Life with the old dog...what is the reward?

I often hear people say how rewarding it is to live with an old dog, but none seem to share specific examples as to why they find it rewarding. This was an article I wrote some time ago for "Life With Dogs" about the first, never to be forgotten Old One Eyed Pug aka Billy. Of course we now have Hughie, The Old One Eyed Blind Pug.

His birth name was Billy Baker, named after my kindergarten friend who had a buzz cut that reminded me of Billy’s soft, round head. But fate gave Billy Baker, the pug not the boy, a name change after one eyeball became wounded and had to be removed. It happened after a complete misunderstanding with a then very young chocolate lab, but the incident did not alter their loving relationship. To this day, Huck licks the little pug’s smooshed in face like a lollypop.

I like to think of his lost eyeball as the full moon watching over my little fellow and shining a light his way to keep him from running into walls. If I’m sitting on the porch with pug in lap, gazing on a full moon, I give him a squeeze and say, “There’s your eyeball, watching over us.”

We thought we were going to lose him a year ago when he appeared to have a mini stroke and lost coordination for a few days. He was off food, tail down, humped back, and we rushed him into the vet. Ex-rays showed deteriorating spinal disks and together with his bad heart, we figured our days together were closing in on us. But he rebounded.

Most of his teeth have been pulled but he still manages to eat like a running back, making one thing the same as in his youth- gas. Ah yes, the gas he doeth pass. Over the year, he sleeps more, and he is so deaf that he doesn’t know if someone is in the room. He goes into deep sleeps and if I try to gently shake him awake, he still lays snoring for minutes until he comes to life. His one remaining eyeball is nearly all fogged up in blindness making stairs or new territories a challenge.

He needs constant guidance now to get around the house. If we are in the kitchen, and I leave for the downstairs studio, I tap him and he knows to follow, but then he needs assistance on the stairs. If I can get him to settle on his fire side bed, he will sleep for most of the day. But it takes him longer to settle, and he often wanders around looking for me, or something that feels right. he often seems a bit delirious, like an old man wandering, looking for the reason why he got up in the first place.

His one sure way to let me know he needs me, or needs something, is to whimper. He whimpers if he needs to go up the stairs, or down. He whimpers if he wants to get off the chair, or if he needs to step the 3 inches over the porch thresh way to come in. He whimpers if I am five feet away but he’s unsure where I am.

Out in the garden, the old pug can still sniff around a few minutes before he starts to cry a bit- “Where are you?” he’s asking. “Do you know where I am? Because I’m not so sure where I am, come find me.”

He used to love spending hours in the garden. But now he’d rather be in my lap, my hand on his worn down spine, his little pug nose snoring in and out with an occasional twitch from his singular eyeball.

And there in lies the answer.

I still provide a shore for him, a respite in his delusion brought on by age. He gives me one more purpose in my day – to give him a safe place to be all that he can be even in his elderly limitations.

We fit together like salt and pepper. I have a nice warm lap that has been reformed over the years to fit his little curled up fawn body just perfectly.

The Moon....is Hughie's eyeball

I'm sure many of you witnessed the beautiful eclipse last night, The Blood Moon. But here at Apifera, I held Hughie the One Eyed Blind Pug up to the window and said,

"There it is, there is your eyeball."

It is something that many of you probably don't know-the story of The Giant One. While I have shared it here before, through the voice of the former One Eyed Pug, I will share it again in honor of the momentous occasion last night. So here it is, as told by our former pug, who lives on each full moon.



The Giant One
In which The One Eyed Pug I shares a secret of his breed, knowing the audience of this blog is open to the many mysteries of the universe, or at least is not judgmental.

As a young pup I knew my daily life was unique, as I could see much more like a fly. While I was often ridiculed by even the best of friends, I just got used to the stupid comments. People are much worse than the creatures with what they think are humorous pokes at my facial look. "Did you run into a wall?", they'd asked, in that baby talk voice they use on their own fledglings. I got so tired of it. At some point, I just couldn't stand it, and I took to passing gas, silently of course, if they told a joke about my face.

