Archives for category: Pugs

I just spent one hour trying to get a Wordle on to my blog, my next adventure.
AM GOING WORD FISHING THROUGH DECEMBER 12, and have to wean myself off Facebook, my Blog, others blogs. I’m teaching 4 classes at moment; subject to change. I started a novel during Nano Wrimo month, and an opportunity to work on it further calls me. I’ll miss everyone, but it has to be done.

<Wordfishing at the Casbar, Old Town words, rainer maria rilke, pug dogs, Boston, whitey bulgher, lost loves, cubicle despair, the many lives of Baby Cakes Nelson, life reviews, Ross Dress For Less, destiny smeshtiny, let go, unemployed, Bubba, Bumpa, pug dogs, forces of light and darkness, 4 pound baby, oneness, being a Virgo, twin, pain, health, relationships, aaargh relationships, hot tears, successful candidates, prey, cabby hats, FISHINGFORWORDS

gotta get to this

Monday Discovery: Esther Bradley-DeTally.

from You Carry the Heavy Stuff,, the author’s garage….. ISBN 978-0-557-20933-0-essays, poetry, observations from a twin’s dying to cubicle despair in a corporate world with voices of buoyant pathos, mystical reverence – you catch my drift

Why do I write?  Like now, when the dishes sit orphaned in the kitchen sink because I, the washer, am typing, sharing, breathing, living, putting off the inevitable, because once a long time ago, I was so hurt, I couldn’t breathe.  I carried that hurt with me forever, until I found out that sensitivity is the price and the prize for being able to write, for being able to read people, to Braille the unsaid.  I write to a lady in prison, who said “I liked a phrase you wrote, “The language of God is a tear running down someone’s cheek.”

I write because I read, insatiably, gobbling, inhaling, filling myself with the human condition; splat on the floor some days, like a big old squishy bug, flattened, dead, its body swept up by old straws on a broom; and then I write to show the magic of St. Theresa’s Snow Queen Altar when I was young, and how everything looked like a wedding cake, and I write to tell how when I was younger, and so needy I could have impaled myself on a stake wide and big, sort of like a meta-letter holder, except the stake would run through my insatiably needy heart, and a note on my back would read “loves too much,” and that was before the book Women Who Love Too Much.

I write because I have gone beyond Medieval Posts puncturing my despair and loneliness and have decided Men Who Love too Much is here too.  Maybe we all love too much, and I write because maybe none of us love too much, for we are told by images in advertising, that we should be thin, jaded in the eyes, like the look of models for Vogue or whatever, who probably could shoot up heroin on their lunch hours, and because despair is trendy and nihilism and materialism and not giving a damn might be the language of the hour.  But then there is the lonely, little, big, young, old, trembling, brassy, you-catch-my-drift-writer who writes because he or she must, and words have a visceral effect upon her, him, the dog, the surrounding room.  I write of hopes for the world, and a good ham sandwich or description thereof on a sour dough roll, with slabs of mayo, and a bed of lettuce, and curled pink ham,  ready to go into someone’s mouth which is opened to the size of half a ladder, is  a good thing, a good description.

What this nation needs is a good ham sandwich and a Pepsi without the aspartame and some down to honest to goodness honesty that is the natural condition to communicate, to be real, to be afraid of bugs in knotty pine walls when the walls come alive at night; to watch an elderly blind woman, clutch the corners of her walker, take a breath and remain a sweet sweet spirit, knowing that her condition, her tests are the divinely calibrated kind, even though trucks have run over her emotionally, and I write to tell of the anonymous amongst us, the bravery, the small acts of courage, kindness in this nation where the world is narcissistically checking its derriere in the mirror, and no one or precious few are listening to the “midnight sighing of the poor,” and where we must have immense courage and speak up; talk, yeah, walk the talk, be it; speak up; tell future generations who we were, wanted to be, became anyhow and our hopes for the future; because someday we will all be sensitive, spiritually inclined, aware of our oneness,  and otherness will go on a back shelf like Twinkies, no longer approved of by the American Heart Association, and writing will be celebrated by hoots and hollers and a piping or two from a medieval horn or Siberian throat, and the arts will have a way of grabbing our soul’s innards and carrying us through the day.  These are some of the reasons I write, but there are others, but today is Wednesday and those are my Wednesday’s writing reasons.


New York Times Best Seller

A Mostly True Memoir - a must read

So, you are ambling along in the library, and you check into your books on hold. Did I mention, I’m a memoir addict?

Okay, okay, the author? Jenny Lawson, and she’s called “The Bloggess,” Yep, I  ordered a book based on the cover, and of course that it’s a memoir. A white rat who looks in need of dental work, wears a stunning black velvet cape, with a red  silk lining.  His rat feet look like a DSW size 10? He has a white ruffled tutu type collar, the kind used in Medieval days, which if you want to know seem just like yesterday.

Okay, okay, the author? She’s called “The   Bloggess,” and did I meet her in my Name is Not Bob Blog April   challenge, MNINB?  I’m Not Bob April Challenge (MNINB) caused a loose knot in the sky, a gnarled rotting elbow on a tree, to fall on my neck and pressure  stress liquids into my brain.

I don’t know where I discovered Jenny Lawson, but  Reader, I read this book while slammed with the process of April Challenged which Not Bob gave to us bloggers, and I laughed, and chuckled, and snuffled   and snorted at midnight, in the quiet ambiance of our 2-room pool house of   the high ceilings and spillage of computer material, books, whatever.

Okay, sorry for the hot dogging, but The Bloggess,  aka Jenny Lawson, wrote “A Mostly True Memoir,” and that works for   me. She had me on the rat cover. I love the abandoned warrens of her mind,   picture Kafka-toned jokes as her thoughts trot ahead of us readers, twisting,   turning, always into belly laughing and chortles. She is snarky in deed, and   she got me on “folded vagina,” and claimed my heart and soul when I   discovered she had a Pug, Barnaby Jones.

