Easter's over. Even Passover is over, with its eight long days of Matza eating (indigestible but delicious with butter and a dash of salt; sad confession: I'm still eating it, finishing the last crunchy box with a chaser of fiber). Spring has sprung undeniably and is proceeding posthaste into torrid summer.
Yet, like my protracted Matza-eating, the so-called Arab Spring continues. Sugar and I tune in the news (she loves voices on TV as I leave it on for her when I'm out, but please don't let her in on the secret) and we see yet ANOTHER war, another billionaire tin-pot potentate gunning down his own people. It used to be Tunisia, then Egypt, Bahrain, Yemen, Libya and now Syria. Sugar can't keep track anymore; it's both puzzling and dizzying. I say, "Sugar, pay attention if you want to be an educated pup, a canine conversant with current events." She lies down and yawns. "What's the woman yammering about now?" is the message I'm strongly inferring from her posture.
But I happen to be alone at home at the news hour, with no one but Sugar with whom to discuss things. This puts me at something of an intellectual disadvantage -- or, one could take the opposite point of view, the cheap one, and point out that it puts me at a huge advantage. Sugar can speak, but she needs me to interpret her remarks into English. I'm actually teaching her to speak. I say, "Sugar, speak!" She gazes at me quizzically at first, but then pipes up vociferously. "Aarf! Ruff! Ruff, ruff, growl...RUFF." "OK, that's enough," I tell her. OK is our word to knock it off. Anything I want knocked off. But we NEVER want people knocked off.
So we watch the poor Syrian men, marching defenseless to their random deaths by Syrian and Iranian snipers and even tanks, and we wonder: Why are we only helping Libyan citizens? Their thugocracy isn't nearly as vicious as the Syrian one. And I remark, "Sugar, you understand all this better than most of U.S. officialdom. You, Sugar, should be Secretary of State."
Sugar's no dope, though. She whines and puts her paws over her eyes. I don't get it. "What's wrong, Sugar?" I demand. "You Poodles are the geniuses of the canine world. You think you can't do better than the dummies of the human world?"
Sugar moans. Oh, I see; I hadn't thought of that before. It's not that Sugar doesn't know she's smart. She knows she can negotiate her way out of any situation in our household. It's not her brains holding her back. It's cultural differences. "Don't say that, Sugar!" I protest. "We're all equal. Why, PETA wants to pass a law making fish life akin to human life. Believe me, you will find your supporters. Don't you have the fire in the belly to be truly groundbreaking?"
Sugar squirms and crawls under the ottoman. A clue! Ottoman! Oh, now I perceive the problem. Vapid me. The trouble spots of the world, the places where Sugar would be called upon to intervene, are all in Muslim countries. Here Sugar interrupts me with a yelp. It had slipped my mind that according to Islam, dogs are considered unclean (but Poodles?) and are not kept as pets. This is true, though it doesn't sound PC to say so. But let's put the shoe on the other foot: doesn't that make Islam Doggist? Sugar -- oh and she's a white Jewish Poodle to boot -- would get kicked out (literally) by any Muslim country the State Department might send her to. And forget about China, where she COULD serve, but probably as an entree.
Well, this is a loss to the world. Because while our Administration with all its geniuses cannot seem to find a way to articulate a coherent policy, much less enact it; and while civilians are being killed in their thousands in these far-flung places; and practicing Christians are being decimated in both Muslim countries and China, Hubby and I haven't had one quarrel since Sugar's been on the scene here on Lawrence Ave.
We Americans seem to have lost the ability to think outside the box, and certainly the ability to speak up. By the way, where have all the anti-war protesters gone? The Cindy Sheehans and Michael Moores. Now that we're in three wars instead of only two, it's OK? Was it the roundness of the number of wars they objected to? But never mind them. As this is an activist puppy blog, I hereby announce Sugar's ability (if not willingness) to replace Hillary Clinton. Naturally she would need me as her spokesperson, but I assure you I would never mis-translate her. I urge you to get up off your haunches, humans and canines alike, and write to your nearest public official, or the Department of State, and demand the immediate appointment of Sugar the Toy Poodle as our muzzle to the rest of the world. She couldn't do any worse, could she?