I lived just fine for many years with my over weight eyeballs, until one day, while living in the presence of the chocolate lab named after a pie, I was partaking in a good game of 'run around the tree really fast". As usual, I was slower, but since I am much smaller, was able to trip the big chocolate fellow up. This unfortunately caused him to fall, and I don't know if it was his toe, or a stick, or grass, that grazed my bald eyeball. But whatever it was, my eyeball fell ill, and did not improve. The Two Footers squeezed cool liquids and medicines into my aching orb, but one day later, my eyeball felt so heavy and so strange like it was swirling outside my head. When blood squirted out after one medicine was applied, the Two Footer rushed me into the Medicine Keeper in town.

They shot giant streams of light into my aching eyeball. I knew already what this meant. Our breed is forewarned even before we are born, in dreams and embryonic classes, on what life is often like with our bulging eyeballs. We know that there are many obstacles to our eyes. And we are raised to appreciate every day with out having something run into our eyeballs.

So by the tones of the Two Footer, and all the kisses I was getting, I knew my eyeball was moving onto the Great Place to live amongst stars and other magnificent orbs. This did not worry me. I knew my eyeball would be returning to where it originated, to The Giant One in the night sky. The Two Footers call it a moon, and they say it orchestrates tides of the ocean. The Giant One sends off little eyeballs to all the earthly mother pugs precisely at the time she gives birth.

We pugs don't bother to tell the Two Footers that our eyeballs are born from their moon, because we know most would scoff at it. But I am sharing it here with you, in case you live with a pug, so you can be more respectful of 'full moon' nights. We pugs call it "Giant One Calling" night. For once a month, on the full moon, all pugs instinctively gravitate to the garden, or window seat, and sit amongst the loving shinings of the moon.

And for those pugs who have lost an eye, or are blind, they turn their heads towards the sky, feeling the orbs hitting their heads, and in pride and comfort they know their eyeball is now with the Giant One. It will be nourished by starlight, and in time, it will return to another mother pug, and placed in a young pup to once again see earthly delights.

When a woman loves a Pug

In honor of The Old One Eyed Pug's birth week, I have written this in my Life After Pug state of mind and heart.

I was sitting in my bathroom the other morning...well, you know why I was sitting in there. And in walks Muddy, the giant tailed chocolate lab that really should have a crash helmet. He is such a sweet fellow and his routine is to come in and smash his tail around in the bathroom while I...well, you know.

But the other day, and each day since it seems, I can't help think of The Pug as I'm sitting in there. Because that was the Pug's job–to come into the bathroom each morning and wait for me to be...you know, finished.

So I was sitting there watching Muddy's giant tail, and it's a wonderful tail, it's a battleship, really–it can take out entire shelves and sustain no damage. But it made me think of The Old One Eyed Pug's little compact curly tail, and how much a Pug's tail is like a pig's. A pig expresses a lot in how it curls or uncurls his tail. The Pug did too, and when he uncurled it so it hung like a Lab's tail, it either meant he felt ill or was so relaxed he did not have the energy to recurl his tail. When he was that relaxed, even his one giant eyeball looked sleepy.

I miss the way he wagged his curled tail. Any Pug owner knows what I mean. It's this tiny curled masterpiece the way it moved.

The Pug died a couple weeks after my mother, last April. You know the story. I won't bring everyone down reliving it here. I often write that living is the important thing we have, versus looking backwards. But the state of Life After A Pug leaves me reminiscing a lot about his sqooshy face, his giant eyeball left behind after he lost the other one and enormous quantities of gas emanating from him while he slept unbothered.

Oh, the gas he passed. But I'd take a lap of it tonight to sit and hold him again, as his snores encouraged me to turn up the sound on the TV.

