe years, now that there's blood flowing to places it hasn't been in quite a while. I even felt well enough to attend and thoroughly enjoy my 30th High School reunion last week. (I think I'm the first in the bunch to acquire a bypass scar...) I'll rest a little more this weekend, then head back to work on Monday.

I have to give Alicia, my office manager, coworker and friend, huge thanks - I left work one day in mid-May, not feeling too well, and haven't been back since. With no warning and no help, she had to take over all my work in addition to her own. I hope she knows I'd do the same for her, though I hope for her sake I never have to. She's good people.

Y'all take care now.

June 6, 2010 - Lookin' Around, Movin' On

2010-06-05T21:24:00.001-07:00

Howdy,

Losing a beloved pet changes things. Sometimes the changes are major; if you only have one pet and it dies, the devastation can be shattering. Your routines are altered, your whole day different. The silence where clicking claws used to echo hurts, and the sight of that one bowl, now washed and put on the shelf, can rip your heart out and shred it to hamburger every time you pass by.

When Petunia, our first pug, died, we did have one other dog, Freya, but not the pack we have now. It took so very little to bring the grief slamming back down, the memories rushing back. I was having a "good" day a few days after she left us, having only cried once or twice. I went to the kitchen, pulled a package of Poptarts (brown sugar/cinnamon, if anyone's interested) out of the cabinet, opened the package, and broke down sobbing. Petunia loved Poptarts, better than most any other treat. We had an agreement for most of her life - she got the corners, I got the rest. She could tell the crackle of a Poptart wrapper versus any other package in the world and would come running to make sure I didn't forget the deal. Even when the paralysis had taken much of her mobility, she'd burn carpet rushing down the hall, pulling herself with her elbows like a Navy Seal storming a beach under fire.

That's not to say that having a pack makes it much easier. The rest do not "replace" the missing member; they do, however, provide motivation and the comfort of routine. They still expect to be fed, watered, walked, petted and played with regardless. The daily schedule doesn't change much, though you may find yourself setting out one more bowl than you need for a while.

One thing that happens when you lose one of a pack is, at least for a while, you remember to appreciate the ones remaining a little more. My eyes may mist as I look around and don't see George, but I have to smile at what I do see. Spencer still naps comfortably atop my foot as I type. Sammie still give me his best smile when I come in the house or stop to talk to him. Archie still squirms with delight at the smell of dinner, and Sherman still stings my shin with his joyfully wagging tail. Freya's eyes still sparkle with intelligence and good humor as she teases Hawk, and Hawk still sneaks past her to run to me for an ear rub. Loki is, well, still Loki, cheerfully and unintentionally leaving a trail of chaos in his wake.

This may be, in part, why I'm not sure I could stand us being a one-dog family again. What would I do, without my "cushion" of my loving, encouraging, comforting pack? Without cats that don't mind having their fur cried into as I hold them, without pugs that make me smile by smiling at me first? No matter how much we might wish it so, they are not immortal. I know that the day will eventually come for each of them when I will take an urn in shaking hands, and look to the ones remaining to keep my heart from shattering completely.

So, for now, I pet each one a little more, spend a little more time talking to them, saying "good dog" and "I love you." For now. Human nature being what it is, time will heal the worst of the grief. You don't "get over" it, but you do get through it, and eventually habit and routine will reassert themselves. We'll all go about our lives, not thinking about it too much, until another day...and another urn...reminds us to appreciate the ones we love.

If you need some inspiration or comfort in a time of sorrow, I highly recommend www.petloss.com. You can post a memorial, read others, and join in the Monday Night Candle ceremony. Pain shared is pain diminished.

Ya'll take care now.

June 4, 2010 - Godspeed

2010-06-04T12:57:00.000-07:00

Howdy,

It started innocently enough, with yet another "pug needs a foster home" post on the Ohio Pug Rescue foster family list. Cj and I looked around, decided we had enough fosters right then, and so decided to see if another foster family would respond. A month later, he was still there, a little fawn senior (10 years old, give or take a little), blind, fellow named George. He was safe, in temporary foster at a home that couldn't keep him for long, but was still a step up from the shelter from which he'd been pulled, shortly before being put down, so we waited. Another month, and he was still there, still waiting. We felt for the little guy, and the list of pugs needing foster placement was growing, so we said we'd take him.

On February 3, 2008, George came to the Shady Rest. For his age and lack of vision, he was active, bright, interested. He learned his way around the house in only a couple of days. We started working with him, training him to navigate by verbal commands. He eventually developed a pretty decent vocabulary:

"Find me!" meant there are no obstacles between you and me so come here. He'd run, confident that nothing would trip him up before he got to us and the praise and ear rubs that were his primary reward.

"Careful" meant slow down, you're approaching an obstacle.

"Right" meant, well, go to your right (yes, he learned his right from his left, with more consistency than Cj or I most days.)

"Left" meant go left.

"Step up" you need to step up onto a stair or curb.

"Step down" meant you're at the edge of something, step down.

"Step off" meant you're at the top of the steps, proceed forward.

"Steps" was an early warning to anticipate a "step up" or "step down".

"beep beep" meant back up or turn around, you're at a dead end or wall. (okay, so we have a sick sense of humor)

"follow" meant follow my voice.

He soon became very proficient at navigating by verbal command alone. One day, he was at the far end of the back yard. I was on the deck, but rather than go after him, I started coaching him. "George! Follow." He began coming in the direction of my voice. "George! Right" as he veered toward the shrubs. So on it went, across the yard, around the end of the deck, and up the deck stairs, with me never laying a hand on him. When he finally reached the top of the steps, a proud and happy "Find me!" brought him running right to my arms. "Now, left" took him right through the door.

We even attended a rescue event on the second floor of a local mall. There is an elevator, but he and I opted to take the escalator. Most dogs are confused or frightened by them, but since George couldn't see it, and trusted me completely to not run him into anything dangerous, he showed off to a mall-full of people and did the escalator all by himself. From the door to the bottom of the escalator, stepping on at the bottom and off at the top, around the corner and down the mall to the store. Leash completely slack, verbal commands only. I heard quite a few "wouldja look at that!" from the shoppers, and I couldn't have been more proud.

Of course, being a pug, George had his moments. As noted in previous Shady Rest entries, he could be stubborn, grumpy, demanding, and frustrating. He loved to terrorize the other dogs, and even Freya learned to not aggravate him. She may have been twice his size and half his age, but she knew he could kick her tail and laugh about it. We came to think of him as a little, furry, blind Chuck Norris of sorts. He had a troubled relationship with the kitchen appliances and occasionally attacked them. Far as I can tell, he always won.

George defined "movie-star handsome," with some of the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen.

His blindness was, as far as any vet could tell, neurological, some problem with the optic nerve, not ocular. His eyes were fine - clear, soft brown, gentle. He was probably born that way, which helped explain how well he dealt with being blind.

He eventually developed congestive heart failure, and did well on the medication he took without protest every day. Then, a few months ago, he had what appeared to be a stroke, leaving his neck bent to the side, making it hard for him to walk a straight line, and robbing him of most of his navigational abilities. He was designated a "hospice" foster, unadoptable because of his medical problems and age. He would stay at the Shady Rest for the rest of his life. Still, he kept going, undeterred, undefeated. He allowed us to "drive" him around in a stroller for longer trips, but still enjoyed going out and about, smelling and hearing new people and new places. For all that he could be a bit of a grouch at home, he was all charm when he was out. Someone would approach and start to scratch his chin and he would bestow upon them a huge, happy smile. Scratch his chest, and he'd melt into a puddle of contented fur. He still enjoyed his dinners and would still defend his dish as fiercely as ever. Teasing Loki still made him smile.

The night before last, George left us. No warning, no symptoms. Cj had hand-fed him his dinner, because he'd been losing his dish and not finishing it. He had his dessert treat and laid down on the cool kitchen floor, a fairly common night sleep spot of his. That's where she found him yesterday morning - a small, peaceful smile on his face, one ear sticking straight up. No sign of any pain, struggle, or distress, he just slipped away in his sleep, his brave, fierce heart finally giving out.

As they all do, he taught us his lessons. Stand up for what's important to you, even when you can barely stand up. It's okay to have a little harmless fun with others as long as nobody gets hurt. New people and new places don't have to be scary. If you trust someone, trust them with your whole heart and you'll get where you're going.

Godspeed, Gorgeous George. Run fast and run free, and know that you are missed.

Y'all take care now.

May 12, 2010 - Why Do They DO That?

2010-05-12T15:54:00.000-07:00

Not that it takes much to confuse me, but the pugs manage to do it with staggering ease sometimes.

The other day, for example, Cj was locking up Freya in her crate before heading out to work. Freya gets a treat for going in. The pugs, who are not locked up during the day, expect a treat as well, and Loki and Spencer sometimes run into their crates to ensure they get a goodie, even though the doors will remain open. Well, Loki tries, at least. On this particular day, though, he stops short of the door and starts hopping from foot to foot, whining and fussing. Cj doesn't see anything at first, but a closer peek reveals George. George dozing INSIDE Loki's crate. George, old, crippled, blind terror of all the other dogs. They all know better than to cross him or to wake him. So Loki would rather be re-neutered than risk walking into that crate. Out of pity, Cj takes the risk and gently slips a finger under George's collar, hoping to perhaps wake him gently enough to not lose the digit. George wakes, tilts his head, and gives her a HUGE grin. He is fully aware of the distress he's causing Loki, and probably wasn't actually asleep at all. Just faking it and enjoying the fuss. He does that now and then - just works the other dogs' nerves for no other reason than he still can. It's good to be The Senior. Loki got his treat, George got his and a good scritch besides. The Senior wins again.

Then there's Sammie. Sammie is much like a toddler - no matter how sleepy he is, he'll fight fiercely against actually going to sleep for fear of missing something. Today we watched with much amusement as he swayed and sagged, eyes half closed, but simply refusing to just lie down and go to sleep. At one point, his paws started to slide, his head sagged, and he executed a perfect faceplant right into Sherman's butt. He stayed that way for a few minutes, then dragged his head back upright (eyes still shut), sat and swayed again for a while, then staggered off to the other side of the desk chair. He sat there for a while, until he finally waddled off to the bed and went to sleep for real.

I don't know. I try to understand them. Still, there are days that, much as I may try to figure out what's going on in those little heads, there is a part of me that suspects I'm probably happier not knowing. When I see Archie, carrying off Cj's jeans, or Spencer, lying comfortably on the kitchen floor, licking the front of the stove, do I really want a deep understanding of their motives? Ignorance is, after all, said to be bliss. I'm not sure who said that, but my guess is that he or she lived with a pug.

May 6, 2010 - Nothing You Could Say - My Guys

2010-05-06T22:02:00.000-07:00

Howdy!

Lots of changes around here! Ferragamo's moved out, not adopted, but "pugnapped" by another OPR member. She'd volunteered to help us out by picking him up at the vet since I couldn't get there before they closed that day. She picked him up, and promptly fell head over heels! Ferr, you may remember, is a Bugg - half Boston Terrier, half pug, and it seems she grew up with Bostons. Ferr reminded her of one of her best buddies, so they're getting along fabulously at her place now.

Lest you think an empty bunk at the Shady Rest ever stays empty for long, Hawk moved in last week. He's a BIG fellow - not fat, just tall, broad-chested, cobby and buff. Very handsome and a big ol' loverboy. Everything the textbooks say a pug should be - funny, friendly, affectionate and outgoing. Everybody, human, feline or canine, is his new pal. He won't be here too long - he already has a forever home waiting, we just need to make sure he's properly vetted and chipped and he'll be on his way.

So, enough about the fosters. What had me thinking today was my guys - Sammie, Spencer and Loki - the pugs who've found their forever home in the ever-changing Shady Rest. This place that has been but a way station for so many, is their only world. They've all had lives before, but unless something goes radically wrong, this will be their last place to call home.

Sometimes I feel a little guilty. While it's tremendously rewarding for us humans to work with rescue and foster, I have some doubts about the "rewards" for our own dogs. While other pugs are the center of attention most of the time in their own homes, ours must share time, attention, scritches and belly rubs with other dogs, a constantly shifting array of foster brothers who come without warning and depart without explanation.

Still, none of this seems to upset or confuse them. They have grown accustomed to the changes, the coming and going, the sharing, and they accept it all with good natured calm. Other people fret and worry about "How do I introduce a new dog at home?" but we don't. We can leave with one pug in tow in the morning and return in the evening with a completely different one, and all we have to do is announce, "New guy on deck! Be NICE!" and all is well. The newbie will be sniffed from stem to stern, there may be a formal hump or two, then they're considered part of the pack. In no time at all, the new kid will be dozing in a bed next to Sammie, or running to the window to bark next to Spencer.

They make me proud and, as always, they make me think. Would it kill us humans to maybe take life the same way? To accept new people as siblings of a sort, or at least to give them a fair chance to fit in before we nip at them? To trust that change probably isn't all bad and sometimes it can be very good? To share what we have, trusting that there will be enough to go around? To leave past hurts in the past and wait with an open mind and a hopeful heart to see what today brings? How bad could it be to live, just for a while, like a Shady Rest pug?

Just thinkin'...

Y'all take care now.

April 6, 2010 - The Tug

2010-04-07T13:11:00.000-07:00

Howdy,

My it's been busy around here lately! Orville came back, Sherman joined the inmates, and now there's Ferragamo, our newest foster. Fresh from a kill-shelter where he was just about out of time, Ferragamo is a Bugg - half pug and half Boston Terrier. He just arrived yesterday, so he's still settling in and getting used to everybody.

