Little Pup Lodge

 A severely underweight terrier-something waited like all the others in the Santa Cruz animal Shelter, waited for someone to fall in love with him and take him home. Chances that anyone would pick Wesley were grim. At some point in his short, five-month life, his leg had been broken and not set. That left the little guy with a paw permanently stuck at a 30 degree angle.

Sonia was the one who spotted Wesley. One of our Animal Shelter Relief volunteers, she'd actually been combing the shelter for cats or kittens on death row. That's ASR's mission, to rescue animals scheduled to be  euthanized because they take up too much room in the shelters.

Wesley had not been scheduled for the needle yet. But given his prospects, it loomed in the near future. So Sonia brought him home. The ASR vet looked our new rescue over, studied the leg and gave his verdict–amputation. Given how he favored that paw, chances were good that Wesley suffered chronic pain.

Wesley, pre-surgery.

Without the mental or emotional baggage that accompanies the loss of a limb, dogs tend to bounce back rather quickly. In a few weeks, Wes was gimping around on his three skinny legs with the best of them.

Information, or the lack of it, is what separates my hotel guests from the fosters who reside here. My guests' guardians fill out a three-page questionnaire that describes their food preference and amount, likes, dislikes and a typical daily schedule. I know that Ed the dachshund likes to sleep cocooned in a blanket from the top of his head down to his dew claws. Upon request, I provided Zoe the mini-Aussie with a song and tummy rub upon awakening.

The foster dogs, on the other hand, show up with a non-existent resume. I know they are healthy and vaccinated, I know they are spayed or neutered and I may actually learn how they ended up homeless. The last piece of knowledge is rare, however. "Found as a stray," tends to be just about all I will know of their life before they come to stay with me.

As a kid, we would write notes with a brush dipped in lemon juice.  The words remained invisible until we held the paper over a candle and its heat revealed our secret. I guess when it comes to discovering who my foster dogs are, that would make me the flame. Duke was afraid of everything, but especially men. So was Bart. Li'l Girl - all six pounds of her - loved to run with me. More than one of my fosters were deathly afraid of loud noises and sudden movements.

   Bart, who now lives a very, very happy life with his new Forever Family (and here's a Youtube video to prove it).

 Edie Achterman had a bright idea - why not collect used towels and blankets for the animal shelters and clinics? They never had enough, it seemed. Three years later, the non-profit organization Annies Blankets, has collected and distributed almost 50,000 towels and blankets to clinics, shelters and rescue groups in four counties. Barrels left with various businesses around town make it easy for folks to donate.

One of Annie's Blankets collection barrels.

I love this group and now coordinate the volunteers here in Santa Cruz county. I sent Edie's name and story in to the National Enquirer for that "Heroes Among Us" section on the last page. But, they keep going with articles about some honest guy who found a million dollars and returned it or the woman who made trunkloads of doilies or something for the needy.

So, Annie's Blankets just went international. We heard about a  rescue organization that drives from Northern California to Mexico every other month and brings back dogs for adoption here in the States. Since the big van that Compassion Without Borders uses to transport goes down empty, we try to fill it up with blankets and towels for the shelters down there. The group's founders, Christi and Moncho, made it clear that Mexican animal shelters make even this country's  worst ones look like Holiday Inns. Mexico City's  shelter housed over 2,000 animals; starved, ill and mostly unaltered when Christi first arrived in 2001. Now all the animals get vaccinated and spayed or neutered. Hundreds have found new homes.

Instead of wasting the Nobel peace prize on all those silly politicians and scientists, Sweden should give it to the most deserving - those who work on the frontlines of animal welfare. It's not  that they inspire peace. It's because  they don't periodically lose it and mow down groups of humans with an AK-47.

I know three women who have worked for the county animal shelter. I asked Sandi, who worked there eight years, how long it took for her at that job to hate people. "Oh, right away," she said without a pause. It didn't even occur to me to ask her if that job made her loathe humanity. I knew.

In my dealings over the years with our animal shelter, I'd noticed a certain…attitude from those who work the front desk. The women (and they were always women) communicated verbally with the requisite amount of civility. But I could always feel a chill, a subtle hostility right behind those tight smiles. Was it me? Was it something I said? And then I realized it was because I belonged to the same species that dumped their cat because it didn't match the color of the new sofa. True story. Or adopted a dog, had its vocal chords shaved by a vet so it wouldn't bark, then decided they didn't want it anymore and brought it back. Another true story. And, those are downright benign examples of our treatment of animals compared to the other stories I've heard too awful to repeat. 

