Little Pup Lodge

Candi is a very, very senior dog and cadaverously underweight. Probably on the shady side of 17 years, she is toothless, practically blind from cataracts, deaf and not too terribly spry. I saw her picture on the web, read about all her health problems and said to myself, that’s my next foster. A wonderful organization, Peace of Mind Dog Rescue, saved the half-starved Chihuahua from euthanasia. POMDR tends to rescue and re-home dogs whose humans can no longer care for them due to illness, death or other challenging circumstances. Candi was not one of those cases however. Candi was dumped in the night drop box at Monterey County Animal Services. On Christmas week. Fortunately, POMDR also rescues senior dogs from the shelter.

 

It seems I spend too much time bitching about how wretched people are so I have to try really hard to look for the bright side of humanity when I hear these stories. The bright side is that somebody at least cared enough to drop Candi at the shelter rather than just let her out of the car in some unfamiliar neighborhood and hope for the best. The other bright side is that for every calloused human soul out there, I have to believe the Universe balances it out with people like POMDR’s founder, Carie Broecker, and all her volunteers.
      

Years ago, my brother told me about his special holiday gift to the universe, It is the same one he gives every year. Around mid-November, Jim moves slower, gets nicer and forgives all: enraged drivers, bitchy shoppers and the many other humans whose own personal “Alien” seems to rip from their chest this time of year to wreak havoc on those nearby.

        Jimbo.       

As a spiritual practice, it is one of the harder ones to adopt. Although relatively unruffled by a herd of yapping Chihuahuas, the gimme-gimme screams of tots can drive me nearly homicidal. But, like Jimbo, I try to smile a little more, complain a little less and count my blessings. Perhaps we should all remember the lines to that wonderful Christmas song by Tupac (or was it Notorious B.I.G.?): Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.

Once a doggy's size drops below five pounds, gender means nothing. It's still important to them, no doubt, but not to those of us who like to indulge our inner fashionista. Poor O.G. has been reduced to a furry Barbie doll as we tart him up in one outfit after another.

  Boys Don't Cry.

The chilly days, a huge supply of tiny-dog togs and the holiday spirit have merged into a perfect storm of “let’s-play-dress-up,” which O.G. has succumbed to with little argument.

 
Crappy photography, but cute outfit. Really.

If truth be known, the old Maltese doesn’t have a whole lot of personality dazzlers left in his repertoire. He just wants a warm lap to occupy and a stuffed toy to hump now and then. But, O.G. will wear anything with a minimum of humiliation. The Little Pup Lodge wardrobe is heavy on pink so he often looks like a mascot for the Susan G. Komen folks. People who meet him often refer to O.G. as “she” and we usually don’t bother to correct them. Given that O.G. is short for Original Gangster, we’re lucky he doesn’t cap us fools for dissin' him so. Barbara Billingsley isn't the only middle-age white lady who can speak jive. She just does it better.

 

 

Lessons from dogs, Number 241: A friend is a friend indeed. To maintain a friendship throughout one’s lifetime, even part of a lifetime, is difficult. To maintain one without serious arguments, long periods of angry non-communication or a couple of seething resentments may be nearly impossible. Unless you are a dog.

 

Two couples have guested here at the Lodge for the past few days; Gunner & Midgee, and Sadie & Buster. They are not romantically or genetically linked but live in companionable peace with each other. Midgee, the Yorkie, licks Gunner’s eyes and face clean every morning without fail. Sadie periodically performs the same routine for Buster. All four will become troubled, quite troubled, when they lose sight of their buddy.

 

Several years ago a book was published; The Friend That Got Away, a collection of essays about women’s friendships that “blew up, burned out or faded away,” to paraphrase its subtitle. I did not read it. I didn’t want to since I had recently lost one of my closest friends, someone I’d known for almost 25 years. It was over a family issue and now we say nothing more than hello to each other when we cross paths.

 

I’m a little envious of the two pairs of friends visiting here. Any disagreements they have last about a half-second, just long enough to growl a warning about some boundary being disregarded. If only human relationships could be so simple.