He's not nearly as "possessed" as those eyes look - just pug eyes in a Boston skull combined with some playtime excitement. He's very sweet, smart and fun, quite a pleasant little fellow to have around. Needs a snip and a little work on walking with a leash and he'll be ready to make someone a very fine companion.

Meanwhile, all these dogs around got me thinking about The Tug. If you've ever loved an animal, you know exactly what I'm talking about - that tight little pull in the middle of your chest when you look at a beloved pet and for one, brief moment see him exactly as he is. Not as a pet, or a pest, or a child or therapist or worker or any of the other things we expect them to be, but just as he is. An innocent, non-human soul in a fur-covered (or feather covered or scale covered) body. Loving you because that's his nature, depending on you totally because that's his fate, asking only love and kindness in return, but accepting whatever he gets.

We probably, most of us, don't think about it too hard or too often, but our pets are totally, completely dependent upon us. They have only what we give them, whether it be luxuries like treats and toys, or basics like food and shelter. They have little to no choice in who takes them in, yet they love us with all their little hearts once they're in. It's an awesome responsibility, one far too many people take far too lightly, and one that real pet lovers accept on such a level that it's rarely consciously considered.

The Tug happens where real love, more than you thought you could feel for any other creature save maybe a spouse or child, intersects with a flicker of the realization of how much you mean to them. I look down and see Sammie, sleeping beside my desk. He sleeps deeply, in perfect trust that he is safe and protected here, that he doesn't have to sleep the light sleep of potential prey. He's not prowling for food, because he's secure it will be provided, perhaps later than he'd like some days, but it will. He snuggles next to Loki, without feeling jealous or competitive, because he's learned that time and money may be short now and then, but there's always enough love to go around and he is, indeed, loved.

He briefly wakes, probably feeling me looking at him, looks up at me with sleepy brown eyes, happy to find me near, and resumes his nap. And I feel it. The Tug. The twinge in the chest, the sting in the eyes, the momentary urge to just sweep him up, hug him close and maybe cry a little into his fur. Just because he's him. Just a little dog named Sammie, who has decided, doG knows why, that I am his person and that, pretty much no matter what I do, where I go, how broke or rich I am, how spiffy or unkempt I may be, or how happy or cranky I may be, that I'm okay with him and he wants to be with me.

They all do it to me at different times, usually when I'm doing something else and not paying much attention. When Spencer, quiet and gentlemanly and sometimes crowded out in the flurry of more assertive attention-seekers, looks up at me from under my desk, where he's using my foot as a pillow. Sherman, when I try to put on a sock and he tunnels under my arm and peers into my face, wanting a rub right that minute. I may start to get annoyed at the interruption, but then it hits me. He's not an "interruption," he's a dog, and he wants to spend some time with me. So I stop for a moment to coo at him and rub his ears. There will always be more socks. There will always be more work to be done, but I have learned too dearly that there will not always be more Sherman.

I dunno. Maybe I'm reading too much into it. I'm sure some psychiatrist could spend page after page going on about brain chemicals and wiring and conditioning and socialization to explain The Tug. I tend to wonder if maybe it's a reminder from the Creator or from the Universe or from my subconscious or from whomever, that we humans seek answers. We seek spiritual truths. We look for inspiration, or love, or forgiveness. Maybe The Tug is a reminder that most of what we say we seek is right there, right in front of us, often overlooked or underestimated, but right there. The answers to life, the universe and everything are sitting around us, watching us, quietly shedding on our carpets, waiting for us to feel The Tug and pay attention.

Y'all take care now.

March 16, 2010 - The Muse of the Manse

2010-03-16T16:44:00.000-07:00

Howdy!

It occurred to me, skimming over some of these blog entries, that Cj lurks around the edges of many, and a more complete introduction is long overdue.

It would be easy for a casual reader to conclude that she is merely the "co-innkeeper" of the introductory paragraph. She is, but that is only one small facet of the importance of her presence here.

On a personal level, she has been my spouse, partner, best friend, lover, confidante, co-worker, inspiration and cohort in crime for nearly 25 years now. Those who dismiss the notion of love at first sight have never seen us together. We met, appropriately enough, on Halloween 1986. We both immediately felt a connection, more of a "recognizing" than a "meeting," not so much a "pleased to meet you" as "Oh! There you are! Finally!" We really haven't been voluntarily separated since then.

She still consistently amazes me, this hazel-eyed, red-haired marvel from Oklahoma. She can still surprise me, still make me laugh, still make me think. Her depths of compassion and sympathy, especially for animals, still sometimes brings tears to my eyes and I want to be her, when I grow up. A scared and skittish new foster, afraid of his own shadow and of me, will go to her, allow her to hold him, to croon at him, and cradle him until he's not scared any more. The fact that she willingly fosters with me makes it all possible. I know a few people in rescue who cannot foster dogs, or can only foster one at a time, because of spousal reluctance. Blessedly, I have no such obstacle. Just when I think we cannot possibly work in one more fur-covered anything, and suspect she'd beat me for even suggesting it, she will be the first to say, "Poor little guy. I think we can work him in, can't we?" Couples have divorced over far less than she puts up with daily, without a murmur of complaint.

I'm blessed in so many ways by her constant presence in my life. We've had our rough times - she had a life-threatening case of meningitis a few years ago, with a year of recovery time and two emergency brain surgeries. She's had to endure two phone calls telling her I'd had a heart attack, one call coming from another state. Floods, deaths, financial crises and yet, each simply strengthens our bond and we come through closer than before, still holding hands, still making each other laugh.

Cj is also the origin of my love for pugs. She's the one who first fell in love with our first pug, Petunia. At the time, I pretty much just went along because this particular dog made her very, very happy. Of course, it didn't take long until I was pugged too. Petunia introduced us to pug rescue and life has not been the same since.

Several people have said they enjoy reading the stories of the Shady Rest, and I am deeply grateful and appreciative for each of them. I'm happy if my ramblings about life in this cluttered, fur-tufted little Midwestern suburban brick ranch-style bring a smile, but to give full credit where it is due, Cj is the source. There are eight dogs and four cats here (today); only four dogs and three cats are technically ours, yet I defy anyone to tell from her demeanor and treatment which are which. They all have a warm, safe bed in her heart, whether they're here forever or just for now. Without her tolerance, generosity of spirit, gentleness of soul, and compassionate heart, there would be no Shady Rest. She is my muse - without her constant support, love and inspiration, there would be no stories.

Y'all take care now.

March 10, 2010 - Sherman Update

2010-03-10T20:00:00.000-08:00

Howdy!

Since I've heard some folks wanted updates, I'm happy to report that Sherman, the newest Shady Rest inmate, is settling in very well. He's starting to relax, learning to appreciate warm stew mixed with his kibble (he was less than impressed on the first go-round), and become quite the snuggler. He actually takes a little offense if you have a free hand and you're not using it to pet him! This morning, my alarm went off. He lifted his head, and snuggled closer, crawling up my torso until he was comfortably settled with my arm wrapped around him and his head on my shoulder. Of course, I did what any dedicated employee would do on a work morning - I hit the snooze bar on the clock so I wouldn't have to disturb him for another eight minutes.

He's smart, too! We've discovered he's a little finicky on what he eats and there are some dog treats he's just not into, but he does like beef jerky strips. We tend to switch up treats around here and this week, the treat on offer is a crunchy biscuit type. All the other dogs love the things, but not so much with Sherman. Because George sometimes has difficulty chewing harder treats, we always keep a bag of soft treats for him. So, anyway, last night Cj handed out the after-dinner/before-bed treats. Everybody ate their biscuit just fine, except Sherman. He carried his around, dropping it now and then, sniffing at it. He clearly didn't like it but was too polite to just spit it out in front of us. Then Cj picked up the bag of jerky strips to get one for George. Sherman perked right up. He picked up his biscuit, carried it over to her, laid the biscuit on the floor at her feet, sat down and looked at the bag of strips. "Trade?" His intention couldn't have been clearer if he'd spelled it out with Scrabble tiles. She took his offer and swapped him his biscuit for a jerky strip, which he promptly carried off and consumed.

He was a little overwhelmed by all the other dogs, when he first arrived (can't say that I blame him - sometimes I feel a bit overwhelmed by them too, and I'm more or less used to them) but now he's running with the pack like he was born with them. Freya seems to like him and is already including him in her count-of-noses when she comes in from outside. Sammie seems to have attached to him as an acceptable successor to Orville, and he gives the old blind fellows no grief. He does like chasing the cats, but as long as he's not trying to do them any harm, I figure they can use the extra exercise. The Shady Rest cats are accustomed to new foster dogs and will slap some respect into him if they get tired of it.

So, a couple more weeks, a little socialization and confidence-building, and I'm pretty sure he'll be off to a new forever home, to make some human very, very happy.

That's another day here the Shady Rest. Ya'll take care.

March 6, 2010 - You Say Goodbye and I Say Hello

2010-03-06T20:59:00.000-08:00

Howdy!

It's been an interesting day here at the Shady Rest. We did Orville's adoption today, to a fine family about an hour outside of Columbus. Cj and I both feel/felt SO good about this one! We've never yet had an adoption of a foster about which we felt bad, but some just seem to be so very right, and this was definitely one of those. The family, mom, dad, toddler girl and infant boy, had met Orville at the Dogs Rule Doggy Day Care Center Adoption Day a couple of weeks ago. They were smitten with him, and as far as I could tell, he with them, but they were smart. This was no impulse. They'd come because they wanted to adopt a rescued pug, and though they thought Orville would be good for them, they met all the other pugs too, just to be sure. They asked questions, lots of questions, and good ones, about the breed and about the individual pugs. They have a dog, a delightful black lab named Gracie, but never a pug before. They wanted to do it right. After meeting all the pugs that were in attendance (and there were quite a few), they filled out an adoption form on the spot, with Orville's name on it.

At some point in the process, there was a misunderstanding. Orville wobbles when he walks. His back end has some weakness and loss of sensation; nothing dramatic, but he wobbles. The new family had been told he had degenerative myelopathy. For those unfamiliar with degenerative myelopathy, it's an ugly disease, blessedly uncommon in pugs but seen fairly often in larger breeds, like Belgian Malinois. The cause is unknown, but the sheaths surrounding the nerves start to degenerate and die. When the protective sheath dies, the nerve follows. It starts at the tail and works forward, a progressive, crippling process with no cure and no treatment. Ultimately, the affected dog will die when the paralysis reaches the diaphragm and the dog can no longer breathe. The process itself is painless - dead nerves don't register pain. We lost our first pug, Petunia, to it. First her back legs gave out and we got her a cart. Then her front legs went, and we put her in an infant carrier. We spoiled her rotten as long as we could, and as long as she had some quality of life and was enjoying herself, we kept going right along with her. The day finally came that she told us she wasn't having fun any more, and the vet confirmed that it was only a matter of days until she started having trouble breathing, so we let her go. It was an experience for which I will forever be grateful, and one I wouldn't wish on anyone who loves dogs.

So, anyway, they thought Orville had this condition, but unlike so many people would have, they didn't walk away or request another pug. They just dug in and started researching the disease, to see what they'd need to do to make his life as filled with love and joy for as long as they might be able to. Amazing. Meanwhile, I got on the phone with his vet and after a nice chat, was happily able to confirm that no, he didn't have DM at all. Orville has an old, stable spinal injury that left some nerve damage behind. He doesn't hurt, and, best of all, is quite likely to never get any worse, but will be wobbling along for years to come.

Orville arrived at their home and obviously remembered them all, right down to the baby, who greeted us with a HUGE grin. The little girl was so excited to see her friend again. At first, I think she thought we were just bringing him for a play date, thanking us for bringing him to visit. When we said he'd be staying, she jumped up and down, then ran to remove his harness and leash, "because he's not going." Then she had her mom help her carry him upstairs to show him her bedroom, because she wants him to sleep with her. I didn't notice Orville showing any aversion to this plan.

I had jokingly commented to some friends that, given the way things usually seem to work here at the Shady Rest, we'd probably get a call to foster another pug within five minutes after Orville's adoption. I was wrong. The call came in an hour before the adoption and the dog is a Daug (half dachshund, half pug), not a pug. :) His name is Sherman. He's about six years old, very handsome and incredibly shy. He won't come near me yet, though he's learning to trust Cj. Whenever something scares him, like me walking down the hall or Freya barking, he runs and ducks under Cj's chair. I hope he'll come around, some at least. If he's just shy by nature, he may never be the outgoing beast the rest of the Shady Rest inmates are, but that's okay.

So, for all those people who ask us, "How do you do it? How can you foster a dog and then give it up? I'd want to keep them all," or "you must be SO unselfish because you foster," there's your answer. No, you won't want to keep them all, and Cj and I are incredibly selfish. Few things in life are as feel-good rewarding as handing over a homeless dog to a family that's in raptures over him, ready and willing and eager to make the rest of his life as happy and healthy as possible. It's a huge pleasure for us. Not only that, but think about the numbers. If you limit yourself to, say, two dogs at a time, you live to be 80 and each dog has a mean life span of about 13 years. That means in your life, you'll only get to meet, interact with, learn from, and enjoy about 12 dogs. I'm greedy - I like meeting new dogs, loving on them, spoiling them, teaching and learning from them. Fostering adds bunches of dogs I wouldn't have otherwise gotten to enjoy. Again, selfish of me. I wish more people would indulge themselves and their love of dogs through fostering. It's one of the few forms of selfish indulgence that does a world of good.