The book is filled with huge metal chickens,   small creatures of the stuffed kind (her father was a crazy Taxidermist).

Reader, what is one to do with chapter titles   like, “Stabbed by Chicken,” “Hairless Rats Free for Kids   Only,” and an enchanting view of detachment from a bizarro childhood,  and interstitial laughter and views of a marriage with an wonderfully funny  man.

I read the first few pages and thought, maybe   I’m too old for this contemporary writing, but when I finished this book,   Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, Jenny Lawson’s writing claimed me.

My brother–in-law called me “The   Bro-ess,” and now I, the Broess, am on the devotee path of one Bloggess.   Kudos to all who write

Okay Reader, I’m going to jump right in.  Mars recommended me for the Versatile Blogger Award.  \

I thanked her and waited in silence for an email to come over the horizon saying, “You’ve won our Versatile Blogger Award.”  It doesn’t work that way.

My them for the April Challenge, MNINB, “It doesn’t work that way.”

So today, I am going to try to do several things at once.  I am a superb multitasker, but whiz around so, I fall off the planet on a daily basis.  My call to action comes at the end.  First the award.

pathway to knowledge, wonder and humility

Thank you Mars, dear tender-aged Mars whose blithe spirit shines through and captures the poetic tendrils of my heart. (repeated it).  Select 15 bloggers I’ve recently discovered or have been following regularly.  I nominate the blogs below for the versatile blogger award. (Advice:  Google it, and following the instructions.), long time friend, writer, lived in Bolivia and Chile 30 years, early member and continuing member of CHPercolatorCoffeeHouseFor Writers, and just one who you can roll around a floor laughing., I adore Soul Pancake, and use it in my writing classes at times.  I also gave the book Soul Pancake to my granddaughter.  I have connected with blogger and will do online interview!      Northern Ireland, author and enchanting commentator; have been following him since he found me – how I don’t know.  I think I had 7 followers then.  Author of Mountain of Crumbs, on Goodreads, Russian heritage. I lived in Ukraine and Belarus, spent some time in Moscow and Siberia, follow her blog on Goodreads.   new; intriguing; she was in a class of mine   a  new, refreshing blog about farm life, and well written.  Sagas, small s really about lambs being born, lamb bloat, the birds; all have names, and the blogger’s pieces undo the knot in the back of my neck from my social media strain.   Kofegeek is a silly geometer, a lover of coffee and fresh carrot   An exquisite young writer, working on her first novel – we meet once a week and share our writing through prompts!

friend, who is a scientist, a Baha’i and who writes enchanting, whimsical pieces., a very talented artists.  She had a stroke and since then she’s been producing the paintings you will see on her website. one of the first bloggers to reach out at beginning of our MNINB April challenge, generous in spirit and knowledge

terrifically informative re writing  I love her art

Okay this is for the lovely Mars – 7 things about myself

1.  I am 73, but have the writing voice of a 35 year old;p spunky, funny, deep, spiritual, whatever.

2.  I am a twin; fraternal, she died a few years ago.

3.  I am a member of the Baha’i Faith – since 1966 – was Catholic from Boston

4.  I am a pug dog devotee

5.  I have lived in Dnepropetrovsk, Ukraine, Minsk, Belarus, spent time at Lake Baikal in Siberia, looked across borders to Mongolia, stared at the biggest fattest head of Lenin in Ulan Ude, Siberia, and crawled across railroad tracks and clung to barely the inside of a train in Eastern Ukraine, and last I road on a bus with our interpreter who thought beings from Mars would soon pop up, and where the bus driver stopped the bus, and said about the quacking goose in our midst, “Off with his head,” but of course, the goose lived, and we did too.

6.  I am a memoir addict, and started reading 4 books a day when I was 7; since then, my addiction has grown.

7.  I teach several writing workshops, one of which to homeless women, and they rock.

Awakened to cup of coffee in bed; staggered to computer; am on Word Press this am with thatched head, but Persecution of a Christian Minister in alarm shot my body full of, “Post this on SorryGnat,” and lo and behold, good old Word Press offered a prompt: When you are most happy?

Dear WP Question Person,

I am most happy when I drive up my driveway and my husband comes out of our small pool house and is just there, but then of course there are days when I spot pug dogs through my inner radar and Kismet, by the end of the day, I am sprawled on a pavement, petting said beastie, even though my friends shake their heads at my constant devotion to Pugs, and still I am most happy when I see writers emerge from their cardboard boxes which were labeled “I don’t write, I can’t write,” and like last night, offer revisions of the Three Little Pigs, turn the story on its head by having the first pig (of straw, and lazy, darned lazy if you ask me), and find out this little pig had invested in derivatives, and now, only now, when red stiletto heel click along New York streets, in huff puff, click, click, hurry to my job, don’t know how long it will last,” all the while these red stiletto heels, which if you want to know, can have outer soles of turquoise and magenta print, if the person, wearette of said stiletto, is well heeled financially, and now on to more than feet, because this is about happiness, and I’m most happy when I think some day, despite the crocodile kingdom here on earth, and dripping juicy mouths in political power (not all) (there are nice cats and dogs in the mix in leadership in this country), but back to the question, my tummy and my heart, and my soul are in sinc (not sink) (another day, another tale) when I see on the horizon, signs, not of Humvees built as slug bugs for war and destruction, but hands, thin hands, old hands, wrinkled hands, long tapered fingernails, fingers bumpy and sludgy and chewed, tough hands covered, dark hands, covered with dust, Kardashian hands pampered and isolated, but all hands, get to the point, writer, reaching out around this Parker’s Pen Color of Blue Ink Planet hold one another, some grasping one another, and despite a world gone tilt, bonkers, and a world which may be screaming, “I miss my hormones,” is lurching towards maturity, even though the crocodiles, hereinafter called The Crocs, salivate and slide towards a fugue state of power, illusive and unattainable, because some day we will be one, and every baby born (visualize Kunte Kinte(sp) holding his richly brown velvet baby son to the sky, and someone in Idaho lifting a peaches and cream baby up to trees stretching as if hands up in praise to their unseen Divine Essence (Higher Power too Germanic in tone to put here), and that day when each baby will be perceived, cherished, regarded as a “Trust of the Whole,” and we will get about our planetary work, and that’s a good Tuesday morning reason for being happy, because happiness is not an outside thing in that it’s just about pleasure, but reader, if you have been patient enough to go through this all, would you consider that abiding joy, and release from oppression and We Are One is our divine right?