 

The Chihuahua breed may or may not have originated in Mexico. It may have actually had its roots in China. Then again, the present day Chihuahua may be a combination of both continents’ genes. The only thing not in doubt is that the little hairless creatures get damned cold outside when the temperature drops. Although the thermometer read 39 degrees this morning, those two Chihuahuas from last year were once again shivering outside of Peet’s when I stopped in for my java fix.
One of the two very chilly dogs.

The pair comes with their dad, who sits inside to drink coffee and chat. The summers are fine, but the same thing happened last winter. Not sure how to handle it back then, I finally gave one of my doggie coats to the guy and mentioned I was a bit concerned about his dogs out there in the cold. He thanked me and that was the last I saw of the jacket.

Wintertime is here again. The dogs look very cold and miserable and, as usual, I want to rip the guy’s clothes off and leash him to the outside rail. I am presently enrolled in advanced studies on how to mind my own business. This situation is none of my business, but I somehow think it ought to be.

More than one person has said they want to come back as so-and-so’s dog in the next lifetime. It is a way of letting you know that So-and-So treats their dog like royalty. I haven’t decided if I want to come back as Frankie or not.
Frankie, ready for his centerfold.
 

On the upside, our not-so-little Tibetan Terrier guest has been blessed with wonderful parents who dote on him. He is served a special raw food diet and gets tons of supplements, which is probably why Frankie is so bouncy and full of energy at almost 12 years old. On the downside, Frankie has to eat this concoction of ground chicken, tinctures, tablets and capsules. Like any kid forced to eat healthy, he often tries to steal food­–yummy over-processed kibble, for example­– from the others.

Frankie loves to sleep when he is not demonstrating his bounciness. He can remain so still that we have had two different people look shocked when he moved. They both thought Frankie was a stuffed toy.

Sleep all the time? That’s my idea of the good life. Being denied my weekly hot fudge sundaes, nightly cocoa and copious chocolate pick-me-ups throughout the day? A hell beyond imagination.

California, it’s been said, has four seasons: mudslide, fire, earthquake & riot. Perhaps we should add one more: freak windstorms, one of which blew a giant fir down much too close to the Lodge.
  Life and limb.
 

Rural life allows one to have a business comprised of little yappy dogs. The neighbors aren’t close enough to be driven crazy. There’s plenty of ground for lovely walks far from the presence of traffic or people. On the other hand, rural can also mean funky sewer pipes (that had to be dug and replaced this week) and mammoth trees that will fling large pieces of themselves at you when disturbed by anything greater than a summer breeze. On the third hand, however, “rural” in this part of the country means a 10-minute drive to the nearest Starbucks.

Convenient pumpkin spice lattes at the risk of  being impaled by an errant windblown tree limb? Fair enough.

Those who work in the dog boarding industry become experts, aficionados as it were, of urine removal products. The formula must destroy both stains and stink. Nature’s Miracle, the most popular, used to be the go-to choice for the housekeeping staff at Little Pup Lodge. That was before we discovered The Equalizer. Though it’s name more befits one of Dirty Harry’s sidearms, it is the most effective pee-fighter we’ve found yet.
Get your flourocarbons now!
 

Needless to say, the Thanksgiving week’s visitors took full advantage of the lax rules about marking. Others decided to use the only room still carpeted for their own indoor lavatory. That it happens to be my bedroom no doubt added to the little troublemakers’ glee.

After the carpet thoroughly marinates in Equalizer, the carpet cleaning machine will erase any evidence of my guests’ mischief. Best of all, the stuff is cheap.

There was a transition time when I started Little Pup Lodge but was still doing some private investigator work. As my business got busier, I let my former boss know that I was going to retire as a private dick to devote myself fulltime to the Lodge. Perhaps the envy and resentment had simmered in him for some time, but he couldn’t hold it back any longer. “I wish I could sit around and play with puppies all day long,” Greg said.

Too bad Greg wasn't here to play with the puppies this week, the busiest week of the year. Here’s what “playing” looked like on a daily basis: Up at 6am to let a dozen dogs out in the yard while we clean up the poop and pee that has man9ifested overnight. Bring them back in, harness and leash up half and drive down to an enclosed ballfield for exercise and play. Return and pick up the other half, who have already eaten. Since each guest has his or her own dietary requirements, as well as various medications, it takes about 45 minutes to set up the dishes. By the time all have eaten and exercised, it’s 11am. Then it’s time for the noon outing, blessedly within walking distance. In those precious three hours before the 4pm outing, at least two or three loads of laundry must be done, floors Lysol’d, dishes washed, paperwork completed and of course, entertainment and laps provided for those who request it.