If I could remember to pray, I would pray that my volunteer efforts with animal welfare do not give me a darker view of people than I already have.

A new foster checked in to Little Pup Lodge a few days ago. I like to think that keeping a space or two open for non-paying guests is my nod to low-income (or no-income)  housing. This one arrived with his requisite unattractive name  in tow: Jay-Jay. He follows in the pawprints of Bart, Duke, Aaron and a half-dozen other wonderful dogs I've fostered with tragically boring  names. Who names these poor creatures? Do the monikers themselves predestine dogs to a substandard life?

Some of my more creatively named dog-buddies: Taxi, a big yellow lab (shades of Joni Mitchell); Moby, a tiny reindeer Chihuahua and Easy, a gorgeous gray Weimaraner. Then there are those that do even worse by their dogs than just boring names. For example, one woman who yells across the beach to her hound-mix, "PORKER!!" Actually, I heard she just died, so perhaps whomever inherited her dog will give him a more dignified name.

                The Big, Yellow Taxi.

I've read a lot of self-help books in my life. I mean, a lot. About ten years ago, I just stopped. Flawed though I still was, I just didn't want to try to fix myself anymore. It wasn't so much that I had learned to accept myself, warts and all, but that I was burned out. If I read one more book peppered with words like "issues" or "dysfunctional," I was going to scream. Or dissociate.

So, I had no plans to embark on another journey of self-exploration when I rented Seasons 1 & 2 of the Dog Whisperer from the library. What with hotel guests and fosters taking up much of my days, it seemed like a good idea to review the show.

Cesar Millan, aka: The Dog Whisperer

I'd seen episodes in the past, but something quite odd happened when I sat down and watched several  shows  each night. First, an awesome concept that, honestly, had completely escaped me: dogs are animals. In other words, they are not four-footed humans that understand human forms of communication. Though I want to believe that they plot, hold grudges, ponder the meaning of life and really appreciate my running commentary, I think Cesar Millan is right. They do not.

Second, (secondly?), they want someone to take charge or they'll take on the job themselves. We've all heard this for years - we need to be alpha, etc., etc.  But, I have not been too successful at this because I keep seeing a little, furry person that will get mad at me or get his feelings hurt if I don't let him stop and sniff when he wants. But an animal? Hell, I can tell an animal  what to do. And when I hear my little Latino cupcake say over and over that they want someone in charge, then who am I to deny them this?

The holidays have passed, taking all the guests back home with them. It's a quiet hotel, just Oliver and Archie the foster. There is relative calm and peace unless a bone, cow hoof or pig's ear shows up in their mutual territory. Before fosters and hotel guests began to join Oliver, this place looked like a rendering plant. Besides bones, ears and hooves, I'd bring home baked cow hearts,  freeze-dried esophagi and liver bits for my little friend's enjoyment.

Those days are behind us, since Oliver does not have the "let's share" gene. I used to hand out a body part to each dog, but Oliver would go bury his and Mao-Mao the others until they surrendered theirs. He'd then pile the treats together and refuse to let any dog get near.  Oliver would often pick the hallway to take his stand, a virtual sig-alert  for any of the guests or fosters who wanted to travel between the bedroom and living room. In disgust, I would finally take away all the dismembered ears, etc. and hide them in the refrigerator or cupboard until Oliver was alone again. Which hasn't happened for quite awhile. This has made for a few nasty surprises when I have curiously looked inside a long-forgotten bag stuck in the far corner behind the pickles and rancid orange juice.

For people like us, only two things are worse than our dog's death--if it's a violent, senseless death and, the worst of all, if we were to witness it and be unable to prevent it. This is what happened to my friend Amy as she walked Kermit & Mortimer down her rural road. A large dog walked up to sniff Kermit, then grabbed and shook him until everything was broken and torn. Amy screamed, the other dog's owner appeared and though both tried to free Kermit, the dog's jaws were firmly locked.

When he finally dropped Kermit, Amy scooped her little Chihuahua up in her arms as blood spurted everywhere. She ran to the neighbor's car to take Kermit to the emergency room. But, she said, it was hopeless. Amy begged Kermit not to die as he looked at her one last time and his head went limp. As she related this through sobs, I thought of what it would be like to lose Oliver that way. Since I knew that Kermit was Amy's Oliver, all I could do was hug her and feel quite sick to my stomach.

