Little Pup Lodge

When that  idea that was Little Pup Lodge began to percolate , it was accompanied by a rather idyllic view of how I would entertain my many doggy guests. We would hang out on the sofa and cuddle. We would hike or walk various beaches, trails and dog parks. We'd all jump in the Yapmobile (as I call our transportation) and drive around, just 'cuz. And sure enough, that's exactly what it's like–some of the time.

Like all fantasies,  my Little Pup Lodge vision had no room for the unpleasant, repetitious  and sometimes disgusting duties that took up the rest of the day. The daily poop scoop, the endless dabbing and treating of pee-stained carpets, the vacuuming (every other day), the floor-mopping (every day). And, since first impressions are most important, there is the all-too-frequent dusting, washing, straightening and remodeling of the Lodge. To put it nicely, my approach to housework has always been somewhat, well, casual. I hail from the school of, "It's just going to get dirty again, so why bother?" Now, I bother. I bother all the time.

Let's re-visit my tiniest-in-the-world Chihuahua fosters, Sinbad and Jupiter. The more I study them, I realize that they may not be from outer space, but are merely a collage of spare genes from the fauna universe. Like Sinbad, for example, whose arched back gives him a distinctly prawn-like posture. Then again, some genes might have been skipped, like the one that allows them to be house-trained.

Jupiter

In an article I wrote to dispel the myths of little dogs, I quoted a behaviorist who said they could be housebroken, it's just harder. I wondered if he ever tried to train a three-pound Chihuahua. It's not harder. It's impossible. The idea is you're supposed to catch your puppy in the act and whisk him outdoors to do his business, offering effusive praise.

One cannot catch a Chihuahua in the act. As you move towards him, he'll skitter away like a rabbit. By the time you've caught up, his little brain will have forgotten what he was doing before he was so rudely interrupted.

Sinbad

According to that irrefutable source Wikipedia, no one really knows where the Chihuahua breed came from. Maybe it was Egypt because remarkably similar images have been carved on excavated ruins. Maybe it was Japan because they're really into shrinking normal-sized stuff into weirdly tiny dimensions.  Like bonsai trees, for example. Though unlikely, Chihuahuas  may have even originated in the Mexican state they were named for.

I have an alternate theory. Like crop circles and UFO's, Chihuahuas came from outer space. Consider the triangular head, bulging eyes and honestly, a size that makes absolutely no sense for planet Earth. For example, Jupiter and Sinbad. These two purebred Chihuahuas were rescued from the Hollister shelter, saved from scheduled euthanasia. Weighing in at around three pounds each, each would easily fetch upwards of $1,000 from  well-heeled Manhattanites.

Jupiter  from outer space.

These little guys are adorable, but I'd sure like to throttle whoever keeps breeding Chihuahuas until they're smaller than field mice. Sinbad and Jupiter are unbelievably fragile, their leg bones no thicker than drinking straws. And small? You could circle their necks with a thumb and forefinger. If I step on Oliver's foot, he yelps. I step on one of these guys and it's probably a trip to the vet with a broken bone or two. Therefore, I walk mindfully around them, shuffling my feet like a monk walking a labyrinth.

As a defense investigator, I often worked with gang members. It didn't matter whether they claimed  Norteno or Sureno, City Hall Watson or Loco Park, everyone needed a good defense when they had to  dance with  Lady Justice. Those higher up in the gang hierarchy took their role seriously, educating themselves as studiously as any law student preparing for the Bar. Sun Tzu's  Art of War was required reading for all aspiring top dogs. In fact, this text on military strategy is so central to the gangbanger self-improvement program that it is banned in most jails and prisons.

Perhaps it is time for the warring gangs to study the art of happiness. Not necessarily the Dalai Lama's book, The Art of Happiness but, you know, the art itself. And how better than to watch dogs at play? Make me a prison warden and all incarcerated gangsters--no, make that all the incarcerated--would be required to watch doggie videos for at least an hour a day.

The prisoners would discover how much easier it is to play than to fight, to live in the moment rather than nurse revenge for generation after generation, to work together as a pack. Unfortunately, dogs will also abandon or kill the weaker members of their pack, but I'd censor that part of the video. Gangsters already have that lesson wired, anyways.

Give me a month and I'd have them all holding hands and singing Kumbaya.

Ah, the exclamation point, the original emoticon. Once banished to the basement of children's books, comic strips and advertisements, the perky little punctuation mark has found new life in cyberspace.