Well, that's just another day at the Shady Rest. Y'all take care.

February 26, 2010 - All Hail the (Drama) Queen

2010-02-26T22:06:00.000-08:00

Howdy!

If there's any creature on earth that can make you scratch your head and go "Huh?" it's a pug.

I went to the kitchen the other day, intending to get a couple of cookies. Just cheap little generic vanilla sandwich creams. As I was pulling a couple out of the cookie canister, I dropped one. Spencer and Orville had followed me to the kitchen and, of course, when the cookie hit the floor and broke in half, they were on it like ducks on a june bug. No problem - the cookies are vanilla, probably not the healthiest treat for them (or me either, for that matter) but certainly not toxic, so I let them have it.

Then I saw him - Sammie. He'd come around the corner just in time to see them, eating cookie pieces, and me, standing there with a handful of cookies. Not having seen the cookie fall, he came to the only conclusion he could. I'd given them a cookie and hadn't given him any. The hurt was obvious. The big, brown eyes that went from happy to heartbroken. The ears that sagged from the sides of his head nearly down his neck. The tail that unrolled like a cheap perm in a rainstorm. His head went down, he slowly turned, and started to trudge, slowly, down the hall.

I followed, calling his name, offering half of one of the cookies I still had in my hand (the side with the cream, no less). Nothing. He wasn't having it. I'd call his name, he'd turn, look mournfully over his shoulder at me with those immensely sad eyes, then turn away and resume his slow procession down the hall. I called again, again he turned, again he turned away.

He made me follow him all the way to the office, but he wasn't giving in yet. He dragged into the office, went to Archie's bed, very deliberately sat down with his back to me, would not turn back again, no matter how much I called his name. The picture of dejection, head down, tail draped over the edge of the bed. He sighed. A heart-rending, three-hanky, tear-jerker performance, Oscar-worthy.

I had to walk around the bed, stand in front of him, and stick the cookie under his nose. The second I did, the eyes lit up, the ears and tail came back to their usual upright and locked position, and he snarfed down the cookie as if it were a fresh steak.

Little drama queen, that boy. With his own, totally trained, lady-in-waiting, chasing him about and forcing him to take cookies.

Just another day at the Shady Rest. Y'all take care now.

January 26, 2010 - A Few Tips for Guests

2010-01-26T19:24:00.000-08:00

Howdy!

It occurs to me that what seems normal and every-day here at the Shady Rest might come as a surprise to a visitor, perhaps even a little odd. So, in the spirit of being prepared, much as one might study a guide of some sort before touring another country, there are a few things you should probably know about life here.

First, watch Archie. He'll be watching you. Closely. With his limited vision, this means he's usually about a quarter of an inch from either your shin or calf. He's a very involved little pug, always wanting to see and sniff what you're doing, so he's there a lot. So far we've managed to avoid either serious head trauma on his part or orthopedic repair on ours, but caution while backing up is always a good thing.

Listen to George. George has roughly two states of being - asleep and annoyed. Occasionally, he manages both at once. If he's snoring, he's asleep. If he's not snoring, he's probably annoyed to one degree or another. If he's growling, grumbling, snorging, chuffing, or rawring like a small, furry dinosaur, he's seriously annoyed and should be approached with caution. Treats help. I don't think he'd ever deliberately bite a human; he'd just think you were the refrigerator, oven, or filing cabinet that's been teasing him. Once he figures out who you are, he sometimes even slides into Charm Mode and becomes irresistible. Then, you've got it made.

Keep an eye on Loki, too. He's small, dark, sneaky and can turn on the cute like most people turn on the light switch. This makes him far more dangerous than he appears, especially if there's food involved. If you set down a plate where you think it's out of reach, he appears. His shiny dark head rises slowly, a little puggy periscope, silent. The nose seeks, locks on target, the eyes shift, looking for signs of capture. Should the coast be clear, the mark distracted, a black paw edges forward, hooks the edge of the target, and your sandwich will disappear as swiftly and soundlessly as the morning mist evaporates with the dawn.

The coffee pot is always on, the mugs are in the cabinet above and to the right. Help yourself, just know that Spencer will be sitting firmly on your foot by the time you're done pouring. Gently slide your foot out, check for your shoe, then proceed. He won't mind. He'll grin up at you, teefies and all. He's just about impossibly handsome, so just enjoy. Ear rubs are always welcome.

Orville, on the other hand, will maintain a respectful distance. He's not fearful or shy, just somewhat experienced in being around feet. He will watch you in solemn silence, looking vaguely worried, but a smile in his direction will be returned with a blink and a tail twitch. If invited, he'll happily come and snuggle as close to you as he can possibly, physically get, and stay as long as you'll let him.

That leaves Sammie. What do you need to know about Sammie? Ah, what don't you need to know? He's mouthy, rude, pushy, demanding, with a face like a gargoyle and a heart of gold. His first appearance can be a little startling - he has a half-inch underbite, with fangs Dracula would envy, bottom front teeth that stick straight out to the front, a nose that's a little snubby even by pug standards, and a tongue that doesn't quite fit all the way in his mouth. You'll be forgiven for jumping just a little if he pops around a corner unannounced. He's anything but shy, and likely to body check another pug clean out of the way if you don't pet him first. Still, he really just wants to be close, and he'll sit and sag and sway and drift and try as hard as he can NOT to go to sleep, just so he doesn't miss it if you want him for anything.

So, that about wraps it up. Watch for flying cats, climbing pugs, and Freya, who will herd you around so you don't get lost, and you'll have a fine time here at the Shady Rest.

Y'all take care now.

December 31, 2009 - Remembering Roy

2009-12-31T14:23:00.000-08:00

Howdy,

For folks who may not know about Roy, he was one of the most fearless, loaded with personality, independent pugs I've ever been blessed to meet. I'd filled out an adoption application specifying an older (10+) male. The rescue president called. "You wanted an older boy? I just got one in I think would work. You wanna come over and meet him?" So Cj and I drove over. The Prez always has a bunch of fosters and newly-arrived "hold" fosters (waiting to be picked up by their foster homes) pugs around, so when a little gray-faced senior boy came up to greet us, we asked, "Is this one ours?"

"Nope," she said, pointing to the back yard, "See that little lump in the shade? That's yours. I'll get him."

She went into the yard, came back with an armful and set him on the floor in front of us. Cj and I looked at him. We looked at each other. We looked at the Prez. We looked at him. Standing in front of us was possibly the most ancient creature on earth. 95% blind, 100% deaf, gray all over, looking a bit like someone had wadded him up and tossed him, and roughly 120 years old. (when we took him to the vet for a check, his official, professional, highly trained opinion of his age was "somewhere between 17 years old and four years older than God.")

"His name is Roy. The adoption coordinator named him for her father, because he grumbles like him. What do you think? You said you wanted a senior." said the Prez, encouragingly.

"I think I want one that will survive the trip home," I replied. "What's his story?"

She told us. He'd been found, dumped, ancient, blind, deaf and terrified, in a busy parking lot. Animal control had picked him up and called OPR, knowing he stood a less than zero chance of adoption at the shelter. The fact that he'd managed to not get run over was a miracle and a marvel by itself.

I looked at him again. He grinned at me, head tilted because he couldn't lift it up all the way. I sighed. Cj sighed. We melted, handed over the adoption fee, signed the paper, gingerly picked up the elderly beast and headed for the car.

Adopting Roy counts as one of the smartest things we ever did. I rather expected a doorstop - at his age, how active or interested could he be? Instead, we got a dog that let nothing deter him. He'd climb into the strangest places, ninja roll off the bed, chase your toes and nibble on them if you were slow with his dinner (and had an impressive grip - Cj would dance around hollering "Roy, let go!" while I giggled and reminded her he was deaf and couldn't hear her fussing). His attitude about everything was "ME do!" He didn't like to be carried - he'd walk, thank you very much. (Took forever, but we'd get there.) He slept between us every night; for the first two weeks, he'd wake me up with nightmares, howling and shaking until I'd pick him up, rock him and soothe him back to sleep, reminding him he was found and would never be lost again. He had a smile that could melt any heart and he used it. When I'd get home from work, he'd come toddling over as fast as he could (and he could get up some speed when he wanted), get up close to see what shoes were coming, and grin when he recognized mine. He had a loud, sharp bark that could shatter glass, but only used it when his grumbling didn't get your attention. We got to love and spoil him for about nine months before he slipped off to the Bridge. He left about two years ago, and I miss him still.

Happy New Year to all, from the Shady Rest!

December 24, 2009 - The Night Before Christmas, Shady Rest Style

2009-12-24T18:44:00.000-08:00

T'was the night before Christmas, when all through the Rest,

All the inmates were stirring, busy making a mess,

The stockings were...somewhere, in the laundry, I'm sure,

Or hid with the presents, I'm not sure where they were.

A few pugs were nestled in big snuggle beds,

While visions of cheesy goodies danced in their heads,

With a list in my hand, and a cat in her lap,

We'd have both sold a kidney for a very long nap.

When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my desk to see what was the matter,

Away to the window, I rushed like a turtle,

Jumping and dodging each small puggy hurdle.

The moon on the breast of the Midwestern slush,

Gave a holiday sparkle to the half-frozen mush.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a small SUV that was parking, right here!

With a little old driver, with a beard on his jaws,

I knew right away it was old Santa Paws!

With me to the window, the inmates all came,

And he whistled and greeted each one by their name.

"Hi Spencer, now Loki, now Orville and Sammie,

And Georgie and Archie and Freya, and kitties!

To the top of the couch, now bounce off of the wall,

Will you all settle down? I have goodies for all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the rooftop that SUV flew,

With the bundles of treats and old Santa Paws too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard up above,

The steps of the guy that all animals love,

As I drew in my head and was turning about,

Down the chimney came Santa Paws with a shout.

He was wearing fake fur from his head to his boots,

He was dusted with dog hair and evergreen shoots,

A bundle of treats he had flung on his back,

From which cat fur fell as he opened his pack.

His eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were a bit flushed, but not at all scary.

An animal lover, he flashed a huge grin,

And he laughed as all of our critters ran in.

He was chubby and plump, a most jolly old elf,

He was shaped, come to think, just a bit like myself.

He rubbed on each head and scratched on each ear,

And wished he could visit more than just once each year.

With a whispered "I love you, you're such a good dog,"

He crouched down beside them, a bit like a frog.

He pulled out a treat for each doggy and cat,

It took but a second, it was over like that.

Then he ran to his car and the gas he then pressed,

And he hurried away from the old Shady Rest,

But I heard him exclaim, and we wish it to you,

"Happy Christmas to all, and a great New Year too!"

From all the residents of the Shady Rest, to all of you and yours, we wish a warm, safe, and joyous Christmas, and a new year filled with small daily miracles, peace and love. Ya'll come back in the New Year.

December 14, 2009 - The Cats of the Shady Rest

2009-12-13T22:43:00.000-08:00

Howdy!

Another Day At the Shady Rest tends to focus on the pugs, but there are other residents. Three and a half cats help keep things interesting too, and it's always fun to watch them interact with Freya and the pugs. In spite of all you hear about "fighting like cats and dogs," the Shady Rest is a mostly peaceable kingdom, if you will, with very few interspecies spats.

Okay, I know, you're wondering about that "three and a half" cats thing, so let me explain that before I introduce the permanent feline residents. To cut a very long story as short as possible, about two and a half years ago, a friend's teenage son, Zach, moved in with us for a while. While he was living here, he went to visit a friend, and called us from there. There was an abandoned litter of tiny, maybe-four-week-old kittens at the apartment complex, and it was getting cold, and he REALLY wanted one, and we had cats anyway, and he just KNEW we'd love her, and he promised when he moved out he'd take her with him, and she would be HIS cat and he'd take care of her, and, and, and...you get the idea.l This nearly-six-foot burly male had been reduced to a gibbering five-year-old, already firmly wrapped around the tiny paw of this kitten. I sighed deeply and said, "Okay, bring her home."

When he arrived, one hand was cupped and nestled in the palm was an amazingly small kitten. (She remains one of the smallest adult cats I've ever seen.) She looked like a gray-stripe-and-white cotton ball with eyes. Yet, those eyes were open and very alert, and she appeared to be otherwise healthy. And that's how we first got acquainted with Riddi-kitty. (He'd wanted to name the cat Riddick, from the movie, but found she was female, so she became Riddi.) It took the teensy terror only moments to take over the whole place. Oddly, her best friend, mentor and advocate was Freddie, our then 19-year-old senior cat. If one of the other cats looked at her funny, she'd run to him. He would actually bestir his old, creaky bones and play with her, rolling and pouncing like another kitten. Nobody could mess with Freddie's food, except Riddi, who got first dibs on his plate while he watched benevolently. He was like her instant grandpa.

Flash forward a few months. Zach's moved out and did indeed take Riddi with him. Freddie has gone to the Rainbow Bridge to chase butterflies and bask in the sun without the troubles of old age to trouble him any longer. The phone rings again. Riddi needs a place to hang for a few months, for many reasons which I will spare you, most involving an emergency relocation to a new apartment with an allergic roommate with a big, cat-hating dog. Can she stay here until February, when the lease runs out and he'll be able to take her back? "Sure, why not?"

So, with our resident three Shady Rest cats - Thor, Kali and Spare - Riddi is the "half" cat, not really ours but rather like a favored niece. Thor hates her, but then, he hates most other cats. Kali ignores her, but she ignores just about everyone, and Spare tolerates her well, so it's good. The dogs don't have too much problem with her. Sammie likes to chase her, but she eggs him on, so I think it's a game, not a dispute. I'm fairly certain George would be unimpressed, if he could find her. She's too quick, though, and sometimes amuses herself by hiding, poking him in the head, then running off.