This isn’t to say there are not a gazillion other reasons, like listening to a young doctorate in realization of astrophysics, skate across the sky and explain planetary dust in such a fascinating way as she reads in a basement in a store called fair trade, on Lake Avenue, in Pasadena, if you want to know, where a bunch of us writers laugh and cavort and toss bon mots of principles, concerns and an occasional jello recipe around – that makes me happy, and one other thing, because I’m on my way there – giving people voice; how on God’s Green Earth did I get so lucky to teach at the Women’s Room in Pasadena, said WR is an offshoot of Friends in Deed, an ecumenical group, and the WR is a day haven for women to take showers, do laundry, get decent food, most to commune with one another, and to participate, those who wish, in writing and slipping on their newly acquired writing voices to the cheers and huzzahs of the group, (we are way beyond Vogue and Marie Claire magazine), and I guess I can sum all of this “oh how we dance” piece in it’s about service, “walking the mystical path with practical feet” and helping one another and seeing everyone as a soul in progress or process and realizing we are just at the beginning of this journey. So those are my Tuesday morning reasons. (Quotes I’ve used come from Baha’i Writings or my own stuff reader, and if you know how to use spell check on this here Word Press, I’d be grateful till the end of the day.-E)

Pug Lovers' Paradise

SaddledSaddled by Susan Richards
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I bumped into this book, and somehow after flipping through the pages and seeing, memoir, alcoholism in family, transformation, I took the book home from the Pasadena Central Library. I am a memoir addict, and the authentic and well written voice calls me. I couldn’t put it down.

those who know me personally will imagine and know my delight in the author’s triumphs and courage, but imagine that this reader, a pug devotee par excellence, gasps when she looks at the back inside cover flap and see Susan Richards with what? A pug, a pug, a wonderful looking, high i’m the center of the universe pug. I feel as if I know this lady. The background of book had aspects of Boston, my home town, and so it goes. I highly recommend this book. I’m off to read her others; have to order them too!

View all my reviews


read this dear ones and weep – but with stomping feet and yahoos to the sky. this is a fabulous blog. pilipilisakas’s writng is like butter on a hot black skillet. mmmmm hmmmmmm!

okay back to me. I’ts only almost noon and i’m still at the Pewter replying to blogs, email, facebook.

Today, this morning, old shirt, blinking eyes, fingers that run across the keyboard like the sound of French poodles in a hurry clicking their toes towards food bowls, these are my electric hours. Life is electric and i’ll list a few things at the end so you catch my drift. Drift dear reader; drift is important.

Today is exhaustion day big time. Was surprised. Went to cardio guy yesterday; and he’s now Bill’s Cardio guy too; very funny, dry wit, sardonic. While Bill was getting his blood pressure taken (read abnormally high) (read, situational) I was standing in the hallway, and I felt as if I were going to pass out. I never feel that way there. we were more nervous of Bill’s test results than we realized.

He’s got a hardening aortic valve, but doesn’t have to have surgery, like I did and he won’t. I lived and that’s good depending on who is saying it. smile.
They’ll watch him, and give him ultrasound in 6 months.
A friend writes, “Can they soften the valve”?

We both felt as if a steamroller decided not to bury us in mud! Wow.
Big, I guess one could say.

So day in honor of big,I’ll laundry list the “bigs” in my life.

Bill’s heart not too bad or heart valve
Reading pilisaka’s blog
Watching on You Tube _Devotional – Baha’i
Finding out the red light, third one in on the blinking model if you really want to know, is the result of perhaps a patchy connection to be replaced easily by trip to Best or Radio Shack.
Fireside (Baha’i chats) at Nelson’s last night. Steve and Juliana Licata and their two heavenly sons; music, entertainment; incredible talk
Meeting a new person; a muscian who heard of Baha’is on the net and from his spiritual leader who said, “Go.”
My walking an hour a day – El Moleno, a nice hill if you like puffing, but the way back a treat.
Friends, Mizz V helping me become lickietier and splickietier on the net.
Friends, Son, Daughter in Laws, Grandkids
The Women’s Room in Pasadena where homeless women have respite and the writing class I lead on Tuesday afternoons where the moments expand to tears and riotous laughter.
good writing.
Enemies of the People, Kati Marton, a great read (for Pasadena book club)
Waiting to read a wonderful book published in early 1900s on Muhammad, clear, insightful.
Gleanings. Baha’u’llah’s writings at the top. Always.
10 books waiting, some study, some fun, all fascinating.
Physical exhaustion, but a day of forced rest.

all of these are big in my young life, and now if I run into a pug today, walking his or her snorty self, i’ll know it’s a wondrous life.

GOING OVER THE RAINBOW BRIDGE – SOPHIE THE PUG, the most Vaudevillian Pug ever!!!

July 11, 2008 – Saturday; airconditioner on. We are taking care of a rescue pug chiuahua for Nicole, Lucy’s mom (the black pug). Katrina, who is a friend of Nicole’s rescued Lila (new name for dog) and is coming today to dog sit while Bill and I go out.

Last night I googled potty training instructions for the dog, and we all are doing much better. The trick is to sprinkle salt on the wet spots and the salt pulls it up, but before we turned into a Biblical looking landscape, I googled advice.

She’s very sweet, and I’ll post a few pictures. She has a light cough, and I hope it’s nothing serious. She meets her new owner hopefuly Thursday, but meanwhile we are on dog duty!