Those who are not dog people don't understand, which is why we surround ourselves with other dog people. Within hours, five or six others were at Amy's house, each feeling the pain and terror of what it must have been like for our friend. We knew there was little we could say to ease the pain, but she knew we understood.

So, whose fault was this tragedy? Certainly not the dog’s, though he had to pay with his life. A mobile vet is coming out this morning to euthanize him. Was it the dog’s owners? Amy described them as a very nice retired couple. Their other dog had died of old age a few months ago. With all good intentions, they contacted a rescue organization and adopted this dog about three weeks ago.

Until last year, dog owners had just one beach to let their dogs run off-leash, and that was only before 10am and after 4pm.  But, "Its Beach," as it is known, and an adjoining off-leash  open space became Lighthouse Field State Park, signaling the end of what puny freedom dog owners enjoyed.

Though short on government-sanctioned support for dog owners, Santa Cruz has plenty of motivated activists, so Friends of Lighthouse Field sprung into existence. The pissed-off dog owners want the beach back to how it used to be - no leashes before 10am and after 4pm. One of the ways they've brought attention to their cause is to practice "civil disobedience" every Saturday morning from 8:30 to 10am. As many as 40 or 50 people  show up at the beach and defiantly unsnap the leashes for an hour and a half, just waiting to be challenged by authority. Actually, that's not quite true. They have an appointed lookout who blows an air horn at the first sign of a park ranger, at which point everyone scrambles to leash up. Upon reflection, this is not quite as disobedient as it could be. However, middle-aged folks aren't quite as enthusiastic as college kids about being arrested and dragged off to jail.

Coffee and donuts are also in abundance. With dogs dashing this way and that, lots of barking and an occasional disagreement over who gets the ball, Saturday morning for the regulars turns into one  big, messy, happy kaffeeklatch. I volunteer to bring donuts once a month and they let me hand out my promotional tsotchkes to small-dog owners. Of which there are virtually none, I've discovered. Few people want their Yorkie or Pomeranian wandering around a beach full of excited Labradors, Rottweilers and giant mutts of every description. That's okay; I really like the people and I'm surrounded by dogs. How bad can that be?

A well-kept secret: Ninety-nine point nine percent of dog owners sing to their dogs. Not just humming, but a special song; one that dare not be shared with any other dog. For those with two, three or five dogs, each one requires it's own unique tune. When one of our beloveds pass on to the Big Dog Park in the Sky, the song is retired. And, why is this such a deep, dark secret? Because we'd rather eat Alpo than let anyone see us so, so... unabashedly crazy in love with our audience.

Thus, a steady stream of hotel guests can start to tax the Little Pup Lodge repertoire. With almost 4,000 songs in my iTunes, it's not like there's  a shortage of material for inspiration. Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way. It's not like I can click on Britney Spears' "Piece of Me," or  my own middle-aged anthem, "Teenagers," by My Chemical Romance. Like all great works of art, each doggie's song must be coaxed, drawn out from the depths of one's soul. The only true inspiration can be the recipient himself or herself. You got to gaze into those liquid orbs and… Eureka! The tune is conjured.

This subject is particularly relevant because of my latest guest, Zoe. A beautiful and incredibly sweet mini-Aussie, she requires a song each morning upon awakening. I know this because Zoe's mom wrote this on the intake form. Well, she didn't actually say it was required, she just said that's what she did. Which, in my book, makes it a mandate.

Zoe, feeling that Christmas spirit.

Little dogs usually don't much care for strangers reaching down to pet them. While there are plenty that do, plenty more pipsqueaks see the equivalent of a Goodyear blimp doing a nosedive in their direction. So imagine my hotel guests' consternation when they see what appears to be a doulbe-headed blimp falling out of the sky.  This guy at the beach has been wandering around for the last couple of years with what started out to be an infant but has since aged into a toddler sitting on his shoulders. He's made it his mission to introduce his offspring to every dog on the beach–without asking their owners' permission first. 

Mr. Nitwit  jauntily trots up to some unsuspecting dog, then quickly tips at the waist so the child can come face-to-startled face. When he sees my tiny charges, Proud Daddy drops to one knee so the shoulder-straddling youngster can reach over and shove his chubby little fingers into the nearest muzzle. 