In jobs past when I actually made money writing, I would have sacrificed my whole KWERTY keyboard before allowing such an amateurish, silly symbol to sully my work (alliteratively speaking, of course).  But nowadays my emails are peppered with exclamation points.  I have discovered and harnessed its raw power to convey a friendly, cheerful nature that I sometimes don't exactly possess.

As volunteer coordinator for two non-profit organizations, I am now forever indebted to whomever invented the exclamation point. It is so much easier to cheer lead my teams on to victory, to keep morale up, to let all those wonderful people know how important they are. And believe me, they are. Animal-loving volunteers are passionate about what they do and don't much care how time-consuming or unpleasant the tasks are.

So volunteers of the world, I'm glad you're here!!

Wesley checked out today and into his new forever home. Some real nice folks had their eye on the little three-legged foster since he still had the fourth. They would come each week to the adoption fair, look at him as we decided whether to amputate or not. A couple of us felt Wesley could get along fine on his gimpy leg. Others in our rescue group sided with the vet, who believed Wesley would suffer chronic pain with such a damaged limb.

Three-legged Wesley -- just less of him to love.

He lived at Little Pup Lodge  less than two weeks before he was swept away to his forever family.

Jay-Jay the Foster Dog had everything going for him; handsome, young, friendly, loved children, housebroken, playful--the little Pomeranian-Schipperke was what we'd call an easy adoption. This has not always been the case. In fact, it's rarely the case. More often, the little guys and gals remain guests for an extended period of time. Duke, eyes bulging in terror, looked like Marty Feldman when he first showed up. He stayed almost a year before someone saw past his fear and into his heart. I knew Duke (now known as Harvey) had found a wonderful home, but my heart broke when I thought of him in his new and unfamiliar surroundings, scared and confused all over again. Of course, he now adores his new mom and home.  I've never seen him look happier.

The couple made the two-hour commute from  Vallejo to meet Jay-Jay.  They showered him with hugs and  kisses. Jay-Jay, knowing full well how to pimp himself, leaped exuberantly into their arms. I do believe it was love at first sight for Wes and Annette.

Jay-Jay with his new family.

Archie the Foster Dog has a new home.

A woman spotted him on Petfinders and asked to meet him. She lived about an hour south of us, so I agreed to meet her halfway.  As we munched deep-fried artichoke hearts in Moss Landing, she cooed and cuddled with Archie.  Archie, in turn, stared hungrily at every morsel of food as it traveled from plate to mouth. No fool, Paddy, she fed the always-ravenous foster dog  little strips of fat-soaked crust. Which, of course, made Paddy his new BFF. 

Paddy had many good things going for her, as far as I was concerned. She's mature, has a responsible job and, most importantly, lives in Carmel. For those not familiar with this little town on the Central coast, its socio-economic strata ranges from the very, very well-off to the obscenely wealthy. Clint Eastwood was one its former mayors, if that says anything. 

And, besides her willingness to indulge Archie's endless attempts to score more treats, Paddy also had something else that will brighten his future–three other Chihuahuas, all female. In other words, Archie will now roll with with his own harem. Although I sent along his favorite stuffed toy, Archie may no longer need Peggi the Poodle for his daily uh, release. Except, something tells me he'll stick with her; like many males, he really prefers fantasy over the real thing.

So, I waved goodbye to my little companion of three months as Paddy drove away with Archie. I would like to say I crumpled into a sobbing heap, but I didn't. I loved the little monster, but there's always a few more--perhaps a million or so more--who need the space.

 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?

Every Christmas Eve, my brother sets his alarm to go off right before midnight. He wakes up to serve special food for all his animals and then returns to bed. He has done this as long as I can remember and has never skipped a year.

Jim learned to do this when we lived in France as children.The French believe that  since  the baby Jesus' only companions around the manger that night were animals, God gave them the ability to speak at midnight Christmas Eve. Those lucky enough to be awake and who also believed hard enough would hear them. Think of it as  the Gallic equivalent of  leaving out cookies and milk  for Santa.

Jim's wife  Laurie joined him in this yearly tradition even before they were married. Through twenty  years of wedded bliss their menagerie has expanded and contracted as puppies joined the family and elderly cats passed on.

"So, do they ever talk?" I asked Laurie one Christmas.

"Oh, yeah," she replied. "Just not in English."

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.