I have friends with pugs. And I have some online friends with pugs. I swoon over their pug photos. They understand that Pugness is a state of heart–One never gets 'over' Pugness. Never. There was one rather annoying "friend" on Facebook who really wasn't a friend [and is no longer a friend....you know how that goes down] and she had Pugs and after Billy died she kept posting pug photos on my Facebook wall, not weeks or months after, but days after. I didn't say anything as I assumed she meant well, but it was rather hurtful. She also told me to "get off the couch" just days after Billy died, meaning, "Go out and get another one, you know you want too." I didn't react to that either.

So, before I go further - a tip to all reading this. When someone is in Life After A Pug, do not haunt them with new Pugness! Let them wallow in their broken Pug state.If they seek more Pugness from your Pugness, then you may share Pug love with them.

I plan on having a Pug again. In fact I'd like two. But, I am committed to getting my dear mellow soul man, Huck, through his senior years. He is so sensitive and although he loved The Pug, I just feel I need to let him live his days out without a new gas maker in the house. The Dirt Farmer might just leave - he must have some limits to animal acquisitions, I must be wise. He's the best cook around among other things.

So, to my little Billy Baker, my One Eyed Pug, Pug, Oh Pug, I am thinking of you on your birth week. I miss you. I know exactly where your body lies under the lilacs, and I know exactly how I laid you to rest and which way your head faced. I can see you. My Pug.

Mothers, a pug and lilacs in the wind

This past weekend was so hot - Martyn gallantly tilled the veggie bed for me, but I only got the tomatoes in - I'm such a wuss in the heat.

But I was able to work in the shade and plant the three new roses in honor of my mother, each one has some of her ashes. She and my father loved roses and when I was growing up in Minnesota, they bravely planted them wherever we lived, which meant having to tip them into the compost and straw for winter survival.

I also placed some of her ashes with the pug who rests now under the lilacs. I like that I can go there and know his little pug body is just as I left it, I can remember it that way. Someone sent me some little prayer flags and I placed tokens n his grave. I think my mother might be bemused that she is placed in with an elderly one eyed pug but she loved him and used to sing "Where have you been Billy Boy, Billy Boy" to him.

Burial of ashes is for the living, I think. It helps us connect one more dot so we begin to reach a place of acceptance that a person we loved in body is now dust, and is physically gone. It is the beginning of our new relationship with that person.

My mom and I had a long standing game on Mother's Day about lilacs. In Minneapolis, there were lilacs everywhere, in parks, roadsides and neighbor's yards. I never had any lilac shrubs in all of the houses I lived in as an adult, so I would start plotting where I'd find my Mother Day lilacs - to steal- and give to her. She always said I'd get arrested some day, but I never did.

So now she has the graceful bows of the old lilacs here at Apifera, dark purple, light lilac, pink and white, all bending over her with the wind blowing wafts of scent around her memory. Looking north, one can see Old Matilda grazing, a mother of many. My mother's middle name was Matilda, something I didn't take lightly when the old donkey arrived here a couple of years ago.

I can hear my mother saying, "The old donkey has my name?" and laughing. She was raised on farm but I don't think naming your animals after loved ones was necessarily of fashion.

She is missed - as I know many mothers are today. But she is remembered for so many things by so many. When she died on April 4th, I did have moments where I thought I'd never be joyful again, I had never had a world without my mother, what could it possibly be like, I thought. It felt unsightly to me.

But here I am one of her two greatest legacies, and I am joyful about many things one month later. One is that I am independent and have an ability to inspire myself into new territories to imagine and grow and enjoy the gifts around me. One of those gifts is life itself, which she gave me.

The One Eyed Pug is gone

Over fourteen years ago, I placed a six week old, one pound Pug into a small basket and put him in my car. I'd bought him from a farm in Delano, Minnesota and on that cold winter day the first thing I did before I even brought him home was to drive to the hospital to show my mother - she was recovering from hip surgery.
I tucked him in well thinking the nurses might not let me into the room with a puppy, but one saw his huge eyeballs on his little face and they all came running in delight.