"That's not a good idea," I've warned him while jerking a set or two of snapping teeth from their nubile target.

His response?  "I want my child to learn that he doesn't have to be afraid of dogs." 

Many years from now that poor kid will  be either a) on a shrink's couch or b) on death row. And I think we know who's fault that will be.

Though not a parent, I do like to keep track of the child-raising techniques currently in vogue. The past decade or so has emphasized the importance of spending "Quality Time" with a kid. If a parent has spawned two or more kids, each one gets his or her own QT. Do something special, the experts suggest. My dad, a former Air Force pilot, took me  up flying in a glider one day many years ago. Our quality time was spent with me heaving my guts up. 

I now understand a parent's angst as they wonder if their little one is getting all the attention he or she needs. The hotel guests have been a source of stress for my beloved dog Oliver. I know the symptoms–barking more, pacing and scratching at non-existent fleas. Clearly, he needs more mommy-and-me time. One of the solutions has been to get up earlier and just hang out on the couch with him. The hotel guests don't seem to appreciate being tickled awake at 4:30am, so they snooze on as Oliver lies belly up, waiting for me to ruffle his fur.

Little Pup Lodge has a house full of boys tonight. Besides Oliver and Archie, Kermit and Mortimer have checked in for the week. Time for a stag party! For titillation, a widescreen TV showing an endless loop of cats and squirrels dashing about. A few rawhide bones and homemade dog biscuits scattered about for treats and a little chicken broth straight up with a water back. Let the fun begin!

 Mortimer modeling this year's hot trend - Brillo pads!

Besides my paying guests, I always save room for at least one foster dog.  This last couple of months it has been Archie, a six-pound Chihuahua-something. He was saved from the needle by Animal Shelter Relief, a group that rescues dogs from various county shelters, dogs on Death Row because of overcrowding.

Archie was one of seven lucky dogs  pulled from the Hollister Animal Shelter that warm autumn day. Thirty-five others were euthanized the following morning. Kristina, the group's co-founder,  drove to Hollister to choose who could go and who would stay. I asked her how she decided which ones would be saved.   She said she just took her best guess  at who needed us most,  even though they all did.  Then she cried all the way back to Santa Cruz.

And people wonder why I get a little militant about getting dogs and cats spayed and neutered.

Anyway, there's a reason we call Archie "Big" Archie. To put it delicately, part of Archie's anatomy is way out of proportion with the rest of him. My beach-friend Sandy calls him Tommy Lee. But Archie is so much more than the sum of his parts. He's funny, personable, and affectionate–with fresher breath and a steady job, he'd make a perfect husband.

Archie rockin' his Santa parka.

Things could be much worse. The dogs and I hit the beach this afternoon and watched as other visitors strolled barefoot in the surf. Considering that the day after tomorrow will be the first of December, who could complain? My guest Sophie would have preferred  to be elsewhere, I think. The beach reminds her of her mom, with whom I get together every Sunday morning so our dogs can cavort while we visit. Irene will be out of town for almost two weeks, so Sophie kept glancing behind her, wondering where Mom was. This was one of the hundreds of times I wished I could be Dr. Doolittle. I would give anything to be able to reassure Sophie, to let her know that Irene will be back soon and she can take this time to let herself be spoiled.

I would tell Sophie about the time I went to Sonoma Mission Inn & Spa, which was as luxurious and expensive as it sounds. I wandered around the grounds in a thick, fluffy robe, treated myself to a pedicure and, in a moment of extreme decadence, watched Pam and Tommy Lee's sex tape on Pay Per View. (I'm really not a pervert, but I had to see what everyone was talking about.) Oprah calls times like this "me-time." Then I'd urge Sophie to get in touch with her needs, for a change. Want to grab an extra slice of weenie? Throw herself on her back and roll in the grass? Sniff dead seal carcasses on the beach? You go, girl!

What do dogs bark at? Ninety percent of the time I have no idea. Around here, the Pied  Piper of the moment starts and the rest of the hotel guests  happily follow suit, yipping and yapping at nothing in particular. No one is walking by, no cars driving by and as far as I can tell,  no intruders are lurking on the horizon. 

Besides the obvious reasons dog bark–greeting, warnings, loneliness–there might be another reason: because they can.  They really have nothing to say, but it passes the time. Sort of like us and Tweeting.