Now, back to the introductions. In order of arrival, there's Thor, a solid black mama's boy. He was named for the Norse god of thunder for his deep, rumbling purr, because his meow, when it manages to come out at all, is a high-pitched squeak. Given his druthers, he'd never touch the ground at all, much preferring to be held 24/7 and squacking in protest when put down. Eating and snuggling are his favorite activities. Thor is not overfond of the dogs, or the other cats, but he is terribly affectionate (to the point of being a pest sometimes) with his humans.

Then there's Spare. Spare, a former feral neighborhood stray, got his name from when we first met. He would come to the deck to eat the cat food we left out for the wildlife and would run when he saw us even move inside the house. Gradually, he became accustomed to us and would hang around while we refilled the bowl. We started referring to him as the spare cat, as in "Honey, did you put out food? The spare cat is here." By the time he moved inside to stay, he answered to Spare and we just left it. Figured it's better to be the Spare cat than the Homeless cat. Spare is the most Zen cat we've ever met - laid back, tolerant of all, the soul of patience and calm. We suspect he may have been a Buddhist monk in a past life - he has those thousand-year-old eyes. He loves his dogs as much as the other cats and the people, often rubbing up against a seated pug and purring his head off.

Last is Kali (Callie, when she came) an amazingly, shy cat taken in when her human was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She came with her brother, Freddie. The owner was going to have them both put to sleep, but not because she didn't love them. She did, too much to have them end up dying in a shelter among strangers, and she couldn't believe anyone would want them. She felt a quick, painless death with someone familiar and loved by their side was a better fate, even though the decision broke her heart. Freddie's age at the time - 16- was certainly a deterrent to adoption, and Kali was so shy and fearful that anyone wanting a cat for a companion would look the other way. Well, you know the Shady Rest likes seniors, and most days I don't like people much either, so we told her we'd be happy to take them in. The owner was beyond happy to have them in a loving home that didn't mind their quirks at all. Freddie made it to 20, and Kali's still going at 11. She's still the shyest cat I've ever met (we have no idea why - her previous owner had had her since she was an eight-week-old kitten and she'd gotten plenty of socialization and handling. She loved her owner, but NO one else.) She spent the first two years here either under the futon in the family room or under the bed. We never saw her. We just put down food and water, left a litter box near her latest hidey-hole and left it at that. For year three, she moved to the half bath and started coming out some, when it was quiet and the dogs were locked up for the night. She comes out more now, and seeks some attention from both Cj and me, but she'll probably never be as clingy as Thor or as friendly as Spare, but that's okay. She's fine just as she is, and as long as she seems content, she's welcome to be as much of a hermit as she likes.

So, those are the cats of the Shady Rest. Y'all take care now!

December 8, 2009 - Update

2009-12-08T19:39:00.000-08:00

Howdy!

It's that time of year, with tons to do and most of it not interesting enough to talk about. Lately, the Shady Rest has been recovery central for Archie. About three weeks ago, we took him to the vet for the removal of a small skin tumor and a dental. Sounded simple enough. We went to pick him up and the vet tech walked out with Frankenpug! Still a little stoned on pain-killers, ears akimbo, and with what looked like miles of stitches! They took off the original tumor, and another they'd found on his butt (poor boy), and while they were at it, took off the big fatty cyst (lipoma) on his side! Oh, and the dental resulted in five tooth extractions. He peered at us with a look that clearly seemed to say, "If you wanted a smaller pug, why didn't you just get one?" So, gently and ever-so-careful not to hit any of his sore spots, we took him, his pills, and his drain tube home, to a soft bed and a soft diet.

First day home from vet.

Happily, in spite of his age, he's recovered very , very nicely. He spent a couple of days in isolation in the bathroom with his favorite bed and his stuffed bunny, to avoid the other dogs' accidentally poking or bumping his sore spots. He enjoyed his meals of warm stew with no kibble, with some extra protein to help him heal, and savored the extra attention.

This past week, the stitches came out, and all that remains is to regrow his thick, beautiful fur. (He has the thickest coat I've ever seen on any pug.) He's totally back to being his normal, happy, bouncing self, following us around, levitating as he barks, and complaining if dinner looks like it may be a little late.

With all the stitches out - next, a bath!

As for the other Shady Rest residents, they're doing well. George is still kicking tail and taking names. Although he will fuss and fume if one of us tries to crate him, he's taken to crawling into either Loki's or Spencer's crate for his afternoon naps. Fortunately, they don't mind. Speaking of kicking tail, Cj was trying to put his bowl down for dinner the other evening. Apaprently, he got a little confused about the exact whereabouts of the bowl, so he took after her toes as an acceptable alternative. She backed away to try to save her toes, which meant the bowl was backing up too. She finally mangaged to pry her toes free of his teeth and trade him for the bowl. You gotta watch him.

Much to Orville's joy, the cats have finally decided he's harmless and have stopped screaming and running when he comes up for a friendly sniff. I think he had a nightmare last night, though. Woke me up in the middle of the wee hours of the morning, scurrying as fast as he could up the middle of the bed until he was tucked close to my side. He put his paw on my thigh. I covered his paw with my hand. He put his chin on my hand and went right back to sleep.

So, that's about it for now. Just another day at the Shady Rest. Ya'll take care.

November 7, 2009 - Talkin' 'bout My Girl

2009-11-07T16:20:00.000-08:00

Howdy!

I don't write about Freya nearly as much as I should, and I should, because even though she's not a pug, she's as integral and important a part of the Shady Rest as any of the pugs.

Freya (Norse mythology - Goddess of love, beauty, magic, and battle) is an eight-year old, fifty-pound mix of Belgian Malinois, Chow and maybe a smidge of something else. Malinois are herding dogs and it shows. Freya must have a job. Without one, she will not only go crazy, she will take you with her. For the first few weeks she was here, an enthusiastic, if unsocialized and untrained, six-month-old, she was determined to herd something. Unfortunately, at that time, we had one aged, paralyzed pug, Petunia, and four cats. So, she did her best with the cats. I tried to explain to her (I explain everything to her) that an impossible task was called "like herding cats" for a reason, and the cats did not so much all want to be in the same place at the same time. Finally accepting this, she took to being Petunia's companion and body guard.

Freya is smart, scary-smart, most of the time, and she understood that Petunia's motion was very limited. She watched over her, played with her by lying down on her belly with a tug-toy, scooting as close to Petunia as she could get, and tossing her head to place the other end of the toy close enough to Petunia's mouth for her to grab it. Toonie would take the other end and pull, as hard and as far as she was able, and Freya would tug back, moving only her head, careful to never be too rough. Even at six months, she was roughly twice Toonie's size, and she could have flipped her head and flung the pug like a rag doll, but she never did.

Freya was, however, still a puppy, and a little teasing of the old pug was not beyond her. One of her favorite games we came to call Pug Tipping. Petunia spent the majority of her time on her stomach. She couldn't walk - we'd move her, carry her, make sure she was clean, dry and comfortable, and she was in no pain at all. She was very alert, still interested in life, taking in and participating in all that went on in her world. Freya would sneak up on her, push her muzzle under Petunia's tummy, and toss her head back, flipping Petunia onto her back. At first, Petunia wasn't too into the game. She'd lie there on her back, flapping her paws like an upended turtle, until Cj or I came to flip her back. After a few times, she decided it didn't hurt any, and it did provide a change of scenery for her, so she'd just accept it.

One day I was home alone and Freya flipped Petunia. Instead of rushing immediately to flip her back, I decided to watch and see what would happen. Freya went a few feet away and laid down, keeping an eye on Petunia. After just a few minutes, she got up, went back to Petunia and flipped her back into her usual position. I hadn't thought she'd just leave her there, and I was happy to be proved right.

I may have mentioned Freya is scary-smart. We really have to be careful what we do in front of her, so quickly does she learn new things. She has a slide-in-and-toggle-shut crate door, that she can get out of quite nicely if I don't crank it down tight. She's performed the Heimlich on a friend, choking on an ice cube. My friend was grasping her throat and sort of gurgling, unable to breathe, and Freya ran to her, landing on her stomach with her front paws, sending the ice cube flying.

I could brag on her for hours, but it would just go to her head (no, I have no doubt she could both access and read this blog if she took a mind to.) Her escapades are only a part of what makes her such an essential element in the Shady Rest story. The other part is the way in which she interacts with her charges, the pugs. You see, once we started having multiple pugs, Freya worked her way swiftly and easily into her job of Official Shady Rest Pug Herd. It is a job she takes very seriously and does very well. She knows each member of her bug-eyed flock by name and will happily fetch me the one I want. The pugs do not go out in the back yard without her. People have asked me "aren't you afraid to let them out without you? What if someone reached over the fence and grabbed one?" I just smile. If someone dared reach over the fence and try to grab one of HER pugs, Freya would bring me the idiot's arm, wagging and grinning (did I mention she has dimples when she smiles? She does.) all the way. I'd give her a treat, of course. She may exercise her right to discipline them, but nobody else besides the Mamas had better mess with them.

Yesterday, for instance, I let Freya out and asked the pugs if anyone want to go along (some potty trips are mandatory, some optional). Spencer and Sammie went, Orville politely declined. A moment after I closed the sliding door behind them, there was a polite tap on the glass from Freya. Not her usual, full-body-slam she does when she wants back in, just a gentle tap. I opened the door and she stuck her head in, looking around. "Orville, c'mon," I told him, "It seems you're missed." He got up and toddled through the door, with Freya sniffing him to make sure she had the right one. Today, they'd been out and I let them back in. I counted noses and found myself one pug short. "Freya!" I called. She trotted over to me. "You're missing one - where's Orville?" She looked toward the door. "Go find me Orville" I told her as I opened the door. Her ears and tail popped up and she bolted through the door to find him. Onto the deck, her head swinging back and forth, then another bounce as she spotted him. Off she ran, and a moment later came trotting back, Orville running at her heels. I highly recommend a smart, helpful herding breed for anyone with multiple pugs.

So, I could go on about her, but I'll spare you. She's my Freyagirl, pack Alpha, Pug Herd, and in truth, co-Innkeeper of the Shady Rest. Here's to you, my brindled beauty. I don't know what I'd do without you.

Just another day at the Shady Rest. Y'all take care.

October 31, 2009 - Halloween at the Shady Rest

2009-11-01T00:30:00.000-07:00

Boo!

Happy Halloween from the Shady Rest!

Halloween itself is actually fairly quiet here. Beggar's Night, the night on which kids are legally allowed to go trick-or-treating, was Thursday. Out of consideration for everyone's safety and security (and sanity) Cj and I dressed up and gave out candy outside, leaving the dogs to their barking frenzy inside. It's just easier and as it is, they still manage to scare some of the kids with their howling at the front window. Cj dressed as her favorite Demented Little Girl and oddly, very few of the kids wanted to play with her dolly (the one with the knife through its head...) I was the crazy old lady that every neighborhood has somewhere, usually on the corner with lots of cats (we live on a corner...with cats...)

Halloween is also something of a time for remembering and reflection. When the "veil between the worlds" is supposed to be at its thinnest, it's easier to call up the memories of those, human and animal, that have gone on before us, to wait on the other side. Petunia, our first pug, is always the first to come to mind. She loved Halloween. She wasn't much into dressing up, but she did have an orange tie with black cats on it that she'd wear. She'd march up to the door with every trick-or-treater's arrival and push her chest out proudly, "Look at MY costume!" Sadly, the current crop of Shady Resters lacks her fashion flair.

George did manage to scare the perdiddle out of Cj and I, though. When you can't get a pug, particularly an old one, to wake up for dinner, it's frightening. I knew he was definitely still breathing, but shaking, yelling, patting and scritching all failed to get an eye to open. Did he have another stroke? Is his heart acting up? Did he slip right into a coma? Finally, Cj picked him up and the combination of being lifted and finally smelling his dinner brought him around. Of course, once he woke up and figured out there was food handy, all traces of any problem at all disappeared like the morning dew. Whew. I really wish he didn't sleep quite so soundly.

Still, there was family fun too. We were completely out of dog treats, so we all gathered in the kitchen to make liver biscuits. They're blessedly easy - take two bags of generic Walmart biscuit/muffin baking mix, a cup of water, a teaspoon of garlic powder and a pound of chicken livers, boiled and mashed. Mix it all together well, then drop in spoonfuls on a greased baking sheet and bake. Good stuff, or so they tell me. I HATE chicken liver, but Cj and the dogs love the stuff.

Halloween is also the anniversary of the day Cj and I met (I was in vampire drag and she insists to this day she only agreed to see me again so she could find out what I looked like without fangs...) We always reminisce about that too. Doesn't seem like it was 23 years ago, but it was. Still being together? Definitely a treat.

Now the day is done. Most of the critters are asleep, except for Sammie and Orville, who are intently interested in the bowl of popcorn Cj and I are sharing while we watch a documentary about ghost children (I love TV around Halloween - that's when all the really good stuff is on.) George is back to sleep too, snoring softly by my left foot. If there are ghosts still about, they are only the benevolent kind.

So, all the residents of the Shady Rest hope you and yours had all treats and no tricks for Halloween this year. Y'all take care now.