Today I laid his fourteen year old body in the same basket, and wrapped his red night blanket around him. I had driven him to the vet this morning to help him on his way. His time had come. But it still took strength to face the fact that I was driving him to his final breath. I know I did the right thing - his coughing was no longer helped by steroids, his back end was weaker each day from his compressed spine and he couldn't settle. I felt he had reached a point where sleep was his only form of comfort, but it was harder for him to settle into sleep. He could no longer make it outside on time, and had little eyesight and hearing left.

I kept believing he still had quality of life, since his favorite things had always been napping, snorting around for crumbs and sleeping on my lap. While he still was excited for breakfast, I knew I was keeping him around for selfish reasons at this point. He could have had a stroke or heart attack with the constant coughing and breathing issues.

But oh, he is missed already. To say the house is quieter is an understatement. Anyone who knows a pug understands - his snoring and pug sounds were a constant - as were the continual gas emissions. When he was gone, he let out a little bit of gas, and we did get a smile out of that.

I have always cremated my dogs, but I wanted to hold his body and bury him at Apifera. Maybe it was helpful after losing my mother and not being able to see her body in the end, to have this little pug to hold and cry over. I buried him under the lilacs in the front gardens and I'll scatter some of my mother's ashes there when I get them. My mother loved Billy and she also loved lilacs - each Mother's Day I had a ritual in Minneapolis of finding lilacs on park land and cutting some for my mother. It was a great game, risking getting caught to find the best lilacs for her - she used to joke that some day I'd get arrested over it. So it is fitting to lay Billy under the lilacs. As a child in Minnesota we often lived near lilac groves and I would sit under them and pretend I was in a vast empire of my own, cradled under the scent of their boughs, creating stories and future farms in my little head.

I don't know why death can come in groupings. It is the end of an era for me in so many ways.

When I brought Billy home today I let Huck and Muddy see him before I buried him. Huck licked Billy's face over and over, something he did every morning or night, usually when the pug was sitting on my lap. It was tender and sweet. But the dogs did not weep. They were at my feet with tails a wagging ready for games, food or companionship.

Billy's cushion in the stdio by the fire was covered in an old burlap seed bag. I took it and wrapped it around him in his grave. I placed a small figurine of a fox terrier that looked just like our old friend Louie Louie. I don't have to worry about him now. He is on his way to his eyeball - that is what I told him years ago,

"Someday, you will meet up with your old eyeball. Until then, your eyeball is safe up there in the full moon."

So every full moon, I'll be looking up at him.

Oh Pug! I loved you so!

98 human years

The Old One Eyed Pug has turned 98. That would be 14 in his years.

He continues to truck on, one eye ball reaching out for any light it can gather. He is quite blind now and his hind end is weakening. He suffers from confusion more and more, but I still see that he enjoys life so his journey is still not over, it's just a bit slower.

He still loves to steal tomatoes from the garden - although I have to go find him since he often gets a bit lost coming back to the house. He was one pound when I brought him home as a pup, lived with me and Louie Louie for all those years in Minneapolis, watched [he had two eyes then] me struggle through tough personal times and was always on my lap by nightfall, snuggled down to watch some television together. He is still on my lap every time I sit by the fire or watch a movie - he just needs a little help getting there.

Every step with the old pug

I told him just today,

“Look, I’m right here with you, every step of the way.”

We age together, the old dog and me, but he leads the way and shows me with grace how it is done.

Our time together is constricting now and each pose becomes reminiscent of an old man on a park bench, sitting, waiting for company to sit with him and share stories of youth.

Living with the elderly dog

This is my latest post for "Life with Dogs"...

I often hear people say how rewarding it is to live with an old dog, but none seem to share specific examples as to why they find it rewarding. As The Old One Eyed Pug nears fourteen, I’ve been pondering how I can share in words why I find the reward outweighs the constant care taking.

