April 6, 2010 - The Tug

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!