May post a pic of Liz and myself, or my twin Elizabeth. Only I called her Liz. A friend photoshopped it; nice! might put other pics up now; not sure; am working on my book Writing on the Fly, editing, final stuff, but probably will have two or more more edits later. The putting out of a book requires a lot of work, but I am impelled, compelled. Bill listens to the NewsHour, and i have to mail a friend who was evacuated from her home in the mountains near Chico; are they mountains are just huge hills. Hmmm; how hard.

Lucy the black pug’s mom is adopting another pug possibly, and we will house sit this little one for a week and then hook up with Lucy’s mom. She was not picked up and has been in the pound and quite sad; my heart goes out to little animals in the pound. It’s not Pasadena’s Pound; somehow i think that’s better. But kind people are working very quickly to help this little pug out, and i may be a Pug Nanny again!

Tmorrow night, the little pug will have had surgery and then be brought to our house until Nicole returns from her travels. We will love her and spoil her and be relieved when she feels better on all levels. They are going to name her Lila! She’s fawn.

Saturday – day before Mother’s Day. Already celebrated with my son, Nicholas, and Laura, his wonderful wife, and Jessica, his daughter, and Bill, my husband, Now, that I have mastered the art of the comma, and serial names will chat a bit. I’m putting Jessica’s picture up here because it lights up my heart. Also not last or least is Sheli – Jessica’s mom, was able to see her briefly, give her card, hug and view the guinea pigs outside in extended like base camp. Very clever.

Sophie the Pug is doing well. Had hip replacement yesterday, lying on some sort of cushioned mattress, and she comes home today. I haven’t been writing, but friend reading my latest book (only have 2) one of which is in print, the other is waiting in her tutu on the sidelines, Writing on the Fly, and I am pleased with the writing. Somedays I cringe, but that’s normal. Writer’s mood swings – that’s a whole t’other story.

Myenmar, or Burma, more particularly needs big prayers. Hopefully I will reverence that need appropriately. TC the lady I write to in Chowchilla has had a very good law firm take on her case. Yippee. Am emerging from a lot of sleep this week, eleven hours Wednesday night and hopefully I’ll have more energy. A friend at dinner said, “Athe young people at work are dragging too,” and attributed much to the heaviness in the world, which I translate into pundits punditting ceaselessly and solipsistically and sillily, if there is such a word. Plus world conditions and the fact that I suspect the majority of ordinary people in the world hunger to unite and get on with the business of unity. War and disunity and greed and abuse have been practiced to the max; let’s flip around integrity, justice, oneness of us all. Oh dear, I’m in my nightgown, the one with the ugly coffee cups and “love My coffee” on it, and here I go again.

Enough, I just read teachers wanted elsewhere – that’s California for me, and Arizona, nevada, Hawaii, Kansas, Virginia and Texas are looking for good teachers. California stands to cut $4.8 billion in educational funding this year and next.

This started out as a chat, and a posting of Jessica. I clicked on Breast Cancer site, and Hunger, and Animal and LIteracy, try it you’ll like it. I’ve checked into CHPercolator at Yahoo, my writing group of choice, and I’m off into a grey morning into downtown Pasadena, then to pack this afternoon, rest and go to Margaret and Michaels with the hopes Sophie will speed along in her new hip and recover splendiferously.

Lucy the Pug, whom I got to know briefly in her last days, passed. Her owner writes:

It is with a very heavy heart that I’m writing to tell you that Lucy has passed away.

Many of you know that she had been increasingly sick in her final weeks and was suffering repeated and severe bouts of anemia which left her extremely weak, with no appetite and unable to support her body weight. She had a very aggressive form of cancer which caused her to bleed into the tumor. Today she was released from her suffering while her family surrounded her.

I want to thank you all for your sincere concern and support these last weeks. Attached is the last picture of Lucy. Though very sick at the time, her sweet, soulful nature is still apparent.

Pictures: Pug and me in 1990, taken by an LA Times Photographer after our Siberian trip. Journalist I knew interviewed us. Sophie The Pug, an enchanting picture taken by friend, and Lucy, who is much prettier in person,and is very sweet.

Lucy, the black Pug, in Pasadena is 14 and struggling, but her thick black tail wags with the enthusiasm of a seven year old. Sophie the Pug, in La Quinta, California, owned by Michael and Margaret, is having hip surgery May 9th. Margaret called this morning. She was our Pug’s Second Foster Mom. Ann Clavin was the first. Wait-backup; Ralph Schreiber, took Puggy for 3 months when we first went into Moscow, Siberia, Ukraine. Then when we went to live in Dneperpetrovsk for the year, Ann Clavin took him. Many tales ensued about Puggy, his brattedness, his toes, his moaning and hatred of the snow, and his incessant need to scold for food. Richard Clavin was chief pug carer, and send a picture into The American Baha’i which was published.
Unfortunatley, Pug didn’t endear himself for another year, so we came home that summer and took him to Margaret in the Desert, and more hilarious stories followed. Margaret had never owned a pug before. I might add, Nikki, her daughter, trained Pug so he was basically dog civilized. Gratitude to both Ann and Margaret knows no measure. Well long story short, Sophie the Pug, Margaret and Michael’s beguiling little pug has to have hip surgery. Her left leg seems to have gone kaput. I am staying with her May 11-17th. I will be Cherry Ames Visiting Nurse, for those of you who remember that childhood series, and Bill will take care of Lucy in town.

Pugs, to pug lovers, light up the universe. Someone else might just see a squished in mug, and hear snorts, but to the pug lovers everywhere, their owners see lights in their brown eyes, a creature like reaction to all innuendos, and they are cuddily, will sit next to your soul and shed hairs on it, and grunt. I personally would jump out of an airplane (at 3 feet) to see a pug. So today is an unofficial Pug Day. It’s Saturday, and we visit Lucy today, normally not seen on Saturdays. But hey, grace is grace!

Anyhow wishing all those pug lovers out there a glorious day! Remember, take a pug to lunch this week!