His birth name was Billy Baker, named after my kindergarten friend who had a buzz cut that reminded me of Billy’s soft, round head. But fate gave Billy Baker, the pug not the boy, a name change after one eyeball became wounded and had to be removed. It happened after a complete misunderstanding with a then very young chocolate lab, but the incident did not alter their loving relationship. To this day, Huck licks the little pug’s smooshed in face like a lollypop.

I like to think of his lost eyeball as the full moon watching over my little fellow and shining a light his way to keep him from running into walls. If I’m sitting on the porch with pug in lap, gazing on a full moon, I give him a squeeze and say, “There’s your eyeball, watching over us.”

We thought we were going to lose him a year ago when he appeared to have a mini stroke and lost coordination for a few days. He was off food, tail down, humped back, and we rushed him into the vet. Ex-rays showed deteriorating spinal disks and together with his bad heart, we figured our days together were closing in on us. But he rebounded.

Most of his teeth have been pulled but he still manages to eat like a running back, making one thing the same as in his youth- gas. Ah yes, the gas he doeth pass. Over the year, he sleeps more, and he is so deaf that he doesn’t know if someone is in the room. He goes into deep sleeps and if I try to gently shake him awake, he still lays snoring for minutes until he comes to life. His one remaining eyeball is nearly all fogged up in blindness making stairs or new territories a challenge.

He needs constant guidance now to get around the house. If we are in the kitchen, and I leave for the downstairs studio, I tap him and he knows to follow, but then he needs assistance on the stairs. If I can get him to settle on his fire side bed, he will sleep for most of the day. But it takes him longer to settle, and he often wanders around looking for me, or something that feels right. he often seems a bit delirious, like an old man wandering, looking for the reason why he got up in the first place.

His one sure way to let me know he needs me, or needs something, is to whimper. He whimpers if he needs to go up the stairs, or down. He whimpers if he wants to get off the chair, or if he needs to step the 3 inches over the porch thresh way to come in. He whimpers if I am five feet away but he’s unsure where I am.

Out in the garden, the old pug can still sniff around a few minutes before he starts to cry a bit- “Where are you?” he’s asking. “Do you know where I am? Because I’m not so sure where I am, come find me.”

He used to love spending hours in the garden. But now he’d rather be in my lap, my hand on his worn down spine, his little pug nose snoring in and out with an occasional twitch from his singular eyeball.

And there in lies the answer.

I still provide a shore for him, a respite in his delusion brought on by age. He gives me one more purpose in my day – to give him a safe place to be all that he can be even in his elderly limitations.

We fit together like salt and pepper. I have a nice warm lap that has been reformed over the years to fit his little curled up fawn body just perfectly.

When old and blind hospice the young

There are twenty one days left to fund my Kickstarter project, "Misfits of Love". I'm very proud I have almost reached 50% and am over $4,000 in pledges to help my stories of the old and adopted animals of Apifera enjoy a wider audience. There is still a long way to go, so please pledge now, or share with as many as you can. And thank you to all who have helped! One of the stories in "Misfits" is "Hospice of a Lamb", shared in this post.

Hospice of a lamb

To see the slideshow of the all the photos from Hospice for a Lamb, visit this secure link.

She was just 4#. I had secretly named her Little Daisy, which is a mistake. One should never name a lamb before a few days, you learn that. But then again, maybe this one time it was important I named her. Maybe something much bigger than me, or Apifera, knew what was in store for that little creature and knew naming it would mean something to both the dying and the watcher of the dying.

Everything seemed fine at seven AM, roughly 19 hours after Daisy's triplets were born. While it is always exciting to see triplets, it is entwined with an element of dread. Many issues can arise with them - weak lambs, not enough milk, a weak ewe or milk fever. We've had a healthy set of triplets in the past from Rosie, but lost all six triplets in '09.