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
In the Nature of All Living Things
To live, and to die.
My aged father-in-law passed away yesterday. Last year, my beloved old father succumbed. In their last hours they waged a mighty struggle against the angel of death. One wonders about that terrible and wonderful will to live, at all costs. The hopeless fight at the end, in view of the other side. We shudder to contemplate it.
One hopes to die in one's sleep, or of a quick and mortal heart attack. Even a fast-moving bus! But maybe that final struggle is the ultimate experience of life. It's the very end, the portal out as birth was the portal in. I don't want to wax too philosophic in a blog about a puppy, but in thinking about life and death, I also begin to think about Sugar's life and eventual death. A dog can live to be twelve, or fourteen, or even sometimes twenty, though I wouldn't want to be that dog.
But Sugar's just so young, happy and blissfully unaware of death. Her very existence in the state of nature and extremely involved in the world of human affairs (at least mine), lend her an air of enchantment. She straddles worlds, participates in our life, has no worries about daily survival and no fears that there will ever be an end to the filling of her food bowl. A dog's life -- a least a toy Poodle's. How divine.
And when the grim reaper comes for Sugar, she will accept it with composure, just as she accepts all of life with composure (except for squirrels and the mailman). She'll be old. She'll lie down and sigh. There will be no question of acceptance. It will just be. She will let it be.
But how will I feel? Only humans agonize over the unavoidable and the inevitable. Because we have the awareness to cherish life, not just live it. It's the greatest gift. God said, "Choose life!" And we try, we try to the very last spasm of breath.
I believe strongly in an afterlife. I know there are dear ones waiting for me. The ancient Egyptians used to embalm their dogs and cats and take them along to the next world. I think that would be asking a lot of a modern dog. I shall not ask that of Sugar, should she outlive me. But honestly, I'm growing to love her at an alarming rate and don't know how I will make do without her on the other side. Not that she does anything for me besides chew my slippers and get sick on the dining room carpet. Nevertheless, we begin to bond strongly with our pets as we do with our human loved ones. A dog in one's life, I'm learning, is an added bonus of life, a rock-hard facet that glitters with always-requited love.
My aged father-in-law passed away yesterday. Last year, my beloved old father succumbed. In their last hours they waged a mighty struggle against the angel of death. One wonders about that terrible and wonderful will to live, at all costs. The hopeless fight at the end, in view of the other side. We shudder to contemplate it.
One hopes to die in one's sleep, or of a quick and mortal heart attack. Even a fast-moving bus! But maybe that final struggle is the ultimate experience of life. It's the very end, the portal out as birth was the portal in. I don't want to wax too philosophic in a blog about a puppy, but in thinking about life and death, I also begin to think about Sugar's life and eventual death. A dog can live to be twelve, or fourteen, or even sometimes twenty, though I wouldn't want to be that dog.
But Sugar's just so young, happy and blissfully unaware of death. Her very existence in the state of nature and extremely involved in the world of human affairs (at least mine), lend her an air of enchantment. She straddles worlds, participates in our life, has no worries about daily survival and no fears that there will ever be an end to the filling of her food bowl. A dog's life -- a least a toy Poodle's. How divine.
And when the grim reaper comes for Sugar, she will accept it with composure, just as she accepts all of life with composure (except for squirrels and the mailman). She'll be old. She'll lie down and sigh. There will be no question of acceptance. It will just be. She will let it be.
But how will I feel? Only humans agonize over the unavoidable and the inevitable. Because we have the awareness to cherish life, not just live it. It's the greatest gift. God said, "Choose life!" And we try, we try to the very last spasm of breath.