This is a picture of Lucy, who is 14, and whom i take out for a walk at noontimes. She had to go to the vet today; had blood tests, a biopsy. She’s 14, arthritic, deaf, and somewhat blind. After my pug got old, I learned how wonderful old dear pugs are. Lucy is terrific, loving, cute as a button and yet fragile. I hope she has more time on the planet. She has a wonderful owner. At any rate, she has won my heart. I may not be able to have pugs where I live, but it’s wonderful to meet some, care for them, love them. It’s a real privilege.

I couldn’t capture the post visually of the pug, so here’s
the website; happy puddling thru images of pugs!

Lindsey and Matt, surprised me with a wonderful gift of a pug figurine, a complete disguise, which evoked belly laughs by me, and now this figure will be assigned a position of dominance in our small abode. the picture doesn’t do it justice, as the figure has more shadows, and the wrinkled brow the pug is indeed darkened by wrinkles, and the cape and the boots are too funny to behold.

Thanks guys; guess I have to stop talking about Jack, their wonderful puppy, and move on to my life and the things that make me fill with laughter! Be still my heart!


My day begins with an aubade to the rosy sun that filters light
through mullioned windows, casting shadows, stripes, hues on the 20
stiff and silky furred pugs all snuffing and snorting their way up
towards me in complete devotion.

Bill brings me my 26th cup of coffee, a yearly treat, as he tells me,
“I vacuumed the Pugs with a silent hose so as not to disturb you,” and
I praise the sun and this husband of mine, whose heart beats are
tachycardiac with my own in slavish devotion to these squatty little
warloads, these imitation pugaparte’s, named: Napoleon, a rather
smallish one, Sluggo and Nancy, he bullish and spilling flesh, leaning
against my knee, whilst his mate, Nancy, black, small determined and
pissed because Sluggo keeps pushing her out of the way. The rest?
I’ll leave that for a less perfect day when my spirit droops and tell
you of Grendel and Thor and Hortensia and Garlic Breath, and Attilita,
aaah my beloved Atilita who wants eggs every morning, spit out the
yellow on the floor and just eat the whites, Atilita.

The World Times comes to my bed, again brought by my slavishly devoted
mate of 100 years, and I note with pleasure, our world leaders, all
elected on their qualities of service and integrity, and finally
decided how to handle those whose necks arch out in greed.

They have created what is known as Pie in The Sky Ranch, and all those
leaders whose underwear probably scratched their inner thighs and
made them irritable and evil, will be allowed to go to a remote place
off the Falkland Islands and walk with the penguins and learn how to
make beef pie, and never be allowed to come back to civilization.

I also note that according to our latest poll of the planet, we are
achieving 98% literacy and that Janabe Judd has one the Nobel Prize
for his theory of international relationships. The honored Janabe,
blessings be upon his mom, has figured out that Africa is the heart of
the world, and Germany the brain, and the States who went through that
humbling, scrape of the arrogance period in the early 2,000s is the
social director and coordinator of solace and welcome to the human
race. He will be honored for his literary representation of the huan
race; it’s oneness, it’s diversity, the parts (countries) becoming one
and their spirits creating a greater than the whole tenor.

Creativity is flourishing; my mind stills at the thought of every atom
in the universe being there for our education, and further stills and
my heart stops because we have finally achieved as a planet a place
where everyone born is a trust of the whole. The Spiritualization of
Humankind, the promise of Prophets and Seers and Poets of older times
when earth was grubby and garbage ran amuck.

How did we get to live through those terrible times and witness
today’s morning glory. I decide 140 is as old as I want to be; i don’t
want to have baggy kidneys and knees that look like bookends to my ankles.

I lie back and snuggle into the pillows, and say to my beloed mate,
“Put on another pug, right over the empty space here on my nose and my
mouth, and he picks Clara, and also Margo and Kaufman just to be sure,
and i slowly lose consciousness with a sense of peace like a warm
soothing blanket from days of old, spreading silently through my
being, and i think right before my soul rises up the ceiling in utter
bliss, “This beats stretching and straining for Yoga positions,” and
then I move into other worlds knowing my beloved mate is sure to meet
up with me shortly, and the pugs will be cared for tenderly during all
their days, because Be Kind To Animals is such an observed saying, it
has replaced the old Peace Poles with Peace written in different
language, and put in parks and civic buildings.

Snort, snuff, hmmmmmm.

One more, I promise i’ll stop!


Fabulous Pugs (Hardcover)
by Lisa Knapp (Author)
(2 customer reviews)
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Esther Bradley-DeTally


Carmella Rosella was unhappy. Her mother and father had just moved from a tiny house near the ocean. Carmella Rosella loved the ocean. She loved her small yard. She loved to see the red and yellow flowers shoot open in the early morning sun. She sighed with wonder when the sun sank, like a burning orange ball, into the ocean and flowers swayed in the afternoon breeze. It seemed to Carmella Rosella as if nature was saying “Goodbye, see you tomorrow.”

Now, Carmella Rosella lived in a stucco house, with a cement driveway, near a black paved street. Very little grass was in sight.
“Oh well,” she thought, “maybe the people here will be different. Maybe they’ll be red and yellow and shades of cream and brown.” Besides, she thought, her parents had both told her she might have a dog. “Carmella,” said her mother, “I haven’t discussed this with your father, but I think you may have a dog.” Carmella’s father had told her the very same night, as he stroked her dark curly hair and pulled her bed comforter around her, “look Carmella, I think you can have a dog. We’ll look for one. But it must be sort of smallish. We cannot have a dog the size of a mountain lion in this home.”

That night Carmella Rosella dreamt of dogs. She dreamt of all kinds and sizes. First, there were large, hairy dogs, whose steps seemed liquid, like moving pencils. They were too formal she thought. Then there were wide chested beasts with short dark hair. They looked as if they could pull tractors on a farm. Suddenly, a small dog with a round, black wrinkled face and bulgy brown eyes popped up. He made some sort of a noise. Was it a snort? Then he ran away: curly tail tucked into his body like a pig, legs flying. “Wait, wait,” Carmella Rosella cried out. Then she woke up.