So with the triplets looked good in the morning, all milking a bit, tails wiggling, I felt okay. Daisy is an excellent mother too. Maybe that was one of my mistakes, not taking charge right away and tube feeding the tiny little ewe, only 4#. I check my lambs every two hours the first day for their tongue temperature, and if it's warm, I'm happy.

What happened from 7 AM to 9 AM is a secret of the universe, something no one will truly know. But I found her listless. The big boy was eating, the middle brown boy was sleeping. Sleeping day old lambs can look dead, believe me. So at first when I saw her, I didn't think anything was wrong. But I decided to give her another squirt of vitamin drench since she's so small, and her little body was like a slightly alive rag doll. I rushed her into the house, encouraging her to stay with me. I tube fed her and was careful not to get it into her lungs. I had initial hopes, but I knew she wasn't going to make it. And she didn't. She died surrounded by hospice team of an old one eyed pug, a concerned lab and a kitten that knew only too well what it meant to be saved.

After she died, I decided to tube feed both boys as a precaution, thinking it might be a milk issue. Arriving at the barn, the brown boy was now looking dopey, but better than his sister had. I thought I could save him. After tubing him, I knew he wasn't going to make it, so returned him to Daisy. He died soon after.

This is part of shepherding. I'm proud to say that I was calm and remembered how to tube a lamb without panic. I also told them to "go on now", which I think is a gift to the dying. I had tried and I knew they both tried as much as their bodies could.

The vet felt it was not a milk issue, said I did everything in my power and that triplet births can be stressful and create things you can't control. We played the 'If I had done this sooner" game, maybe they would have lived. Or maybe they would have lived and died a week later.

As the little lamb ewe lay near the fire, with her hospice team nearby, I went for my camera. I wondered if it was ghoulish to photograph the scene of near death. But I wanted to and wondered why I wanted to. I've been thinking of that all day- why did I need and want to document the moment, and was it worthy of her short life.

A creature of any kind, any kind, can touch a human life and reach deep into their best parts and say, "I know I'm little, and dying, but you cared to take pictures of my beautiful ears. You let me be warm. I could hear you too."

Her ears were so beautiful, much like the hair of one of my felted creatures.

Itty Bitty Etta love

The old and young merge together on the farm, often creating relationships that provide sustenance, or warmth and safety. The dynamic is not unlike what my grandmother's house must have been like in North Dakota. A young one came along needing a mother, and there was no reason that the senior in the house couldn't step in as nursemaid or companion.

Such is the way here at Apifera, with Itty Bitty Etta having taken to the very senior One Eyed Pug. She spends much of her waking hours near him now, searching for a milk spout, only to find rolls of wrinkled skin. Still, it satisfies her, calms her into taking a nap. So well defined are his ancient rolls of skin that her sharp teeth have not bothered him.

Senior animals require diligence and often special care taking. The One Eyed Pug had a lapse last month. We thought we were losing him. X-rays showed parts of his spine are rubbing together, from age. He was miserable, but special pills helped, and even though I was prepared to put him down if necessary, his spirits returned immediately and we could tell he was comfortable again. But this weekend, he had another slight relapse. While the pills provided relief, it appears these relapses are chronic, and there will come a time when the pills won't help.

Many have written comments about Etta, and how that little one pound kitten was meant to come into our lives. I think whether some feline god planned it or not, the experience has been rich for all of us, including Billy, the One Eyed Pug. Just as my humanity to retrieve a kitten from a busy country highway resonated with readers, this old pug's non judgemental heart resonates within me. When I brought Billy home 13+ years ago, he too was only one pound, and fit in my pocket or hand, just like Etta. Perhaps Etta is a gift from the guides of the One Eyed Pug, just to prepare us for his departure.

No matter how many more months he is with us, I find it charming that he can be a nursemaid in this his twilight years. And let it be a lesson to us all. Youth does not trump age in quantities of love it can share. With hearts groomed by years of living, seniors of all species have something to give until they take their last breath- even if it's sitting still and acting like your wrinkles are giving off milk.