October 15, 2009 - It's What's For Supper

2009-10-15T21:34:00.001-07:00

Howdy,

Sometimes a rather routine chore takes on new depth, makes me think. Take dinner at the Shady Rest, for instance. Most nights, just fill a bunch of bowls (dogs) and plates (cats), put 'em down, listen to the slurping, keep George from starting a melee, then pick up and we're done.

Tonight, I found myself caught up in watching George with his dinner. He may be old and blind, his heart may not work right, he may have had a small stroke, but his appetite is undiminished. He attacks his dinner with the same vigor that he attacks anyone who would interfere with it. I was impressed watching rice and kibbles fly up around his head. It looked almost like something from a cartoon. I usually give him a little extra, just to account for the amount that's going to end up anywhere except inside him. I'll spend a little time later picking rice grains off my filing cabinet (he opted to eat in the office tonight), at least the ones Sammie doesn't find. I think Cj got the worst of it out of his bed.

He's not the only mess, mind you. Just the most dramatic. When I took his bowl back to the kitchen, I found Archie, very full and content, with one, perfectly clean, grain of rice stuck to the very center of his nose. Not a hint of gravy remained on it, he'd somehow managed to clean it off completely without actually swallowing it. Again, I was impressed.

It made me think a bit of Heff. He got adopted this past weekend, by the way. He'll be very happy, I'm sure - young couple, first dog of their own (though both grew up in dog-loving families - much excitement over the new grandpug.) When we got there, they'd already been shopping and had a brand new, Heff-sized dog bed full of toys and accessories and treats. They confessed they'd actually started to worry that he wouldn't like them! Most people worry about the opposite, so that was a very good sign. Fortunately, in spite of my worries about his shyness, he took to them as quickly as they fell for him.

Anyway, Heff usually wore as much of his dinner as he ate. His entire handsome black head would be flecked from mid-neck up with bits of rice, and the occasional bit of carrot.

It must be a pug thing. Freya will sometimes end up with a tiny crumb at the very tip of her long, elegant nose, but it never stays long, and in all the years she and I have kept company, I've yet to have to dig it out of her ear.

Ah, well. Dinner's done for the night. Bowls rinsed and stacked, Loki, Spencer and Freya put to bed, Archie de-riced and George mostly cleaned up. All is quiet but for the occasional soft burp or snore. Just another day at the Shady Rest.

Y'all take care now.

October 6, 2009 - Just One of Those Moments

2009-10-06T20:28:00.000-07:00

Howdy,

Not too much to say today. It's been quiet here at the Shady Rest - no arguments, no debates with the appliances, no crises. Just a day. Still, I wanted to share the quiet moment, and what a movie-star-handsome old pug looks like, when he's drowsy and being cuddled...

That's George, head on Mama Cj's shoulder, getting his tummy scratched. Life is good sometimes, here, when you're loved and you know it.

Y'all take care, now.

October 3, 2009 - Talk to Me

2009-10-03T09:54:00.000-07:00

Howdy!

"There's facts about dogs, and then there's opinions about them. The dogs have the facts, and the humans have the opinions. If you want the facts about the dog, always get them straight from the dog. If you want opinions, get them from humans."-- J. Allen Boone

It's so true. Talking with dogs, especially pugs, can be very enlightening about what goes on in their doggy worlds, and in their doggy heads. We have many conversations - two-sided ones - here at the Shady Rest. Here's an example from yesterday:

Mama Ky: Archie?
Archie: Hmm?
Mama Ky: Why are you trying to push the empty toner box into the litter box with your head?
Archie: I may be old and blind, but I'm still a pug. It's a pug thing.
Mama Ky: Oh. So, labs retrieve because that's a lab thing, and corgis herd because it's a corgi thing, and you push things around with your head because it's a pug thing?
Archie: Yup.
Mama Ky: You know your butt's cute when you do that. It wiggles.
Archie: Quit watching my butt. I'm busy.

You just know that GSD owners don't have these little talks...

I talk to other dogs too, not just my own, but honestly, pugs are usually better conversationalists. For one, they're more inquisitive. Some breeds are inclined to just accept human behavior as it is, but pugs want to know why. They are very interested in their world and they ask questions.

"Mama?"
"Yes, Heff?"
"When you push the thingy on the big bowl and everything goes away, where does it go? I watch and watch, but can't see."
"That's the joy of living in the city, Heff. It all just goes away. Far away, so Mama doesn't have to worry about it."
"That's a good thing, then?"
"Yes, Heff, it's good."

Sometimes you gain insights into things you thought you knew.

"Orrville?"
"Hmmm?"
"Why do you keep licking Heff's tail? You've been at it for a good ten minutes now. Does it just taste good, or is it some kind of dominance thing?"
"Because if I'm licking his tail, he can't reach my ears to chew on them, and if I don't do something, I'm going to kill him. I am SO tired of the ear-chewing thing today."
"Ah, that makes sense."

I've always been a big proponent of asking the dog. In our dealings with our dogs, we tend to tell, not ask; order, not request; talk AT but not talk TO. We expect them to learn our language and read our feelings and wants, but too rarely are we willing to do the same for them. No, dogs don't "talk" in the sense of forming coherent words and sentences; they don't have the mouth structure or the brain wiring for it. That does not, however, mean they do not communicate. They do, and quite fluently, if you learn to listen. Body movements, muscle tension, facial expression (dogs smile, wolves don't - it's a learned behavior from watching us), sounds, gestures and sometimes, if you're quiet enough to hear it, actual thoughts.

Yes, I'm well aware that a substantial portion of the population would have me medicated or worse for believing that there is more to human-dog communication than just body language and vocal tone, but so be it - I do. I think telepathy is like the ability to play the piano; some people have a talent for it, others have to work at it, but everyone can do it to one degree or another, and if you don't use the ability, it atrophies. I also tend to think that dogs do it naturally and don't have our hang-ups about it, so they try, whether we're listening or not.

So, as George and I exchange morning greetings as we pass in the hall, that's my Shady Rest advice for the day: to enrich your life with your dog, talk to him...and listen.

Ya'll take care now.

September 20, 2009 - Waiting for Godot?

2009-09-20T17:10:00.000-07:00

Howdy,

Pugs are, at heart, patient creatures. Sure, they get excited and want dinner NOW, not two minutes from now, and they'll hurry you along if they see a leash and you're not at the door quite yet, but still, the essence of the pug is patience. You see, the pug, as a breed, has been carefully bred for nearly 2,500 years to do nothing but be a pleasant companion to humans. They don't herd, they don't hunt. They may retrieve something, if they're in the mood, but it most likely won't be a fresh-shot duck or pheasant. They couldn't guard a sheep if their sweet little souls depended on it and are totally useless as "attack dogs." They are companions. That is their only job, and they do it very well.

The problem with being born and bred to keep humans company is that it requires a great deal of patience, both in the sense of waiting around a lot, and in the sense of being highly tolerant of behaviors that make absolutely zero sense to the canine mind. Nothing in their DNA or their canid instincts offers any clue about wearing sweatshirts, and particularly not sweatshirts emblazoned with "Mommy's Little Stinker." Yet our pugs, because it amuses us, wear them, sometimes in public places in spite of the snickers they probably draw from the more practical herding or hunting members of the canine family. They put up with scented baths (often after just getting their scent "just right" by dog standards,) and wear jewelry never seen in nature. Even some of the really nasty things we humans do to them, they tolerate. I've seen it in rescue - a dog that's been horribly abused still trusts the next human it meets, still wants to be friends. When they have every reason to fear and distrust anything on two legs, they don't. They still approach, sometimes shyly, offering affection. The patient heart of the pug.

And they wait. Lordy, how they wait. They wait for dinner, they wait for walks. They wait for chores to get done so somebody can play with them. When I emerge from the bathroom, at least two are lying in the hall, noses to the bottom of the door, waiting. When I pull into the driveway at the end of the workday, a little silhouette of a head in the window is the first thing I see, waiting.

All this sitting about and waiting would make most humans crazy, but not our pugs. Or, if we do exasperate them, they mostly keep it to themselves. They're just happy to see us, delighted to finally get their share of our attention. "You're home!" and they spin and dance and yip. "You came out of the bathroom! Hooray!" No judgments, no grief, no "Where have you been?" Just pure unbridled joy at being our focus again.

Yesterday, for example, was Santa In September, the big fundraiser we do each year to benefit Ohio Pug Rescue. Cj and I were gone most of the day. Normally, we take the pugs with us, a chance to play in the park and spend time with the mamas, even if the mamas are busy, but this year we left them all at home. Too much to do, too many empty spots on the volunteer schedule, to add pug-wrangling to the day's duties. (Freya always stays home - crowds make her twitchy and unhappy and she'd much rather have some pug-free peace and quiet guarding the house that day.) When we got home, they raced, first to the window to see us pull in, and then to the door, to wait some more for us to get unloaded and come inside. I might have felt horribly guilty at leaving them to amuse each other and annoy the cats while I spent the day in a sunny park with a hundred other pugs, but not one dirty look did we get from our own pugs. Nope. They spun, danced, jumped, squealed and yipped, ecstatic just to have us back home with them. We were dead tired, aching in every cell, but we didn't crash in bed - we sat and cooed and crooned and scritched ears and tummies because, well, who could resist that kind of greeting?

When I did awake this morning, I opened my eyes to Orrville, sitting quietly beside me on the bed, watching the cat and waiting for me to wake up. He could have taken off after the cat, across my head, jolting me awake, but he didn't. When I opened my eyes, he looked down at me. I reached up and started scratching his chin. His eyes started to drift shut and apparently he decided that this getting up business wasn't all he'd originally thought. He slid down, ending up sound asleep with his chin and one paw on my bicep, cuddled against my chest. Sometimes, waiting is nice.

I talk to my dogs, a lot. As I move through my day with my little furry entourage at my heels and often underfoot, we chat. They're good listeners, too, pugs, another trait bred for as part of their companion duties. I like to think it helps them feel included as I do things that really don't require puggy assistance, like the dishes (though I'm not sure I could do it without their help any more, so accustomed to it have I become, nor do I think I'd want to.) We talk about everything - what else needs to be done, what's for dinner, how work went. They seem to enjoy it but in truth, I don't know for sure if it really does anything for them or not...or if it just makes me feel a little better about worrying about mundane chores when I could be spending the time with these wonderful, gentle souls that surround me, waiting...

That's another day at the Shady Rest. Ya'll take care.

September 6, 2009 - Why Do I Love Thee?

2009-09-06T21:39:00.000-07:00

Everybody wants a puppy. Ask any rescuer. The adoption applications pour in for healthy pug puppies, preferably fawn females. Nobody's sure why the preference for fawns or females, but the puppy part isn't hard to figure out. Puppies are fun! They're active, inquisitive, playful, and best of all, they smell like puppy! A puppy has his whole life, probably years and years, ahead of him. You can train him the way you want.

So, if puppies are so great, why is the youngest pug at the Shady Rest three, and all the rest over six? Why do I spend my days surrounded by snoring, gray-faced lumps that must be stepped over, medicated, and cleaned up after? Lumps whose lifespan may well be measured in months instead of years?

Because.

Because senior pugs have a charm all their own that cannot be replaced by any bouncy puppy. Puppies are cute; seniors are handsome. Puppies have energy; seniors have dignity. Seniors are survivors, and they're smart. In our "everything is disposable" culture, dumb dogs that can't or don't learn often end up dead, not ever reaching senior status. Puppies have to learn everything from scratch; seniors figured out the basics, and how to get along with humans a long time ago.

Don't get me wrong. I don't dislike puppies, and we'd certainly take one in if he/she needed a place. It's just, if given the choice between an old dog and a baby, I'll take the old one. I know someone will step up to take the puppy. They're fun to have around and usually move on to their new homes fairly quickly, so they're "easy" fosters, or as close to "easy" as any foster can be. With the old guys, you risk them never leaving at all, either because no one opens their heart and home in time or because some medical condition develops that turns a senior foster into a Hospice Foster.

I'm also not saying anything whatsoever negative about people who prefer to foster puppies and younger pugs. Heaven love 'em all. There's a place in rescue for every taste and preference. We have fosters who "specialize" in ones with medical problems, ones that need surgery or therapy, ones that are way obese and getting them trimmed down, and ones that specialize in the waifs that need fattening up. One that takes mostly puppies, and Blessed Be, the Shady Rest isn't the only one that takes mostly seniors. Sadly, there are more than enough pugs for all of them and a few more.

If you should find yourself wanting to adopt a rescued pug, I'm not saying you have to take a senior, but please at least consider it. There are no guarantees on how long any dog will live, and a senior still has his whole life in front of him. He deserves love and safety and care too, and will reward you far beyond your expectations. I lost a pug once to a heart condition at just two years old. No guarantees on length of life, ever, but I can guarantee you all the love you could want.

So, why do I love thee, gray-faced old pug? I love thee for the depth of thy soul, developed over time. I love thee for the wisdom and tolerance that only years can give. I love thee for thy gentle nature, grateful for small favors, that makes it feel even better to do more for you. I love thee for thy sturdy spirit that denies defeat and soldiers on without thought for age. I love thee for thy simple acceptance of the infirmities that living brings, and for celebrating the "is" instead of mourning the "could have been." I love thee for the handsome lines of thy gray-streaked face. I love thee for thy sense of humor, developed over years of dealing with humans. Mostly, I just love thee for being thee, sweet senior.

For Roy

A treasure trove discarded,
Just because the chest looked old.
Opal eyes, silver fur
and heart of antique gold.

A soul of deep devotion breathes
Within that form grown frail,
And happiness still dances,
In that joyous, crooked tail.

Your eyes don't register the glow
Of sunlight from above,
But see, with sharp acuity,
The inner lights of love.