In the morning, Carmella Rosella went straight to her bookcase and looked at it very carefully. Her eyes scanned all the books until she saw it: top shelf, third book on right. She pulled it off the shelf carefully. It was old, brown and dusty, the family photo album. Her mother said “you don’t see sepia photographs very often. This is a pretty special album.” Carmella Rosella turned the pages carefully until she came to the middle of the album. A group picture showed a slight woman squinting into the sun. The woman wore a long white muslim dress and stood besides two boys in knickers and white shirts. In front of her was a little girl in a white dress with a wide sash around her waist. The little girl looked about four years old. She was trying to put something round on top of the laundry in a large wicker basket in front of her. The little girl was Carmella’s great grandmother. She was trying to put a Pug dog into the laundry basket. She lived in a big rambling house in a place called Hull, near the ocean.

That’s it, Carmella Rosella thought. My great grandmother had one, a Pug. “They called him King,” her mother chimed in, looking at the picture. “Pugs used to be quite popular. Kings and dukes and duchesses owned them, traveled with them.” In my mother’s childhood,” her mother continued, “some fashion magazines used to show big fat Pugs sprawling on the black and white tiled floors of marbled palaces.”
Carmella Rosella squinted at the next picture. Inside of her great grandmother’s house sat two fat pugs on a silk settee. The boy pug had his head cocked. Worry was in his eyes. He seemed to say “silk or not, what’s that man with the black box want from me”? The lady pug by his side looked a little less worried. She was shorter, wider, had the look “I can face this life. Just give me a boy pug by my side.”
“So that’s what you want Carmella, is it”? Her mother smiled at her and the pictures in the album. “Chinese Pugs, they used to call them. They’ve gone completely out of fashion. But your great grandmother was dotty over them. I don’t know Carmella, people nowadays don’t want fuss, muss. They don’t want little pig like animals who make snorting noises. Life is so careful these days.” “You know that’s one of the reasons we moved here. We wanted vitality. We didn’t want to be separate, tidy, bordered. We were tired of pretty neighborhoods where the neighbors didn’t speak to each other.”
Carmella Rosella nodded, watching her mother’s brown eyes very closely. She knew her mother just might, just might say yes to a pug. She also knew her mother and father had moved to this town to be with people of all races, colors and backgrounds. They belonged to a new religion, “a new Faith,”: they called it. “Gotta put your money where your mouth is,” her father said one day, looking out at the backyard, staring at the one and only tree.
“What can I do?” Carmella Rosella wondered. “I want people to be friendly too. Could a dog help?” Then she remembered everyone always said “ugh, a Pug,” when dogs were mentioned, particularly that breed. But something of her great grandmother’s spirit stirred within her, and she said to her mother, “Please, may we look for a pug today”?
Her mother looked at her thinking, “Six years old, and she already has a glass head.” Need, love curiosity and just plain wanting was written all over Carmella’s face: bumpy small nose, 3 freckles at its tip, determined chin, hazel green eyes. Why she’s looks just like her great grandmother her mother thought, just like the picture in the album.
“Why not,” her mother said to Carmella. “The pound is not far from here. Maybe we can find a dog there.”
The pound was a three block walk away. It was a neat, squatty white stucco building. The reception area had a painted red cement floor and a kind lady behind a grate who smiled at them. “A pug”? “Only a Pug”? she said to Carmella Rosella taking her hand. “Well, it just so happens we have one in the back room. He’s a feisty guy though. His owners gave him away because he tried to eat all of their furniture and run up walls and over tables. They said he was untrainable.” “Oh dear,” Carmella mother sighed. But Carmella Rosella would have none of it. Ears sealed to “untrainable,” she marched quickly towards the back room.
There he was, sleeping, curled up in a small ball of beige fur. Carmella Rosella put her finger through the grating of his cage. He opened one brown eye, lifted his head, cocked it sideways as if to say “well, it’s about time. I’ve been waiting for a little girl like you.” For Carmella Rosella it was love at first sight.
So Carmella Rosella and her mother, paid the lady, made sure the little pug was clean and had all of his shots, and they left the building. The pug was only 8 months old. “I’d better carry him, dear. He doesn’t know us and might run away,” said her mother.
When they got to her house, Carmella Rosella ran ahead and unlocked the back door. The pug jumped out of her mother’s arms and raced around the house, like a whizzing car on a race track. Up on the sofa, down on the floor, under the coffee table, into the bedroom. Around, over, and under the big bed. Finally, he ran into Carmella’s bedroom and hid beneath her blue comforter. Only a small nose with a touch of black ear could be seen. Carmella Rosella threw back her head and laughed, enchanted. Her mother said, “I’m going to call your father and warn him we have a wind tunnel in the house.”
Carmella Rosella named the dog The Pug and set about training him. The Pug challenged her at every turn. At night he dragged all the pillows off the couch and began arranging them around him. Seven pillows, all navy blue, arranged around a small black and white squiggling pug. Squealing, he approached each pillow, clamping his teeth down on a corner, like chewing on a good cigar. “Good grief,” her father said, “he looks like Winston Churchill.” Privately, he said to Carmella’s mother, “maybe we were too hasty. Do you think this dog will work out”? Carmella’s mother wondered also. But at night, when they looked into Carmella’s bedroom, all doubts faded. There lay The Pug and Carmella, side by side. The Pug snored contentedly, black nostrils whiffing in and out; and Carmella Rosella lay on her back, one arm across The Pug’s back, a half smile on her lips. “Well,” said her father, “some day that dog has to grow up. Hopefully we’ll have some furniture left.”
Then came the day of the Big Parade. Carmella’s mother and father were pretty excited. This was a day for all of the people from different cultures to learn about one another. First was the parade, and then a picnic with games and Chinese food and knishes and pizza and Thai and Vietnamese food. It was to be a day of sharing.
“The Pug stays home,” her father told Carmella. But Carmella Rosella had other plans. She went into her bedroom and pulled a tiny red T shirt from a chest of drawers. On the T shirt were big white letters which said “One Planet, One People Please …” Slowly Carmella Rosella pushed the T shirt over The Pug’s worried eyes, past his snub nose and wrinkled face. She pushed his right front leg into the right sleeve of the T shirt and then pushed his left front leg into the left sleeve. The Pug looked mortified. The red T shirt with white letters covered his entire body. He became very quiet. His tail uncurled. “C’mon” Carmella Rosella said, “We’re going to a parade.” “Well, her mother said to her husband as they both looked at the dog and Carmella, “A parade is an anything goes event. Why not.”
So Carmella, The Pug, her mother and father joined hundreds of people under a large cement bridge, actually under a freeway overpass. The parade would be one mile and end up at the park. The Pug stood next to the tuba player and didn’t move. Finally the parade started up. The mayor and his wife were in a long black car. They started the parade with a large banner which said “Our Town Is Beautiful. People of All Colors Live Here.” Next came a fat lady on a horse and then a high school marching band, some drum majorettes, some clowns. Her mother and father were on a large float which held a giant blue globe. Children, dressed in different native costumes, from around the world, stood by the globe. But before the float of the globe and the children marched Carmella Rosella and The Pug.
Carmella Rosella had on a blue sweatshirt which also said in big white letters, “One Planet, One People, Please …” And The Pug was transformed.