Aging with a pug

The One Eyed Pug is aging. He is almost 12 years old now, and his world is now seen out of one side of his head, with a gauzy blur to it due to damage from years ago. His crinkled pug nose is full of bits and particles from his morning breakfast and a bit of Apifera dust. His waistline expands with little bumps, assumed benign. And his tail, usually curled like the top of a phony ice cream cone, will straighten out when he is most relaxed, or worried.

Age does not keep him from emitting large quantities of gas, and unfortunately for the person holding him on their lap - uh, that would be me- the gas is often in the most serious form - a silent, liquid squirt we like to call "Wet WIllies". I have taken to putting a towel under him when we recline together on the couch at night. But if I forget, I arrive at my bed, quite stinky, ready for a night of slumber covered in tiny little brown spots.

Billy Baker, Bill, Mr. Wiggle, Pug, Old Boy, Mr.Bill - he comes to any of his names, that is, when the name is shouted. It is yet one other of his birth rights that have slowly been taken from him, his hearing. He often gets stuck at the bottom of the stairs, and he stands with a worried tail uncurled, one eye ball looking so forlorn, all the while doing a little pug whimpering. It is a sad thing, to see him in that state, all confused, not knowing how to get up the stairs.

He sleeps more and more, and often doesn't know I've entered the room. He's beginning to have little accidents, including a bad mishap last week where he asked to be let up in my bed in the early morning. TIt has been our ritual to snuggle in the morning, after he breakfasts outside, he runs back in the bedroom to be with me. I'd let him under the covers where he'd snuggle his pugged up face in my arm pit. We've been doing that since day one. But one recent morning, he seemed confused, and it turned out, he left much more than a Wet WIlly in the bed on my bare farmer body. I deal with manure on a daily basis here on the farm, but when it's freshly deposited on your naked legs at 7am, in clean sheets, it's rather...shocking. I could tell he felt upset, and no apology was needed.

The body ages, muscles and sphincters and all sorts of things get loosey goosey. It will happen to me too, already is happening, and hopefully no one will shame me for it. He gladly followed right behind me tot the washing machine, and cleaned crumbs off the floor while I loaded the soiled sheets. I of course was buck naked - when a dog poops on you what's the point of getting dressed - first things first. So there we stood together, an old one eyed pug with bodily functions failing, and a naked middle aged caretaker with pug poop on her legs.

Billy is a role model I guess, for all of us aging two footers. You get up each day and face it with all your faculties, even if some of them are a bit worn out. You hope there's someone to give you a lift up in the bed, and a warm touch when needed. You just do the best you can do, and handle what comes your way with a few snorts, and don't worry too much about the wet willies you might let slip out on the way.

Pie Love: Pug and pie

With Pino Pie Day 2010 fast approaching [June 27th, to be exact] I made a pecan pie with Apifera walnuts, and I must say, it was perfect. The One Eyed Pug may be down to one eye, but as he likes to tell everyone, he can "still smell pie".


Pino also has a Facebook Page for this year's events, and it actively posts apron arrivals and pictures.

And another Pie Day is over...

I posted pictures of Hospice Celebration day over at Donkey Dreams. It was a perfect, wonderful day of pie and converstaion with wonderful, caring individuals who spend their working days helping fellow human beings make the great transition we must all take at one time or another. We were honored to have them at our farm.

And the One Eyed Pug did the clean up.

Art Helping Senior Dogs

I will be posting an ongoing list of the senior animals I'm able to help down on the sidebar of this blog. $25 from each animal print I sell will go to sponsoring one of these worthy creatures. I was able to send money to help Malik, Sammy and Hunter. I write a little about them on the sidebar area, so check it out, and pass my link for my prints onto any animal lovers you know.

Definitely sweater weather

Or as we like to say to Billy on cold mornings, "Oh my! chilly, Billy!" Humor is important all times, but most definately in these times.