I believe strongly in an afterlife. I know there are dear ones waiting for me. The ancient Egyptians used to embalm their dogs and cats and take them along to the next world. I think that would be asking a lot of a modern dog. I shall not ask that of Sugar, should she outlive me. But honestly, I'm growing to love her at an alarming rate and don't know how I will make do without her on the other side. Not that she does anything for me besides chew my slippers and get sick on the dining room carpet. Nevertheless, we begin to bond strongly with our pets as we do with our human loved ones. A dog in one's life, I'm learning, is an added bonus of life, a rock-hard facet that glitters with always-requited love.
Friday, April 15, 2011
A Daffodil Blooms Outside the French Door
It must be the season of renewal. It must be Passover and Easter time. It's Sugar's first springtime. And in a way, that makes it mine. For truly, when a young thing under one's tutelage experiences a first spring, it must also be one's own rebirth.
Now Sugar, of course, doesn't know it's springtime. She really doesn't know much at all. She knows when she's hungry, she knows when she's tired. She knows when there's a treat in the offing. She likes a belly rub. She's a pup, an ignorant animal. She can't read poetry about the seasons. She can't say, "Halleluyah, it's raining sunshine today!" Yet, there's something different about her now.
We spend more time out of doors. She gets lost in the green shoots of new pachysandra, sniffing for low life forms, such as ants (tasty, squirmy, crunchy). When we sit on the front steps and the little girl in a pink sweater from up the block trips past, Sugar barks ferociously. When two fat men in track suits and hoods scurry along the sidewalk, she's mute. Some watch dog.
But for me, there's springtime in all of Sugar's antics because it's our first green season together, as a couple, Canine and Human. I teach her, she resists. (O children o' mine, weren't you the same?) I open her mouth and inspect her teeth and gums (all young, pink, white, healthy) and she lets me, because she knows that despite her brattiness, I will always look after her. So sometimes, just to make a point, I pry open her black lips and inspect inside. She rolls her eyes backward, as if to say, "This is the price I must pay for being taken care of by the one Human who on occasion feeds me pate de foie gras and thinks I'm really the cat's pyjamas. Small price to pay."
A lucky Canine. A happy Human. A lovely season. The season of our redemption. God bless such a beautiful world as ours.
Now Sugar, of course, doesn't know it's springtime. She really doesn't know much at all. She knows when she's hungry, she knows when she's tired. She knows when there's a treat in the offing. She likes a belly rub. She's a pup, an ignorant animal. She can't read poetry about the seasons. She can't say, "Halleluyah, it's raining sunshine today!" Yet, there's something different about her now.
We spend more time out of doors. She gets lost in the green shoots of new pachysandra, sniffing for low life forms, such as ants (tasty, squirmy, crunchy). When we sit on the front steps and the little girl in a pink sweater from up the block trips past, Sugar barks ferociously. When two fat men in track suits and hoods scurry along the sidewalk, she's mute. Some watch dog.
But for me, there's springtime in all of Sugar's antics because it's our first green season together, as a couple, Canine and Human. I teach her, she resists. (O children o' mine, weren't you the same?) I open her mouth and inspect her teeth and gums (all young, pink, white, healthy) and she lets me, because she knows that despite her brattiness, I will always look after her. So sometimes, just to make a point, I pry open her black lips and inspect inside. She rolls her eyes backward, as if to say, "This is the price I must pay for being taken care of by the one Human who on occasion feeds me pate de foie gras and thinks I'm really the cat's pyjamas. Small price to pay."
A lucky Canine. A happy Human. A lovely season. The season of our redemption. God bless such a beautiful world as ours.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Sweet Spot
When you hit it, you know it.
And so it is between puppy and human. That place of equilibrium, the point at which we intuitively understand that we accept one another and abandon qualms about living together forever. Much like a good marriage, the nagging, secret, interior questioning is pacified by a soft, durable reality. This relationship works, and yet it will require constant cultivation to keep it so, as any good relationship does.