Your ears don't hear the words of love,
Whispered in the dark,
But your heart hears every syllable,
And answers in your bark.

I cannot make you young again,
And I'm not sure I would.
Your years have made you who you are,
A treasure, bright and good.

September 5, 2009 - Heff, Foodie Wannabe

2009-09-05T20:10:00.000-07:00

Howdy!

Heff is a very bright boy - scary-smart sometimes - and I am captivated watching what he learns and how he puts information together. He doesn't always get it right, but you can tell he's really thinking about things in that glossy little head.

He's figured out that "all food comes from the kitchen," so of course, it's his favorite room. The problem, at the moment, is that his sense of cause and effect is still a work in progress, and he's also come to the conclusion that "if it's in the kitchen, it must be good to eat." That part of the equation isn't working so well for him.

We did grocery shopping today and I bought an onion. Just one, not a bag. (I only buy them one at a time and for reasons I'm sure it would take a psychiatric research team years to figure out, I take an unreasonable and thoroughly irrational pride in finding a really GOOD one. You'd think I had to hunt and capture it in the wild myself. Cj quit asking years ago. She just beams back at me when I proudly hold up my "catch" and put it in the cart.) One fine, fat red onion. As we put stuff away (with intense puggy supervision, of course), I put the onion in the "root" basket, where the onions and potatoes live. Heff immediately ran to the basket, grabbed the edge with his paw and pulled it off the shelf. The little head went right down into the basket. Much sniffing. I said, "Heff, it's an onion. Dogs don't like onions, and they're not really good for you anyway." If he heard me at all, I got not so much as an ear-flick in acknowledgement. He poked at the onion with his paw, rolled it around in the basket, wuffed at it. He poked at it some more, until he got it rolled around to where he could reach the little knob of paper at the top, then he grabbed it, picked it up, and started to trot off WITH MY ONION!

The weight was a little much and he dropped it. He proceeded to pounce on it, roll it around, trying to pin it down and get hold of that "handle" again. Looked like a little black soccer player with a little purple soccer ball. He nudged it, tried to grab it with his paw, bit at it. Meanwhile, I'm torn between wanting to take it away from him while it was still fit to use, and fascinated watching him work so hard on it. When he finally settled down with it between his paws and looked like he'd decided to turn it into a chew toy, I took it back. For now, the onion is living on the counter, NOT in the basket.

So, a few hours pass. I feel a little peckish and need to do up some dishes anyway, so while I'm in the kitchen, I open a bag of chips. I nibble as I get stuff together and empty the clean stuff from the dishwasher, then I open the junk drawer for a clip for the top of the chip bag. This drawer has NEVER had food in it. It was designated the Junk Drawer the day we moved in and has remained so. Still, Heff is right there to watch. I pull out a binder clip for the bag, and there is another binder clip attached and it falls to the floor. Heff is on it like white on rice. Snaps it up and trots off with it. Finally, safely out of reach of the other dogs who might steal his prize (and whom, in actuality, couldn't care less about something that made a metallic "ting" as it hit the floor and does not smell like food of any kind), he drops it and studies it carefully, trying to figure out what kind of food it is and how does one go about eating it. Fortunately, I snagged it before he reached any conclusions on consuming it.

He still runs to check every time I open any kitchen drawer or cabinet. I've tried to gently explain that not every space contains food, that the pan drawer has and forever will have skillets, not food, and the baking dish cabinet has and forever will have baking pans. He listens to me, bright-eyed, ears perked, tail wagging and I know. He understands every word...and doesn't believe a one of them.

Just another day at the Shady Rest. Y'all take care now.

August 28, 2009 - I try, I really do...

2009-08-28T20:05:00.000-07:00

...to not hurt anybody, not upset anybody. I'm not a violent person. So why are the ones I love and who allegedly love me trying to kill me???

I head for the kitchen, wanting only a coffee refill. Thor, the cat, comes zooming in, squacking at the top of his lungs for no apparent reason, and slams into my right foot. Wouldn't be much of a problem, except he hits hard enough (right on the ankle-bone, mind you) to smack the foot right out from under me. Again, wouldn't be a problem, but the other foot turns out to be in a little puddle from either Archie or George that I hadn't noticed, so it starts to slide. A good bit of flapping and blue verbiage ensues, but I manage to keep from going down. Put down the mug, put down a pee pad, pick up the mug, get my coffee, ever so carefully pick my way back to my desk.

(Thor, the brat...um...cat)

All is quiet. Dogs sprawl about, dozing. The TV is on, but not loud, crime show, nothing blaring. Suddenly, a male voice (not often heard around here) is shrieking at me at full volume about what THE LORD wants me to do as illustrated RIGHT HERE in verse 33!! I nearly had a freaking heart attack. Riddi kitty had jumped up on the highboy in the bedroom, landing squarely on the "Sleep" button of Cj's clock radio, still set on whatever station it came with, as she's never, ever played it, some gospel station. Scared me, scared the cat, nearly needed another pee pad (for me). I levitate from my chair, trip over Heff while trying to run across the hall (fortunately he's fine and I still manage to remain upright), turn the bloomin' radio OFF and come back. Let my breathing and heart rate return to normal. Take a sip of coffee. All is quiet again.

Then the phone rings...

Yep, just another day at the Shady Rest. Y'all take care.

August 24, 2009 - I Just Called to Say I Love You

2009-08-24T17:27:00.000-07:00

Howdy!

Living with many animals, I'm always interested, and endeared, by the many ways they communicate their feelings, particularly when they love you and want you to know. Freya, the non-pug, is a real dog-dog, and shows it. When she's happy to see you, her ears perk up, her eyes get bright, her tail wags frantically and she sometimes forgets herself and jumps up on you. Typical "happy dog" response, and one that always works.

The pugs, however, each have a style of their own. Spencer's the quiet one. He'll run to the door, but then sit and just look, quietly but adoringly, at your face until you notice him. Loki just wiggles all over, his whole body asquirm with joy. Sammie runs right to your feet, as close as he can get, following every movement (which can make it a bit of a challenge to set down your purse or lunch bag), ready to be scritched the second you have a hand free. Not pushy, but definitely persistent.

Heff spins. This is a delightful change. When he first arrived, he was so shy that the closest he got to greeting you was to run away a little slower than usual, but now he spins. If you stop moving, he'll run over, sit down as fast as he can leaning against your leg and stay as long as you'll let him. He's figured out that "touch is good" and is making up for lost time by keeping contact as much as he can.

Orrville is the weird one. He likes to march up to you and rub his lips on your leg. Not lick, not sniff, just push his lips on you. If he's really excited, he'll rub them up and down some before walking away and waiting to be petted. Sometimes, if you're just sitting somewhere, he'll walk up, push his lips up against your calf, stand for a second, then wander off. He seems to find it reassuring.

Archie takes a minute, but once you're close enough for him to see that you're there, he works his way up to his feet and prances back and forth from front paw to front paw. Sometimes he wurfs too. Pet him and he tilts his head back to savor the interaction, delighted to have been noticed in the crowd.

Then there's George. George is sweet, but public displays of puggy affection aren't really his thing. IF he's having a good day, he will notice you're home. That's it. If he raises or turns his head, consider yourself greeted with great enthusiasm. Still, his crusty exterior does conceal a softer heart than he'd admit to, and if you croon at him and rub his ears, you'll be rewarded with a grin that would make Brad Pitt green with envy. Nobody grins like a movie-star handsome, white-faced senior pugboy. George doesn't really say "I love you," but when he turns that smile on you, you know he does.

So, if you happen to find yourself at the Shady Rest, you know what to expect. Y'all take care now.

August 9, 2009 - The Unexpected Guest

2009-08-09T21:27:00.000-07:00

Cj and I were sitting at our respective computers this morning, enjoying a cup of coffee and checking email before starting doggy spa day (several need baths and nail trims), when we heard our next-door-neighbor (the good one) hollering our names. We hollered back to let her know we'd heard her, at first afraid that something had happened to her and nobody else was home to help her. Nope. She's fine. "One of your dogs is out!!!" She hollered. doG love her, she keeps an eye out for pugs outside our fence that should be inside. I counted noses quickly - all our dogs were accounted for, but we went out anyway. She said "he's over there, between my yard and the one around the corner. I can't get him to come to me." Apparently, Cj and I must look like pug people, because we spotted him, said, "Hi, Sweetie." and he ran right to us, and let Cj scoop him up. We could just about hear him thinking "Pug people! They'll know what to do with me!"

He was most definitely not one of ours, though he chilled with the rest of the Shady Rest crew while we tried to find where he belongs. He looked to be about 2-3 years old, neutered fawn male. He was clean and looked recently fed (he burped at me when I introduced myself), so he probably hadn't been AWOL long and we were betting someone's missing him. He was clearly well-cared for and in good condition (better than mine, actually, see note above about bath day), nails short, ears clean, good teeth, and well-socialized with people and other dogs.

We called OPR, in case someone called there to check ("why, yes, as a matter of fact, a couple of our volunteers already have him in custody"), left descriptions with the two area shelters and one all-breed rescue that has a shelter too. Called the two nearest vets too and left messages, in case the little fellow might be on their patient roster.

It isn't always a good idea to put up a lot of flyers if you find a lost dog. It posts your phone number all over the place with no safeguards, and may invite people other than the real owner to call and try to claim a dog that isn't really theirs. Still, I thought, if it were my dog and I was out frantically wandering around on foot or in my car looking, just a little guidance on which direction to look would be more than welcome. So, we decided to place just four flyers, one at each end of our own block and one at each of the next closest cross streets. Just "Found Pug" and Cj's cell number. Figured if it was the legitimate owner, they'd know the rest.

A little time went by. Foundling made himself at home with the rest of the Shady Rest gang and seemed to be enjoying his "play date." Then the phone rang. A very nice, somewhat stressed young woman described his collar, color and style, and the tag that was attached so we agreed to take him to meet her. She'd seen one of the "found dog" flyers as she was on her way to make copies of her "lost dog" flyer. She just stopped the car where she was and called on her cell, so we told her to stay there and we were on our way (after making sure we had the right fawn pug - there are so many around here.)

We knew immediately it was really his owner. Friendly though he had been with us, his whole face lit up and his tail started flapping the minute he saw her. She was equally delighted to see him, and while they got back together and exchanged hugs, we discovered his name was Chico. Apparently, a son had left a gate closed, but not latched, and Chico had taken advantage of the opportunity to go walkabout. His mama told us she was very happy he'd ended up with pug-lovers and not alone in the heat. Turns out he was only about three blocks from home.

I love a happy ending. That's today at the Shady Rest. Ya'll take care now.

August 3, 2009 - I'm Walkin'

2009-08-03T20:22:00.000-07:00

Howdy!

Well, no, I'm not walkin'. That's the problem. Ambulation is a bit of an issue at the Shady Rest, and not just for the dogs with some limb issues. One of the delights of pugs is that they always want to be near you. Always. Very near. Preferably attached to your ankles like barnacles to a boat's keel. Cozy, as long as you're not needing or wanting to actually GO anywhere for a while. Perfectly delightful for keeping your toes warm while you read emails on a cold winter's day. Not so much in August, when you're already sweating, with a fan and only a T-shirt and your drawers on. Seven small, hairy bodies generate an amazing amount of heat when they're just laying atop your feet. Heaven forbid you actually want to walk about the house.

Freya, our non-pug pugherd, is part Belgian Malinois. The Malinois is a herding dog and she can't help herself. She has to herd something, which was a hoot when she was still a puppy and hadn't yet learned that they call an impossible task "herding cats" for a reason. Still, at least her DNA makes it make sense when she insists on walking everywhere right behind me, usually nudging me with her nose every few feet, just in case I should forget the route from the office to the kitchen.

The pugs, however, clearly have NO herding DNA whatsoever in their breed makeup. They insist, all of them, on clustering in front of me and milling about. I wouldn't mind them walking in front of me if they'd actually walk. They don't. They mill, in a sort of Brownian motion that would make a physicist proud. This results in me spending much of my day sounding rather like a cow - "Moooooooove!" "C'mon, mooooooooooove." If I can get them all milling around in the same general direction, sometimes we can make progress.

Not that walking is the only activity impeded by puggy inertia. I had this conversation with Orville last night, while trying to change out of my work clothes:

"Hi, Mama! Whatcha doin?"
"Trying to take my jeans off. Could you move please?"
"Hows come you keep hitting me in the head with your pants leg?"
"Because you won't move. Scoot over some, wouldja?"
"OW! Mama, you kicked me!"
"I didn't kick you. I tripped over you. Mama's sorry, now move."
"Like this?"
"No. Maybe I wasn't clear. By "move" I meant go over there, not spin in a circle and sit down in the same place."
"I love you, Mama. I want to be close."
"Mama loves you too, my little bug-eyed barnacle. That lumpy thing under your butt? That's my foot. I need it now. Please move."
"Are we gonna eat soon?"
"Not if you don't get out from between Mama and the kitchen, no."

I'm not sure which one's worse; Orville, who sits on my foot; Archie, who gets in front of me and just prances up and down; or Sammie, who takes a perverse delight in trotting obligingly along in front of me, but then grinding to a stop with no warning and for no apparent reason. I sometimes wonder if he's trying to kill me in retaliation for all the fosters.

So, anyway, if you need me for anything, I'll be here. Right here. Trapped here in this chair with about 115 total pounds of pug draped over my numb feet.

Y'all take care, now.