He was the only dog in the parade. His tail curled up. Carefully, like a well trained Leipzig, he placed one foot down on the pavement. Then up it went. Down went the other foot. His knees curled in precision. He looked straight ahead, neither right, nor left. His black velvet ears sat up in attention. He marched to the tuba noise, “oom, pah, pah, oom, pah, pah,” Feet down on the ooms, up on the pahs, he marched as if hearing distant notes from years gone by. A roar went up from the crowd. A small child yelled, “loookkk, look at the dog.” The Pug marched a block and a half, did a parade turn left at the reviewing stand, and came to an abrupt halt. The tuba continued its “oom, pah, pah,” but The Pug just waited. The people in the reviewing stand stood up and cheered, and the Pug moved on, float with blue globe and children behind him.
The Pug had grown up. He was marching for world unity, and he knew it.
Carmella’s mother and father knew The Pug was theirs for keeps. And Carmella Rosella knew from that day on she would always have a pug. Sometimes maybe she’d go to distant lands to share this Faith of her parents, and of hers. Sometimes the pug she would own would have to stay with friends. But she knew she’d always come back and have a pug. And she knew also that other people would love them. Pugs would become popular again. Just as being with different types of people would be a way of life, people would never say “ugh a Pug” again. And she would remember the parade day for a very long time, the day The Pug showed people animals can help bring people together, even funny looking ones with pushed in noses.
The Pug looked up at Carmella, no longer ashamed of his red T shirt. Carmella Rosella knelt down and flung her arms around him. His muzzle grazed her closed eyelids in a kiss, and he snorted in her ear as if to say “Look, it’s all in a day’s work. When’s the next parade”? And The Pug and Carmella Rosella headed towards the picnic.

SOPHIE THE PUG; we just visited her in La Quinta for several days, along with Margaret, Michael and Nikki, and we were thoroughly spoiled. Ah gratitude!

Today is a Federal Holiday and therefore in my small Kingdom of my Mind, a portion has declared itself “PUG DAY,” let’s hear it for all those Pug Lovers out there, and their Pugs!

January 10, 2007 Life filled with the ordinary details. Grandson Theo flies back to Portland area with his mom, dad already back there. Jessica went to horse school, her mom also; they had a wonderful time; Jessica a pro at cleaning horses hoofs. Bill is in his umpteenth day of a cold and I am sure could be in the Guiness Book of Records for his sustained coughing. I am loading up on all immune strengthening items, and yet we sally forth. Sold the old Buick; my 98 year old Aunt drove that baby for a long time, and declined at 98 when they took her license away. The nerve! A lot happening in the world, and as a result I found myself surfing on the net for Pug images; they comfort me; so I may post one or two; qui sait; meanwhile ta ta for now, love e

January 2, 2007. Sun just highlighting upper level of bamboo trees which seem as tall as the sky in the next house over. Am going to put a picture of a pug who looked like Puggy in his older days, if I’m lucky. I am glad to dig into the New Year. Hope all is well with everyone. Esther

WALPOLE, Mass. — His owners are calling their pet Max the Miracle Dog because he escaped unharmed after being run over by a commuter train.

Boston television station WCVB reported that Max sneaked out of his Walpole home on Friday morning and wandered onto some nearby train tracks. The engineer, Kym Berry, spotted him and slammed on the brakes.

“I blew the horn and put on the bell and he jumped right in the middle of the gauge and just kept running. So I put the train in emergency and he went right underneath the train. And it turns out, he came out the third coach back,” Berry said.

He came out in perfect condition.

“Thank God, he was … not a scratch on him. He was so little that he went under the train and he was fine. Not a scratch,” his owner Robin Lennon said.

At that point, the assistant conductor Pete Tomasini decided to take Max under his wing until they could locate his owners. They made Max an honorary conductor for the day. The passengers loved him, and Max seemed happy, too.

“Every time I stopped he came up and gave kisses. He was very friendly, his little bum was wiggling, he was wagging his tail, he was happy,” Berry said.

His owners said Max seemed unaffected by the ordeal, although he seemed to need a little recovery time.

“When he did come home he slept for 12 hours straight. He was totally exhausted,” Lennon said.

They were praising MBTA workers for their quick-thinking response and for taking care of the pooch until his owners could be found.

be still my heart; this is a good looking pug!