One eye stroll

The veterinarian who recently purchased one of the animal prints, liked this new portfolio piece I just did so she purchased a print for her office. As a vet who specializes in eye issues, she loved the idea of a one eyed pug still having an enjoyable life. I wanted it to be bright and cheery,appealing to both child and adult.

And the little one eyed pug does have an enjoyable life. He has been gorging on fresh hand picked cherry tomatoes. He loves those darn tomatoes. Perhaps anything bulbous and round brings him comfort, like the full moon.

The story of the Giant One

In which Billy Baker the one eyed pug shares a secret of his breed, knowing the audience is open to the many mysteries of the universe, or at least not judgmental.

As a young pup I knew my daily life was unique, as I could see much more like a fly. While I was often ridiculed by even the best of friends, I just got used to the stupid comments. People are much worse than the creatures with what they think are humorous pokes at my facial look. "Did you run into a wall?", they'd asked, in that baby talk voice they use on their own fledglings. I got so tired of it. At some point, I just couldn't stand it, and I took to passing gas, silently of course, if they told a joke about my face.

I lived just fine for many years with my over weight eyeballs, until one day, while living in the presence of the chocolate lab named after a pie, I was partaking in a good game of 'run around the tree really fast". As usual, I was slower, but since I am much smaller, was able to trip the big chocolate fellow up. This unfortunately caused him to fall, and I don't know if it was his toe, or a stick, or grass, that grazed my bald eyeball. But whatever it was, my eyeball fell ill, and did not improve. The Two Footers squeezed cool liquids and medicines into my aching orb, but one day later, my eyeball felt so heavy and so strange like it was swirling outside my head. When blood squirted out after one medicine was applied, the Two Footer rushed me into the Medicine Keeper in town.

They shot giant streams of light into my aching eyeball. I knew already what this meant. Our breed is forewarned even before we are born, in dreams and embryonic classes, on what life is often like with our bulging eyeballs. We know that there are many obstacles to our eyes. And we are raised to appreciate every day with out having something run into our eyeballs.

So by the tones of the Two Footer, and all the kisses I was getting, I knew my eyeball was moving onto the Great Place to live amongst stars and other magnificent orbs. This did not worry me. I knew my eyeball would be returning to where it originated, to the Giant One in the night sky. The Two Footers call it a moon, and they say it orchestrates tides of the ocean. The Giant One sends off little eyeballs to all the earthly mother pugs precisely at the time the mother pug gives birth. We pugs don't bother to tell the Two Footers that our eyeballs are born from their moon, because we know they would scoff at it. But I am sharing it here with you, in case you live with a pug, so you can be more respectful of 'full moon' nights. We pugs call it "Giant One Calling" night. For once a month, on the full moon, all pugs instinctively gravitate to the garden, or window seat, and sit amongst the loving shinings of the moon. And for those pugs who have lost an eye, they look up at pride to the night sky, knowing their eyeball is now with the Giant One. It will be nourished by starlight, and in time, it will return to another mother pug, and placed in a young pup to once again see earthly delights.

--The End--

One eye, a few less teeth, lots of gas

What has one eye, a punched in face and smells...that's right, it's our little gassy one-eyed pug, Billy Baker. One of the many horrors of in-breeding to get the pug breed is they tend to have teeth issues. Billy is now living proof of this.


Our gas producer will be heading into the vet on Friday for major teeth removal [I have suggested they get the fans running]. Due to the fact that Billy likes to chew on tiny pepples like gum - a hobby he acquired as a young pup - one of the rotting teeth fell out. Looks like our one eyed pug will now be a 'one-eyed three-toothed" pug.


I cringe to have the final invoice handed to me...but such is pet ownership. I considered dressing him up as a ferel cat to get donations, but that would be very un-Apifera. So Billy has a special message for you..."If you buy this sale item [done when I had both eyes!] it will help pay for maybe 1/2 of the bill."