August 2, 2009 - They Got Us Again

2009-08-02T20:57:00.000-07:00

Howdy! I know it's been a while. Budget time at work, yard sale time at home, and a new addition to the Shady Rest crew. Heff moved in last weekend, a handsome, black puppy mill surrender. For a mill dog, he's in great shape - very handsome, very healthy, if a bit shy from lack of sufficient socialization. He's learning fast, though, that belly rubs are good and treats aren't bad either.

Yes, we were at capacity. We try to keep three foster slots - one for an older or special needs one that isn't really too likely to get adopted, one for a pug that may or may not get adopted, and one for one that probably will get adopted and relatively soon. George, Archie and Orville, respectively, fill those slots now. So, you ask, how did Heff, a baby at three years old, end up being the Shady Rest mascot? Because the rescue has us on speed-dial, under "pigeon," that's how. The words "Emergency!" and "needs a foster home today or else" did the trick. Sometimes you can wait a little, work with the family, buy a little time, but sometimes you gotta get the dog NOW. Heff is a "NOW" pug. So, late at night, as soon as he arrived in town, we picked him up.

Here he is, the very night he arrived, and yes, his ears do pop right up to the top of his head when something catches his attention. He's very bright, carefully observing the other dogs and how things work. He wants so much to be friendly - he's every cell a pug - he's just not quite sure how, but he observes and takes notes. He loves to cuddle, especially with Orville, and sleeps in the Pug Palace with Loki at night. He'll make someone a delightful companion after a little vetting and socializing.

That's it for now. It's late, all the Shady Rest residents and staff are asleep except me, and nothing will make you drowsy like a house full of softly snoring pugs. That's today at the Shady Rest. Y'all take care.

July 16, 2009 - Curses, Foiled Again!

2009-07-16T20:24:00.001-07:00

Wow! It's been a while! It's been busy here at the Shady Rest. I told you that Peapod got adopted, so that opened a bunk and Orville moved in. Orville is about six, a delightful little fawn imp that doesn't cause trouble...much. He doesn't scare easily, Orville. He came from a home with a lot of small children, and even Freya's snarking at him to show him who's boss leaves him less than impressed. He's pretty small and honestly, his head looks a little big for his little frame, but he has a big grin and loves to cuddle, so who cares. He gets along very well with everybody, if you can excuse the fact that he really wants to play with the cats more than they want to play with him.

Orville will be off to the vet in a week or three to get chipped, snipped and shot. His back legs are a little weak, looks like maybe some nerve damage from an old injury, but aside from a little wobble he gets around great. He can even jump on the bed by himself. Otherwise, though, he's a bright-eyed, healthy, happy, inquisitive, affectionate pug.

Orville is also smart. We haven't had a problem with any dog getting into the trash for years, but suddenly this little guy with the wonky legs was managing to knock the whole can over and romp among the contents! I heard a crash, went to investigate, and found him lying on his tummy in a pile of coffee grounds, contentedly licking out a cat food can from the night before. I explained that this was NOT acceptable behavior. He was unimpressed (see note above about Orville not scaring easily.) I thought that perhaps it was the fairly low level of trash in the can and light weight that allowed him the leverage to push it over, so I put a brick in the bottom of the can and thought the problem solved. Until the next day. Now I was truly puzzled. I looked at the can, the trash, the lid, the bag...the bag. THAT'S IT! There were small tears and tooth marks on the edge of the trash BAG, not the can. He wasn't pushing it over, he was grabbing the edge of the bag and pulling! I had to admire his cleverness, even as I tucked the edge of the bag up under the lid. Foiled.

The other denizens of the Shady Rest are doing well. Archie's weight loss continues and he now has a recognizable neck and waist! He's even more handsome than before, and getting more active the easier it gets for him to move. Check him out!

For some reason, Loki has made himself a little nest in the corner of the bedroom closet. I assume maybe it's a little cooler in there, or he just likes the peace and quiet, but that's where he spends several hours a day now. Spencer is his usual charming self, in need of a bath now after frolicking in the mud in the back yard. George is George, comforting in his consistency. He's moved into the bathroom for the summer, enjoying the cooler tiles, so I get to spend a little more time rubbing his head and crooning at him how handsome he is. We both enjoy the time. Sammie has taken Orville under his wing and they hang out together, investigating every noise and smell shoulder-to-shoulder and napping hip-to-hip.

The Shady Rest - a mostly peaceable kingdom. Ya'll take care now.

June 25, 2009 - Notes on the Dance

2009-06-25T21:32:00.000-07:00

Howdy!

Ever hear that country song, "Life's a Dance"? "Life's a dance, you learn as you go..." Very, very true. Half the joy of living at the Shady Rest is being allowed, privileged, if you will, to watch the Dance - the interaction of species and personalities.

Sometimes, George gets irritated with Archie. George, not realizing Archie can't see either, takes offense when Archie runs into him, and sometimes harsh words ensue (always on George's side - Archie's middle name is "Mild" and he never gets upset.) Then the music changes and, as tonight, they sit, shoulder to shoulder, in companionable peace.

The cats join the dance too. Spare loves dogs, all dogs, and even more so his pugs. Spencer will be sitting in the kitchen and Spare will sidle up to him. He circles, a feline do-si-do, rubbing against Spencer's chest, purring in time, bowing on the turns.

Riddi, our guest kitty (belongs to the kid who used to live here - long story) prefers teasing dogs to cuddling them. I'm trying to convince her that hiding up on the dining room chair seat and poking George in the head as he goes by is not the friendliest of games, but she remains unpersuaded. It's becoming their little ritual. As long as she continues to be quick enough to keep him from catching her at it, I'll let them work it out.

Dancing... Last Friday, we went to Dogs on the Deck - a local bar opens their deck space once a month in the summer to Ohio Pug Rescue, allowing us to come, have fun, share the profits and make some money with grab bag sales and a raffle. We get to bring our pugs to join the other dogs playing on the deck, and to show off our fosters in hopes of finding them interested possible homes. Cj and I didn't get to bring one of the Shady Rest boys, because we had to go right after work, but we were fortunate to be sharing a table with an adorable, older pug named Harvey. Small, cobby and devilishly handsome, Harvey charmed the socks off anyone who approached the table (paying particular attention to the people carrying pizza or nachos...). Music played, a variety of types and styles to suit everyone. Then it happened. The first notes of Harry Belafonte's "Banana Boat Song" wafted through the air. A lovely young woman from the next table over, who'd been flirting with Harvey for some time, approached Harvey's parents and politely said she'd like a dance partner, and was Harvey available? He was, so carefully, she swooped him up in her arms. With one paw on her shoulder and one paw in her hand, gazing raptly into her eyes, Harvey showed no sign of fear or discomfort, only a joy that was mirrored in her smile.

"Six foot" (lean left),
"seven foot" (lean right),
"eight foot" (straighten up),
"Bunch!" (Up Harvey went, lifted briefly up in the air),
"Daylight come" (spin around) "and me wanna go home" (full dip.)

Together they danced, in tune with the music and with each other. Harvey was completely relaxed, trusting this stranger completely, full eye contact the whole time. They both smiled at each other, joined by everyone around who stopped eating, drinking and talking, to watch. At the last "me wanna go home" she dipped him again, planted a kiss on his nose, and returned him to his mom.

The dance. People ask me sometimes, "Why do you keep taking in seniors? They die so soon. It has to hurt," and indeed, it does. Still, to quote another country song, "I could have missed the pain, but I'd have had to miss the dance." I wouldn't have missed a step I've shared with these guys, the present and the lovingly remembered.

Y'all take care, and if you have the choice, I hope you dance.

June 18, 2009 - The Oldsters

2009-06-18T22:43:00.000-07:00

The oldsters are at it again. If I've learned anything, it's that people who think that old dogs are dull, slow, or boring, have never spent a second at the Shady Rest. My senior fosters, George (11) and Archie (12), cause more problems than the other three combined. Since I didn't meet either of them until they were seniors, I have no way of knowing if they were evil as puppies or just got that way with age.

In addition to the whole near-toe-loss thing I told you about with George nearly taking my foot off, later, we had Archie barking for no reason, which wakes up George, who has to bark because someone else is, which startles Thor and sends him running down the hall, which sets off Sammie's prey drive and sends him scurrying after Thor, running past George, spinning him around so now he's barking AT Archie, who's now carrying on because somebody's barking in his face...sheesh.

While eating his dinner, George got into a scuffle with the bathmat. It was draped over the edge of the tub to dry and a corner brushed his ear (he opted to have dinner in the bathroom that night; he does that sometimes. I dont' ask why. He's a senior, he can do whatever he wants.) He grabbed that corner and didn't let go until the evil bathmat beat a hasty retreat. (Well, okay, it fell over the edge into the tub, but I'm not telling him that.)

Anybody have a puppy I can borrow for a couple of days? I need the rest.

Yep, just another day at the Shady Rest. Y'all take care, now.

June 14, 2009 - An apology and update

2009-06-14T10:17:00.000-07:00

First, I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to do an update. I promised myself I'd shoot for at least two entries a week, and I haven't given up, but I didn't make it this time.

First, I work two and sometimes three jobs, and one had shifted into high gear for the end of the season, so, much to the dismay of the Shady Rest denizens, I had practically no time at all outside of work and work. That's done now, though, and for a couple of months, at least, there should be more time for creative endeavors.

Secondly, it's already time to be gearing up for Santa In September (SIS). SIS is a fundraising, rescue-networking event that Cj and I host. Santa himself shows up, taking a break from his toy-making supervisory duties to take pictures with all kinds of critters. The money from the gate, Santa pictures, raffles and concession stand all go to the pugs of OPR, but other rescues are invited and can make money at their own booths. It's a great opportunity for rescues to get acquainted and do some networking, and to get free exposure to the community while having some fun. It's also rather labor-intensive, as there are rescues to invite, donors to schmooze (absolutely everything is donated so 100% of the income goes to the pugs), and vendors to lure.

Finally, nothing guarantees peace and quiet like looking at a bunch of pugs and announcing, "Okay, guys. Mama has a blog to write. Do something funny!" (insert sound of crickets chirping here.)

There have been some changes here at the Shady Rest. Peapod, the baby of the group, found his forever home and was adopted. Cj and I did the adoption Friday night and were very impressed with his new home and family. Two adult humans who fell for him immediately, no kids, a HUGE yard to romp in, and a big, happy, good-natured Lab named Lola to romp in it with. Peapod warmed up faster to them, Lola included, faster than we'd ever seen him warm up to anyone, and we're taking that as a good omen that he'll be very happy there for the rest of his life. Lola is clearly treated like a princess, and there is every reason to believe that Peapod will be the prince in residence.

George and I did have a "moment" yesterday. (Why is it always George?) I'm wearing my usual schelp-around-the-house-in-warm-weather footware - a pair of Crocs knockoff sandal thingys. This is a good thing. I walked into the bathroom in the dark and failed to notice that George had crawled in there for a nap. I didn't really step on him or hurt him in any way, but I did bump into him and startle him awake. This is never, ever a good thing to do. He was on his feet, spun around and snapping at my foot faster than a blink. I managed to yank my foot up and back and he got hold of the shoe. Three good snaps, a grab and a serious shaking followed before he released it! He had that puppy up over his head wailing on it. I was SO glad I was wearing something I could slide out of quickly. I might have really lost a toe if he'd grabbed me instead of the shoe. I was impressed, in a kind of shaky, "holy crap" kind of way.

Well, there you are. Another week at the Shady Rest. We'll probably get in another foster soon, now that Peapod is happily placed and you know you'll hear it here first. Y'all take care.

June 3, 2009 - Yep, That's Where I'm Going

2009-06-03T23:59:00.000-07:00

Thought on the afterlife - I know where I'm going...and my handbasket is packed and ready. I know I'm going there, because that's what happens to people who laugh at old, blind dogs, even if the dog in question doesn't catch them at it.

You must understand - George has, at best, a love-hate relationship with most objects in the kitchen. The refrigerator sometimes threatens to take his dish, and apparently the stove looks at him funny from time to time. They must, for he frequently attacks them furiously for no reason obvious to us non-dog types or, for that matter, to the other canine residents of the Shady Rest, who look on in tolerant bewilderment. The appliances don't seem to talk smack to them, but perhaps George has communication skills we can only imagine.

Let me explain - on the kitchen wall opposite the sink and stove stands a very narrow book case. The upper shelves hold cookbooks, but the bottom shelf holds a Longaberger basket. In this basket is where the potatoes and onions live as they await their culinary fate. Normally, any bagged potatoes are removed from the bag and placed in the basket, but this time I was in a hurry and just set the bag in the basket to deal with later. This left the top of the bag flopping over the edge of the basket.

Tonight during dinner, George managed to scoot his bowl over by the bookcase. This put him within range of the bag top and it brushed against his cheek. ATTACK! Furious that something was that close to his bowl, he commenced barking, growling, snapping, determined to fight it off. I think that's about the time I bought my ticket and boarded that bus. He gets this serious look on his handsome, gray face and I just started to giggle. He glared in the direction of the bag, still growling furiously. Cj attempted to negotiate a peace. "George." Fierce barking and another snap. Now the bag top is draped over his head, clearly counterattacking. This brings on an enraged snarling growl. "GEOrge." A deep growl. "GEORGE!" Grumble, grumble. "It's okay, George. You scared off the potato bag." He shakes all over and stomps away, satisfied with his victory...at least until he smacks head-first into the refrigerator. ::Sigh:: Maybe that's why he doesn't like the fridge.

Yep. Just another day at the Shady Rest. Y'all take care now.