The puppy gazes at you with her chocolate eyes in a way that suggests she knows exactly what you are talking about. You've both arrived at the sweet spot. We can count them up on one or two hands, the sweet spots we've experienced in life. A milestone, a lovely affirmation that the natural world is good, and that the Eternal One above shines down and smiles at you sometimes. I would crack open a bottle of pink champagne and toast Sugar, but I'd have to drink it alone. So I'll just have a glass of that nice Chalk Hill Chardonnay I opened last night, and give Sugar a lick of pate de foie gras off my finger. And we'll say a blessing that we've found each other and are bound together in friendship, till death do us part.
And so it is between puppy and human. That place of equilibrium, the point at which we intuitively understand that we accept one another and abandon qualms about living together forever. Much like a good marriage, the nagging, secret, interior questioning is pacified by a soft, durable reality. This relationship works, and yet it will require constant cultivation to keep it so, as any good relationship does.
The puppy gazes at you with her chocolate eyes in a way that suggests she knows exactly what you are talking about. You've both arrived at the sweet spot. We can count them up on one or two hands, the sweet spots we've experienced in life. A milestone, a lovely affirmation that the natural world is good, and that the Eternal One above shines down and smiles at you sometimes. I would crack open a bottle of pink champagne and toast Sugar, but I'd have to drink it alone. So I'll just have a glass of that nice Chalk Hill Chardonnay I opened last night, and give Sugar a lick of pate de foie gras off my finger. And we'll say a blessing that we've found each other and are bound together in friendship, till death do us part.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
A Quickie
But this is not about sex. It's about love. Dog on Master, Master on Dog, love.
I've admitted previously that I'm not a born Animalist, as many are. There are people who prefer animals to other people and feel more comfortable in the company of the little beasts than the big ones (Humans). I'm not one of those people. Come to think of it, I fit into neither category; as a writer, I tend to be a hermit first and foremost. Though I'd rather be with my husband, kids and grandchildren than be alone -- most of the time. But to be a Poodle owner, you need to know that Poodles, above and beyond every other breed, need, insist on, live for the intimate presence of their Human. I actually knew this before acquiring Sugar, but frankly, I was more focused on her brains and appearance and small size (my needs) rather than her inbred urge to be constantly by my side -- at least within smelling distance, if not actually on the lap.
So I've learned a great deal during the past three months of Sugar's presence in my face, er, household. Here's the long and short of it: I was timid with her, afraid I wouldn't REALLY love her, afraid that therefore she wouldn't truly love me. If I was too strict and enforced rules, I seemed to be an ogre. She only weighs five pounds, after all. So Sugar, brainy canine, pounced on my insecurity and grew into a spoiled brat. All documented in a previous post. The trained professional was summoned who confirmed the diagnosis: Sugar=bratty and out of control puppy. Time for tough love. Well, you know how we Humans are. If we get a diagnosis from a specialist, we believe it and proceed to implement the necessary remedy. Which I did, though I won't put you through the specifics of treats withheld and why. Suffice it to say that this smart puppy needed, for her own good, to be TAUGHT manners. And perhaps the cliche holds: believe me, this hurts me more than it hurts you. Not totally sure about that. Sugar doesn't cotton to discipline. But she's coming round.
What's my point? I think it's this. There are others in our household who find Sugar so adorable, which is undeniably and objectively true, that they won't help in disciplining her. Yet it's said that consistency is vital. I don't want to be the only bad guy. But it's me or nobody. With expert diagnosis in hand, I went for it. It had to be me, or Sugar would become a Paris Hilton-type dog. (I refer to both Human and animal in the comparison.) This could not happen, or our relationship would not last. Don't forget, soft-hearted, starry-eyed reader, that pets, unlike children, can be got rid of. We couldn't let it come to that or even approach it. God forbid!