The process repeats itself from 4 until about 630. More laptime in front of the TV until the last outdoors sojourn and then we all drop into bed around 8:30. This doesn’t include the constant cleanup throughout the day. However, I would rather do this for 12 hours a day than even one hour of PI work. It’s true what they say; if you do what you love, it doesn’t feel like work.

Since doggie visits here are supposed to be like a combo of summer camp, visiting your favorite grandma and a Grateful Dead concert, guests at the Lodge enjoy quite a bit of leeway in behavioral guidelines. We expect our male (and sometimes female) guests to mark, so carpeting has been removed and Lysol purchased by the gallon. While they’re not allowed on the bed or sofa back home, the guilty pleasures of lounging on the coffee table and crawling under an electric blanket on the Cal King are to be savored here.

   Eddie would go.

Our darling Ed knows this and makes the most of it. An older Dachsund, Ed’s a one-dog destruction derby. His mom leaves his bed, which is held together with numerous strips of duct tape. The reason why becomes apparent as soon as she walks out the door. Ed tears into the bed, clouding the room with giant puffs of stuffing.

  Mr. Bill: prepare to die.
 

The fun has just begun. The toy box apparently demands to have each of its 50 or 60 toys removed, one at a time, and tested for durability. Eventually, the place looks like one of the more choice scenes from “Hoarders.”

  Anybody seen Keith Moon lately?

It takes two to play this game so, with a sigh, Nickie or I go over and start tossing the toys back in their box. Ed loves this part–quick as each one goes in, he grabs it and pulls it back out again for another round of abuse. This can go on for hours but, we aim to please.

Last week I wandered into the SPCA and let them know I was looking for a really old, unadoptable dog to adopt. Have I got the dog for you, says the director. Age? Somewhere between 90 and death, she says. Size? Less than five pounds sopping wet.
Grandpa? Really?
 

The dog, saddled with the most unfortunate name of Grandpa, had been sent back to the Madera shelter where he would no doubt be euthanized. Grandpa was not only old, but rotten of teeth and damaged of eye (probably glaucoma). “Sounds good. Bring him back,” I told the director.

 Only a little worse for wear.
 

As these things always seem to happen, Grandpa returned the day I had to leave town for an emergency. Nickie went down to pick him up and immediately texted me pictures, because I just couldn’t wait to see my new Chihuahua. Grandpa was not a Chihuahua, but a breed apparently related to Cousin It from The Addams Family. I gushed over how cute he was, because that’s what’s expected. Truthfully though, I was disappointed, deeply disappointed. I wanted my Chihuahua. I suppose I still miss my recently departed Tex.

  Tex, who now humps with the angels.

O.G., formerly known as Grandpa, now sits in my lap. He is not only cute, but lovable, well-mannered and in fairly decent health. The SPCA sprung to have his teeth fixed and my vet decided that whatever was going on in his eye didn’t seem to bother him. O.G.’s no Chihuahua, but he’ll still look adorable dressed up in my vast wardrobe of doggie clothes.
  Clean up good, don't I?
 

Is there really any thing new to a say about cancer? Publishers certainly don't want any more heart rending/funny/graphic/irreverent memoirs about the Big C.  In just a few decades it has gone from illness that no one dare mention to one that no one can shut up about.
Kimberly & Lilly

We now suffer from cancer fatigue. At least, that is what Kimberly, my best friend of 30 years, thinks. I’m waiting for a flight to San Diego so I can assure her this is not true. Whenever you think you’re life sucks, a few highlights of Kimberly’s life: Raised by physically abusive alcoholics, raped at 25, diagnosed with melanoma at 35, lung cancer at 45. Against all odds, she’s still here five years later; wild, unbelievably profane and funnier than hell. And courageous. God she’s courageous. I know that’s a threadbare cliché­; “bravely battled cancer, et al,” but she is not the only cancer person I’ve known. Another acquaintance had breast cancer and I finally had to un-acquaint with her. There’s a difference between processing feelings and cementing yourself to the pity potty.