There are a few stumbling blocks to attempting yoga here at the Lodge. The candles are lit, the New Age music hums in the background. All is serene except a handful of small, yappy dogs. Small, yappy dogs that are convinced I have come up with a new game for them. They tug at the yoga mat, prop themselves against my Lotus-twisted thighs and collapse belly up two inches away from my ground-level nose. My favorite pose, Downward-Facing Dog, perfectly mimics our friends'  paws-down, butt-up gesture that signals “let’s play!”

I do not want to play, I tell the guests. I want to do twenty minutes of something I really don't want to do. Yoga is  slow, methodical and focused, everything I am not. It keeps company with all the other things I don't want to do; teeth cleaning and colonoscopies, to name a couple, that must be done if we don't want our twilight years spent hunched, toothless and attached to  a colostomy bag. The guests ignore me when I explain this, too busy chasing each other around and under my Bridge pose. 

Half the time, the guests win out. I give up and tell them it's their fault if I need Boy Scouts to help me across streets  by this time next year.  They ignore this, too, since I'm now laughing and rolling around with them. This is what I call Doga, an exercise regimen that builds the heart and happiness muscles. I like it way better than all the Warrior poses in the world.

Like the rest of the low-brows in this country, I couldn't get enough of the Octomom story. I experienced the five stages of  emotion that follow inhaling a  juicy tabloid story like this:  Amazement  to hear that something other than a guppy could have eight babies at once.  Disgust upon hearing Nadya Suleman had another six kids stashed away.  Anger that she hit the government coffers (that would be my tax dollars), to keep her mini-army in diapers and cases of Gerber's. Depression that this drama would be with us for awhile. Acceptance that I was secretly glad of that. 

At feeding time, when I line up four or five bowls, I pretend to be Octomom. There's nobody watching but the guests, and they're too distracted whirling in circles and bouncing off the walls to pay me much notice.  I imagine the guests are a bunch of screaming children and I, Nadya, find  a  Zen-like peace in the simple task of filling the dishes. It bonds me to them, reminds me how much I love what I am doing. Though trying at times, my little charges count on me for their meals. And, like clockwork, I deliver.

Dogs have been bred over the centuries to work for us, in one way or another. Retrievers and terriers  like to hunt. The Akitas and their bouncer-cousins the Dobermans, Rottweilers, etc. are driven to guard and protect. Livestock owners needed their border collies and such to round up herds.

So where do  Pomeranians and Bichons fit in? Your three-pound Yorkie? Try as I might, I can't picture them keeping the sheep safe or helping out at the annual fox hunt. Obviously, there's another category; dogs as useful and attractive accessories. As I write this, it is 39 degrees outside (I know that's nothing to people in the Midwest, but here in California that might as well be 20 below zero. We're sensitive.) But, I'm warm as toast with Oliver pressing against me on one side of the sofa and hotel guest Lilli on the other. Oliver also doubles as an armrest, at least when he doesn't flip over for the belly tickle.

With sometimes as many as four dogs sharing the bed with me at night, the heating arrangements are almost endless. One crawls under the covers to snuggle around my feet. Another warms my back and the fabulous Oliver lets me spoon with him as we sleep,  just like some old married couple. Oh please. Like you don't have your own weird and socially unacceptable habits with your furry friend. I fully understand that this, combined with leaving my stilettos behind for ugly, comfortable shoes dooms me to spinsterdom (divorceé-dom?) for the rest of my life. I just can't see some guy coming between me and Oliver. Literally.

Anybody seen this movie? Made by Nickelodean (which tells you what age it aims to entertain), Hotel for Dogs had me at woof-woof (hello). The story of two foster kids and their friends who restore an abandoned hotel for the city's strays and homeless dogs, it was short on depth, but long on sentiment. In other words, I sobbed  like a baby. 

As a former criminal defense investigator, I worked knee-deep around some of society's most depraved acts–rape, torture, murder–you name it. In eight years, I didn't shed a tear for anyone's situation, no matter how bad the pain and damage. Yet, I choke up when I see missing-dog posters. The thought of a dog, any dog, suffering, rips me up at my core. I want capital punishment for animal abusers. Sometimes I think I could kill them myself, but that would mean I'd have to come out of retirement and hire myself to assist in my defense. Seriously, though, I believed I'm blessed to have this connection with animals, particularly dogs. It is why I changed careers from a private eye to running, well, a hotel for dogs.