So I went to work and I have a good progress report for you. Though we're not perfect yet in the behavior department, we've learned a great deal. Sugar has learned that I'm the boss of her. Yes, I repeat for my own ears even, I'm the boss of Sugar. Sugar is learning to like that, I think. Maybe not, but tough. She can't talk to tell her point of view anyway, but she kisses me even more than before (could be Stockholm Syndrome, who knows?). And I? Well, what can I say? I'm tough, I'm thorough, I'm like the FBI. I feel myself to be in charge. Aware of her slapdash efforts to please me (I can intuit the drowsy question in her mind when she's napping on her bed and I say, "Come, Sugar," and she thinks, "What the hell does she want from me now?"), and how bothersome it must be for her, my heart emits a rush of compassion. But just for a moment. Then I pounce on the lead attached to her collar and glower, hoping not to have to repeat myself. Tough love.
Now that I know what I'm doing I love her more. And she loves me more. Sometimes the growth of lasting love is hard. Ask your children, ask your parents. You will understand what I mean. And this post didn't turn out to be a quickie as advertized. But explaining the architecture of love is bound to be long-winded.
I've admitted previously that I'm not a born Animalist, as many are. There are people who prefer animals to other people and feel more comfortable in the company of the little beasts than the big ones (Humans). I'm not one of those people. Come to think of it, I fit into neither category; as a writer, I tend to be a hermit first and foremost. Though I'd rather be with my husband, kids and grandchildren than be alone -- most of the time. But to be a Poodle owner, you need to know that Poodles, above and beyond every other breed, need, insist on, live for the intimate presence of their Human. I actually knew this before acquiring Sugar, but frankly, I was more focused on her brains and appearance and small size (my needs) rather than her inbred urge to be constantly by my side -- at least within smelling distance, if not actually on the lap.
So I've learned a great deal during the past three months of Sugar's presence in my face, er, household. Here's the long and short of it: I was timid with her, afraid I wouldn't REALLY love her, afraid that therefore she wouldn't truly love me. If I was too strict and enforced rules, I seemed to be an ogre. She only weighs five pounds, after all. So Sugar, brainy canine, pounced on my insecurity and grew into a spoiled brat. All documented in a previous post. The trained professional was summoned who confirmed the diagnosis: Sugar=bratty and out of control puppy. Time for tough love. Well, you know how we Humans are. If we get a diagnosis from a specialist, we believe it and proceed to implement the necessary remedy. Which I did, though I won't put you through the specifics of treats withheld and why. Suffice it to say that this smart puppy needed, for her own good, to be TAUGHT manners. And perhaps the cliche holds: believe me, this hurts me more than it hurts you. Not totally sure about that. Sugar doesn't cotton to discipline. But she's coming round.
What's my point? I think it's this. There are others in our household who find Sugar so adorable, which is undeniably and objectively true, that they won't help in disciplining her. Yet it's said that consistency is vital. I don't want to be the only bad guy. But it's me or nobody. With expert diagnosis in hand, I went for it. It had to be me, or Sugar would become a Paris Hilton-type dog. (I refer to both Human and animal in the comparison.) This could not happen, or our relationship would not last. Don't forget, soft-hearted, starry-eyed reader, that pets, unlike children, can be got rid of. We couldn't let it come to that or even approach it. God forbid!
So I went to work and I have a good progress report for you. Though we're not perfect yet in the behavior department, we've learned a great deal. Sugar has learned that I'm the boss of her. Yes, I repeat for my own ears even, I'm the boss of Sugar. Sugar is learning to like that, I think. Maybe not, but tough. She can't talk to tell her point of view anyway, but she kisses me even more than before (could be Stockholm Syndrome, who knows?). And I? Well, what can I say? I'm tough, I'm thorough, I'm like the FBI. I feel myself to be in charge. Aware of her slapdash efforts to please me (I can intuit the drowsy question in her mind when she's napping on her bed and I say, "Come, Sugar," and she thinks, "What the hell does she want from me now?"), and how bothersome it must be for her, my heart emits a rush of compassion. But just for a moment. Then I pounce on the lead attached to her collar and glower, hoping not to have to repeat myself. Tough love.
Now that I know what I'm doing I love her more. And she loves me more. Sometimes the growth of lasting love is hard. Ask your children, ask your parents. You will understand what I mean. And this post didn't turn out to be a quickie as advertized. But explaining the architecture of love is bound to be long-winded.
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