  The two best friends in Seattle

So, Kimberly, I’m quite tired of your cancer and I desperately want it to go away. But, I will never tire of you ranting about it, crying about it or laughing about it as long as it has the bad manners to stick around.

A nice young lady visited Little Pup Lodge with her Coton de Tulear and mentioned more than once how valuable it was. Although she meant that breed of dog was viciously expensive to purchase, I could have pointed out that my Oliver was valuable, too. As in, I wouldn’t trade him for a million dollars.

  Coton de Tulears
 

I reviewed with her what we do to keep our guests safe: the secure fencing, the tinted auto windows with metal grates on them and, my personal favorite, a stun gun. The nice lady looked at me with what I interpreted as pleasant surprise. “Even for the little dogs?” she asked. Especially for the little dogs, I responded.  Slowly, I began to understand that she was not pleasantly surprised, but rather horrified. “We use it to protect our guests from big dogs,” I explained. She looked relieved.

Now I’m worried how many other people out there think the stun gun’s to keep my little charges in line.

Lots of shelter dogs don’t have a backstory. Picked up as strays, their health issues, age and especially, personal history, is pretty much a blank slate. It’s left to the vets to fill in the first two categories and they tend to get it more or less right. But the dog's life, or at least life as we imagine it to have been, is filled in by the ones who adopt the little guys or gals.

   Sakura

Adopters can weave compelling narratives for this new creature in their midst. Most commonly it features abuse–their new friend was kicked, hit, teased. The abuser was a man—always a man—who wore a hat, or was Latino or blonde or bearded. The new dog’s reaction to any of the above forms the basis for the saga. I have done this myself, since my beloved Oliver still flinches–eight years after he was adopted– whenever I pick my foot up too quickly and too close to his face. Obviously, I tell myself and others, someone kicked him around. Then again, perhaps I just enjoy a drama that casts me as hero.

 

Which leads to the latest shelter sleepover guest, Sakura. A well-mannered six-year-old, Sakura looked like any other Chihuahua-mix until I looked under her winter jacket. Several ugly pink scars ran down her side and onto her hind leg. A raccoon? Hit by a car? This one may remain a mystery. If you'd like a perfect little companion, complete with emblazened tribal initiation rites, check her out here.

An old friend called again this morning with questions about his recently adopted dog Freddy. Mark’s mother has Alzheimer’s so Mark, who lives with her, figured she could use a companion.

   Mark & Freddy (Freddy's the furry one)

Mark is no stranger to dogs. But, he is. He always had German Shepherds and it has been a couple of decades since those were in his life. Mark now has a five-pound poodle and the techniques he once swore by don’t seem to work real well. We no longer punish dogs for their transgressions, I explained, but praise and reward them for good behavior. No, I explained, Freddy has no idea what you’re talking about when you point to where he peed in the house and yell, “No! No! No!” Now, we keep our new friend with us constantly and when they start to lift their leg, we sweep them up and run out the door with a “Good dog! Good dog!”

And, Mark was reminded, he was no longer in the world of big dogs; he had migrated to the strange new land of yappers. Obedience school was a great idea for socializing and bonding, but did he really care if something that weighs less than a gallon of milk tugs on the leash? A little dog has one main purpose (imho), and that is to be spoiled within an inch of its life.

Then there was Mom. Mark said that no matter how often he told her not to feed Fred from the table, she would forget and give him a little bit of buttered toast here, a teaspoon of pudding there. I asked Mark which was easier: trying to change someone with Alzheimer’s or just accepting that Freddy was probably going to put on some weight? He could always put Freddy on the Atkins diet later.

Some weeks are very busy, and I’m in the middle of a furry hurricane. Dogs to my left, dogs to my right, dogs on top of me. It’s wonderful and so soul-satisfying. Then there other times, like this last week, when only one or two guests have checked into Little Pup Lodge.    Less cleanup, less barking, less pressure.


One of the gifts of growing older, if you’re lucky, is the ability to appreciate the moment for what it is.

Licorice, the little black Chihuahua, came home with me again from the shelter for a sleepover. If I were in the market for a young, housebroken, lovable little girl, she’d be it. She’s sorta perfect. But, I don’t want perfect. I want far from perfect, in fact.