A wonderful young man told me i could use his pug pictures
feel free to use the pug pics. the last one I added from the web, a pug in second frame in; oh joy!
feel free to use the pug,

His pics::


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Busy days; good walk with friend at Rose Bowl today; Baha’i Holy Day, Birth of Baha’u’llah observed Saturday night

Bill getting better – liver count was in 400s, supposed to be 50, last blood test said 79, and we are greatly encouraged. Am putting a few things on the blog. the New York site re Baha’u’llah is wonderful! I am also quickly reading a book called Pug Hill, and will display the cover; snort, snuff. Have a few Thanksgiving Cards I am sending to people, of guess what, Pug, so will put one or two of them on also. Just very grateful for rich circle of friends, spiritual supporters, community, family. We fuse together at times over difficulties and joy, part of the package. Love to all, esther

From Wikipedia:
“The Order of the Pug was a paraMasonic society founded by Roman Catholics. It is believed that it was founded in 1740 by Klemens August of Bavaria to bypass the papal bull Eminenti Apostolatus Specula of 1738.
The constitution of the Order of the Pug allowed women, as long as they were Catholics. The pug was a symbol of loyality, trustworthiness and steadiness.
Members called themselves Pugs and novices were initiated wearing a dog collar, and they had to scratch at the door to get in. The novices were blindfolded and led around a carpet with symbols on it nine times while the Pugs of the Order barked loudly to test the steadiness of the newcomers. During the initiation, the novices also had to kiss a Pug’s (porcelain) backside under its tail as an expression of total devotion.
The members of the Order carried a Pug medallion made of silver.
In 1745, in Amsterdam was a disclosure script was published with the title L’ordre des Franc-Maçons trahi et le Secret des Mopses révélé which included the ritual and two graphics.
The Order was forbidden in Göttingen in 1748.


Joachim Berger (publisher): Geheime Gesellschaft. Weimar und die deutsche Freimaurerei. Hanser, München 2002, ISBN 3-446-20255-2

Abbé Larudan: Die zerschmetterten Freymäurer, Oder Fortsetzung des verrathenen Ordens der Freymäurer. Edition Cagliostro, Rotterdam 1984 (reprduction Frankfurt/M. 1746)

Gabriel L. Pérau: Der verrathene Orden der Freymäurer und offenbarte Geheimnis der Mopsgesellschaft. George, Habichtswald 2000, ISBN 3-934752-00-4 (reproduction Leipzig, 1745)
Zirkel, Jahrgang 56, Nr. 4 concerning Wilhelmine von Bayreuth, sister of Frederick II of Prussia

Still at Ralph and Sue’s. Sue is out of the hospital, but Bill has had fever and touch of tummy flu so he is in bed. Hope to leave her Monday, and i will drive. we rented a PT Cruiser, not the most comfortable but quite zippy, and zippy is what we need.

Saw an interesting interview of Elizabeth Edwards last nite on PBS; genuince, intelligent, heart felt. She has recently published a book about her experience with breast cancer. She’s coming to Pasadena, but I don’t know when.

In Caldwell, at my sister’s in March or so, I discovered black pugs, and had one particular one who was needy (i loved her) and now like them as much as white and black or fawn and black pugs. Jezebel that I am. Bidwell Park is beautiful this time of year as is the neighborhood; hoofing around a bit. Ralph and Sue’s family is terrific and loving, so that’s good. Want to get to Pasadena before John goes to Haifa. okay love to all, esther

Rahel loves pugs; in honor of this new discovery, back is the pug poster!
Tonight was feast; so many wonderful young people;

Must be pug day in my heart. I notice when I’m feeling blue or undefined and I am on my computer, I lallygag my way into pug photos. The group of pugs is from a picture from Maryland pug Rescue and the other one is from Obey the Pug website; nothing is sacred to a pug lover!

Our days are beautiful, and our friends and family run the spectrum of happenings and challenges, making this writer very greatful for friends, a clear sunshiny day in Pasadena, a great 50 year reunion with one old friend and his wife and Bill and I, dinner that lies ahead at a friend’s place cuz her mom is in from Trinidad. We go to Chico Monday to see Ralph and Sue; long drive but worth it.

more later e

I love putting images on this blog! I still am awaiting a friend’s help as I want to also put on this blog helpful websites, of which I think will be: Baha’i International Website, Jack Grapes Writing Class Website, Little Angels Pug Rescue in Pasadena, Powell’s bookstore in Portland; be still my heart!

I walked the Rose Bowl this morning with new friend from Trinidad; and it’s great to return to getting up early and heading out to walk 3 miles. It’s been 100 or so these days, and we walk the early mornings. i find pressure on my sternum increases, and I think “oops- heat, whatever,” and will check with my cardiologist maybe in October. Women can’t read heart discomfort as well. It’s not as clearly defined. However, i only feel this pressure when i walk up the slight incline at the Rosebowl; after a mile or more, i hit my stride when we walk down a bit. I stayed up too late last night fooling around with posting pics. Okay, i’ll find a good quote and insert it here, and then be off for the day; desk littered high: Am teaching a Ruhi Course; or faciliting it this afternoon; more about that later; going to Baha’i Feast tonight; have the Writings prepared; Amelia has put music on her IPOD; have about 6 library books piled up; one is Gail Godwin the Making of a Wreitr; one is Flatland, Friedman, the others; and then my miscellaneous stuff; i have a bumper sticker to my right which is upside down, but it says Wage Peace, and I have a greeting card in front of me from Margaret which shows a pug on a leopard skin pillow infront of a huge tasseled, looks Islamic type throne of a hat, and the dog has two palm trees in green and white striped conainers like bookends to either side; he’s a he; i kow it; Every dog has its day” is the slogan and i howled when receiving it; you have to be a pug devotee to understand this; my calendar says “don’t feed the Pug,” and I think it’s owner too; it has a caption,Round Mound of Hound and to the left, Kevin, wonderful Kevin who has graduated from Cal Tech was down this weekend and gave us something, a print from El Salvador, which is art produced on a father, vivid colors, greens, reds for red tiled roofs; little white houses, dirt streets; incredible.

“Know that you are where you are
not by chance but by the design
of your Creator,
for your development
and for the development
of those around you.”

‘Abdu’l Baha
Son of Baha’u’llah, Prophet Founder of Baha’i Faith