May 30, 2009 - Moments

2009-05-30T20:18:00.000-07:00

In spite of what some people probably think, after reading my on-line posts and stories, the Shady Rest isn’t always a laugh-a-minute circus. It’s never dull, mind you, but often it is, as its name suggests, a place of peace, where the quiet rhythms of daily life predominate. Days without “episodes” so much as “moments,” the kinds of moments you take for granted unless you consciously stop and think about it.

Moments like running the obstacle course from the office to the kitchen for a coffee refill. I’m sure it would seem troublesome to those who have no pets, or maybe one, but here it’s a taken-for-granted routine. Move Spencer off my foot, warn Sammie I’m moving so I don’t run over his toes, roll the chair back, get up. Pick up the coffee mug, step over Freya dozing in the doorway. Down the hall, veering to the right so as to not step on George, who is once again sleeping half in the hall and half in the bathroom. Get to the kitchen, dodge to the left to miss Archie, who has guard duty in the kitchen arch this afternoon. Slow down while passing the sink because Peapod will be running over to watch me pour the coffee. Fill the cup, then carefully reverse the whole process to get back to my desk without sloshing hot coffee on myself or anyone else, then evict Loki from my desk chair before sitting down again. Not a problem, not unusual, that’s just how you get coffee here.

Of course there are times when just leaving the office at all is fraught with adventure. Yesterday, for example, Spencer was sound asleep and Cj got up and left the room. He didn't notice, but when she came back down the hall, he woke up, saw movement in the hall and charged her! Back up, barking his head off, and nearly bit her! He slid to a stop by her ankle, sniffed it, and his little tail just unrolled. He felt so bad about attacking his mama. His head drooped and he came back in the office and flopped down on the snuggle bed, barely looking in her direction. Of course she came in, rubbed his head, told him he was a very good boy for defending the mamas, and that any misunderstanding was forgiven. He perked up a little, but still looked a little discouraged. My brave defender.

Sometimes, it’s not even “moments,” so much as snapshots. You know the ones. Images you see in passing that stick in your mind for years, or forever, and always make you feel good when they bubble to the surface of your mind. Waking up yesterday morning to Sammie, flat on his back, paws in all directions, head on my pillow, sheet covering him up to the armpits, and snoring softly. Nothing “happened,” but that picture will stay in my head in Sammie’s file of memories. Walking by the bedroom and noticing Freya and Spencer (who don’t always get along really well) sound asleep together on the bed, with her muzzle resting on his hip. Peapod, lying in the path of the fan, head back, eyes half-open, just enjoying the breeze ruffling his ears. George, standing in the kitchen, barking fiercely at the bookcase for no reason that anyone but George comprehends. Snapshots.

It’s late, but the day isn’t done yet. I still have to go out to the kitchen and strip a chicken. I tossed a whole bird in the stew pot this afternoon, just for the dogs, and I’m sure I’ll have plenty of supervision for that project, canine and feline alike. Nothing like a chicken to bring a fur family together.

Yep, just another day at the Shady Rest. Y’all take care now.

May 24, Some Pics from Yesterday

2009-05-24T13:13:00.001-07:00

Howdy!

I'm still a little pooped from yesterday, so this will be short, but I wanted to share a couple of the pics I took at the event.

Here's our crew at the registration/check in table. Unfortunately, I could never quite find a chance to get a pic without the sign, because there were so many people checking in. This is a good thing!

Here are the OPR booths, with sales, Pennies For Pugs weigh-in, donations, information and general good-natured cameraderie all day long.

Annie the pug's folks, with Annie under Dad's knee. For all her obedience training, she just wasn't into the "come out and smile for the camera" thing. Such a sweet family.

Y'all take care. I'll see you soon.

2009-05-23T22:00:00.000-07:00

May 23, 2009 – New Life, Sickness, Healing, Death – a Microcosm of Life on a Sunny Saturday at the Park.

2009-05-23T21:50:00.000-07:00

Today was the annual Ohio Pug Rescue Reunion Picnic, a grand and always-popular day to go to a beautiful park with your own pugs, show off your foster pugs, greet the Alumni (former OPR pugs that have been adopted and are now living large in their Forever Homes), play games, eat hot dogs, shop the vendors, and buy as many raffle tickets as you can squeeze out of your retirement fund. It always makes money for the rescued pugs and a good time is always had by all, and sometimes, it can even make you think about life’s Bigger Things.

Bigger Things, like new life. There were a LOT of puppies in attendance this year, some just barely old enough to have had their shots and be in public. Their energy, curiosity, playfulness and puppy-clumsiness gave smiles all around. It takes a hard heart indeed not to grin when a tiny, wall-eyed pug puppy is climbing on your foot, trying to sniff your ankle, meet your dog, and eat his leash, all at once.

Bigger Things, like a fresh chance at life. One of the most rewarding moments of being in rescue is seeing a former rescued pug, one you remember as skinny, sick, or scared, now fluffy, happy and confident, adored by his new family and having the chance at a second life that is much better than the first one.

Bigger Things, like sickness and healing. I met an older couple today, wonderful people, and their little pug girl. They had married when he was in his late 70’s and she in her late 60’s (which already won my heart – I’m a sap for a good love story, particularly one that involves people over 30.) When they wed they agreed “No pets, not even a bowl of goldfish.” That lasted until they fell in love with a pug, one in a television commercial, no less. They stopped whatever they were doing when it came on and watched for the pug (they still don’t recall what the advertisement was for, they only remember the pug.) He became ill and was hospitalized. To cheer him, she brought him pictures of pugs to put up in his room, until one day he told her, “I want one. I want a pug.” Knowing that some commitments are more important than others, she agreed, and when he came home, they found a good breeder and picked out a puppy. Not surprisingly, the lucky puppy was the one that toddled right up to him and snuggled in like she already knew where she belonged (and I have no doubt she did.) She told him, “You are responsible for this dog. You have to feed it, walk it, train it.” And so he did. Nearly 80 and fresh out of the hospital, he took the puppy out in the middle of the night for potty breaks. He bent and reached to fill her bowl and serve her, and in the process of all the work that goes into a puppy, he improved. He improved so much that now the couple is attending pug events with their pug, and so much that his rehab nurse is recommending pug ownership to many of her patients for faster, better healing. Medicine is strong, the animal-human bond even stronger.

Bigger Things, like death. One rarely expects Death to appear, and especially not on a sunny, happy, spring day of fun. Still, about halfway through the picnic, the dreaded cry that no one EVER wants to hear rang out – “PUG DOWN!” People ran – rescuers, volunteers, guests – with only one thought. “How can I help?” Cell phones emerged like wildflowers in spring as a dozen people, some with a cell in each hand, dialed frantically to find a vet that might be open on a Saturday afternoon, or at least might have a vet on call, or an emergency vet clinic closer than the other side of town. Two EMT’s in the crowd immediately started full CPR when it became evident the condition was worse than simple overheating. They didn’t hesitate at mouth-to-snout rescue breathing or chest compressions. One member called ahead to the emergency clinic so they’d be ready, then drove the pug (Barney) and his mom so mom wouldn’t have to drive in a panic, and they followed another member who drove so there would be no time wasted getting lost. As they pulled from the parking lot, the entire assembled crowd fell silent, as everyone prayed to whoever they pray to for this little pug. When the call came later with the outcome, the activities of the moment were interrupted, and with a breaking voice, the announcer let us all know that Barney had not made it. Another silence descended as everyone stopped to wish Barney safe passage to the other side, and to ask for strength and comfort for his family.

The Biggest Thing – Love. Barney’s mom returned to the picnic, gracious in her grief, to thank all those who had worked so hard to save her boy, to see if she’d won the 50/50 raffle, not because the money was more important to her than her loss, but because if she did win, she wanted to donate her half to the rescue in Barney’s memory, and to find, perhaps, some comfort in the company of those who would understand her pain better than any one – fellow pugfolk. A collection was taken, among people who had already dug down to the lint in their pockets to help the rescue, and the money was raised to cover Barney’s vet bill and cremation bill.

(NOTE: The vet confirmed that a heart attack, probably from underlying and undiagnosed cardiac problems, took Barney to the Bridge, the heat was NOT the cause. I do NOT want anyone mistakenly thinking, because I wasn't clear, that he was not properly cared for in the warm weather. He was a happy, well-loved and well - cared for pug who will be sorely missed.)

The Shady Rest pugs – Sammie, George, Archie and Peapod, were, of course, in attendance (Loki and Spencer, not being OPR pugs, relaxed at home with Freya and the cats) and were a big hit. They came home tired, hungry and a little overdosed on ear-rubs, belly-scritches and general making over. They’re all sound asleep now, except for Archie, who should have no tummy fur left after all the belly rubs he received. Archie is guarding the bedroom door, smiling benevolently and content with his lot. Humanity could learn much about life, death, love, comfort and contentment from pugs, and from the people who love them.

Y’all take care of yourselves, and of each other.

May 20, 2009 Hidden Treasures

2009-05-20T22:29:00.001-07:00

Howdy,

Well, it's been quite a day - while I was at work, Archie, occupied himself with tormenting Cj.

She let the dogs out for morning potty and Archie strolled out with them. Normally, Archie confines his morning constitutional to the deck, being not overly fond of the steps to the yard. When she returned just moments later to let them back in, Archie was nowhere to be seen. Concerned, she stepped out on the deck to find him, expecting him to be either just behind the corner of the grill and out of sight, or perhaps, if the warm weather had him feeling adventurous, browsing at the base of the steps. Nope. No Archie. Cj begins roaming the yard. It's been recently mowed, so he's not lost in the grasses or anything. No sign of him. Now she's getting worried. Could he have somehow gotten out?? How?! The fence is secure, gates closed and secured, no holes a squirrel could have gotten through, much less a pug of Archie's dimensions. She goes back to the door, summons Freya the pugherd and Peapod, Archie's best buddie, to help her, figuring one of them will go right to him. She follows them all over the yard. Still no luck. As she returns to the deck, she sees movement from the corner of her eye. There he sits, the cause of all this effort, on the bottom shelf of the grill, watching benignly as she drives herself and the other dogs crazy looking for him. Archie, were he human, would be considered legally blind, not totally. Details escape him but he is capable of watching large shapes in motion - like a full-figured human circling the yard - and seemed to be enjoying being the object of the fuss. Once he was spotted and the game was up, he toddled back in the house under his own steam, the very picture of cooperation.

Yep, just another day at the Shady Rest. Y'all take care.

May 18, 2009 - Introduction

2009-05-18T22:32:00.000-07:00

I probably ought to start by introducing the current residents of the Shady Rest, so the rest of the blog makes some kind of sense, or at least as much sense as it can, in a house full of pugs.

The Permanent Residents:
Ky - your mistress of ceremonies, ringmaster of the circus, keeper of the zoo, cook and bottlewasher.
Cj. - Ever-patient, pug-loving life mate to Ky, alternate cook and bottlewasher.
Freya - 7 year old Belgian Malinois/Chow mix, alpha canine, professional pugherd.
Sammie - 10-year-old fawn male, rescue pug, Ky's shadow. Good natured and mostly sensible.
Spencer - 5-year-old fawn male, a big, happy, loving lug, body like a tank, heart like a teddy bear.
Loki - 6-year-old black male. Our Ebony Einstein, he's not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he makes up for it in being very sweet. Chaos follows him despite his not having a deliberately malicious bone in his little body.

The Fosters:
George - Senior Foster. 11-year-old, totally blind fawn male. Movie-star handsome, alternately sweet and grumpy.
Archie - 12-year-old mostly-blind foster with some, um..., "weight issues." He's on a serious diet and exercise program.
Peapod - 3-year-old fawn male. Sweet, polite little gentleman.

The Cats:
Spare - 8 year-old orange tabby boy. Reincarnation of some Zen monk taking a vacation between human lives. He is the most calm, mellow, unflappably philosophical cat I've ever met. Loves dogs.
Thor - 7-year-old, solid black male. Handsome, and a bit of a clingy mama's boy.
Kali - 10-year-old white on the bottom, black and orange on the top calico girl. Well beyond shy, she's lived in the half-bathroom for nearly three years now. She enjoys the occasional quiet visit, but isn't much for going out.

Here's your Shady Rest story for today. Perhaps it will give you a bit of a feel for what's to come.

Foraging honey bees perform a dance upon their return to the hive. A "waggle dance" indicates that food is farther away, while the "round dance" indicates food is nearby. The laden forager dances on the comb in a circular pattern, occasionally crossing the circle in a zig-zag or waggle pattern. The runs and turns of the dance correlate to the distance and direction of the food source from the hive. The orientation of the dance correlates to the relative position of the sun to the food source, and the length of the waggle portion of the run is correlated to the distance from the hive. The more vigorous the display is, the better the food.

This was brought to mind as I was watching Archie preparing to have a poop. He goes around and around, head down, his nose the maypole around which the rest of him circles. He changes directions, waggles back and forth, zig-zags. From the movement, duration and vigor of his dance, he resembles nothing so much as a very, very pudgy, beige bee describing to an Ohio hivemate a particularly tasty flower somewhere in Albania. He paces briefly back and forth, then zeroes in again on his target foci. Around and around his plump butt goes. He's making ME sweat, he's working so hard at it. Then, finally, his message complete, he freezes. Slowly the butt lowers and the moment comes. A poop the size of a chapstick. That's it. Just one. So much effort, so little result. Still, pleased with himself, he smiles as he rolls off to take a well-deserved nap.

Yep, just another day at the Shady Rest. Y'all take care now.