   Licorice

After talking to Precious’ foster mom, we realized that she would not be a good fit at Little Pup Lodge. She’s 16, blind, deaf and can’t walk very well. While that’s fine for me, the foster mom explained that Precious really needed a place where nothing changed much from day to day. Every new guest that came up to sniff her would freak the poor little thing out. 

  Precious
 

But there others at Muttville who might like to spend their final years or months at Little Pup Lodge. Sable, for example. Here’s her description on their website: Sable, a 14 year old doxie mix, is so sweet; she is a quiet girl who just wants gentle caresses and a mellow home to call her own. She was picked up as a stray. She has had many litters of puppies and not much love in her life till now. She is hard not to love!! Sable is looking for a hospice home.

Perhaps it is a commitment issue.

 

Sable    

I finally got up north to see a friend who had twins in July. I was prepared to hear her gush over the joys of new motherhood. But my friend told the truth. Of course she loved them; that’s a given. But motherhood? It left her dangerously exhausted, seriously bored and all too infrequently thrilled with her decision to have children. “You know why they make those little outfits so cute?” she asked. “It’s to remind you how adorable your babies are when you think you hate them.”

 

She told me she confided these ever-so-taboo feelings with another friend whose children were now toddlers. When asked if she had ever felt that way, the mom just shrugged and said, “Oh yeah, of course.”

 

For the record, my friend's twins were beyond adorable. I loved being an aunt to my sister’s twins when they were that age; so fun to buy clothes for and even more fun when they become toddlers and young children. And it’s true, you do see the world anew as you watch them discover new flavors, new sensations, new experiences. Of course, kids eventually become adolescents, Satan’s vile, epithet-spewing spawn until the hormones settle down a little bit, maybe 17 or 18 years old. My niece and nephew are 15 years old and God knows I love them but honestly? They scare the holy crap out of me.

 

I shall continue to sublimate my repressed motherly urges through the adoption of very small dogs I can dress up and hug.

 

What did you miss during my sabbatical? Pumpkin finally got adopted, thank you Jesus, Mohammad & Buddha. That little round mound of sound was with us for almost a year, but it sometimes takes a long time to find the perfect Forever Family. And perfect they were. Two are retired and one works from home, so The Mighty Pumpkin Pie will never be alone. They already had two ancient, special-needs dogs and an older person that needs a fulltime lap-warmer.
The Mighty, Mighty Pie.
 

Pumpkin's new family.

What else? After Tex died, I decided to take a break from foster work and do hospice rescue instead. Now that Pumpkin has vacated the premises, it’s time to start searching. I found Precious – 16 years old and blind – on the Muttville website. For those not familiar with this wonderful organization, they rescue just senior dogs. Heaven is saving the veranda and main ballroom for these saints. (Metaphorically speaking, you and I will probably be given the noisy table by the kitchen.) Stay tuned.

The aptly named Precious.   

Most of the guests who check into Little Pup Lodge initially exhibit some degree of separation anxiety. We have many ways to work with this: Rescue Remedy (a homeopathic treatment for anxiety); diffusers of Dog Appeasing Pheromone (D.A.P.), which is reported to make dogs feel like they're back with their nursing mother; hugs and kisses if wanted and space if they are not.

 My latest foster, Pumpkin, showed up at the Lodge as if she had lived here forever.  She cuddled up in my lap and was ready with puppy kisses 20 minutes after arrival.    Little Pup Lodge is Pumpkin's fourth home this year; 3 foster homes and one permanent home that only lasted three months.  For reasons too obvious to mention, Animal Shelter Relief has a very generous return policy.  This woman was vague on why she needed to bring Pumpkin back to, but in the future we will think long and hard before our animals will go home with someone who already has an infant to care for.

 Just like children shuttled from one foster home to another, dogs learn to adapt. And, like children, they may show affection but they don't waste time on forging a bond.  Why get your heart broken when the person you become attached to just… disappears?

Pumpkin  has not been easy to place. She's a “Two-Strike” dog—older and saddled with a health condition. No matter that she's around nine years old and Chihuahuas  often live as long as 19 or 20 years. No matter that she has a mild seizure disorder easily controlled with cheap medication.


While I feel bad for my guests' fear of the unfamiliar, confused why their human has gone away, I also know they are very lucky dogs.  Sometimes, separation anxiety is a good thing.