MABEL

"Mabel @ 3mths.She was the runt...half the size of the other pups... but those of you that knew her...know she grew into a seal.11.93* ... one of the great loves of my life ♥"
Garry Graham

GLAMOR GIRL

Teigh and Bell (in memorium)

Photo by Garry Gross.

Dog Portrait by Garry Gross........

Stuffed Puppy

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Designing Poodles

Angela Kumpe, who has become the groomer-to-beat at contests like this, spent more than six months turning a poodle into a buffalo, but changed her mind after her mother, Linda Smead, died Feb. 24. A week ago she began grooming Missy, a friend's poodle. The design, which she called a ''grieving angel for my mom'', included a reclining woman and delicately shaped flowers. Kumpe took home first place.

Second place went to Francesca, a dog that, when it stood on its hind legs, was meant to look like a poodle-sized seahorse. It stood before a sea-themed vinyl shower curtain, which hid a man holding a plastic toy that made bubbles to drift through the scene.

Third place went to a dog named Tucker, who was competing as the Mad Hatter, accompanied by three people fully decked in other Alice in Wonderland costumes. The dog ''wore'' a fur coat colored brown, had the March Hare on its left rear leg and tea cups on its right.

BIG GOOFY

* Age: 4 years old
* Breed: Anatolian Shepherd Mix
* Up-to-Date on Vaccinations
* Neutered
* Crate Trained/House Broken

Bandit is a BIG boy with lots of love. Bandit’s handler calls him Big Goofy. Big Goofy loves to have fun and is full of energy and love. Big Goofy has not had an accident inside yet!! This big lover boy is not only affectionate, he is smart too! Bandit knows sit and lay down. Bandit’s handlers have been working with him so diligently that he has been able to accomplish this all in only a little over two weeks!! Bandit’s handler was telling me about how cute it is to watch this big boy sleep. Bandit sleeps with all four paws in the air and runs like he happily playing in a meadow :) . This handsome boy is looking for a place to call home. Wouldn’t you like this face to greet you everyday??

TOO CUTE FOR YOU

SABRINA

I'm not feeling happy about this....

Sweet Baby Kobey-Rose

Thia picture was one of the first taken of my little French Bulldog on the day I brought her home. She was around 12 weeks old and had such a cute baby face....I miss and love her so much.

AVA

Klassy

Just Adorable French Bulldog

Ebony

OLD DOGS

They can be eccentric, slow afoot, even grouchy. But dogs live out their final days, says The Washington Post’s Gene Weingarten, with a humility and grace we all could learn from.

Not long before his death, Harry and I headed out for a walk that proved eventful. He was nearly 13, old for a big dog. Walks were no longer the slap-happy Iditarods of his youth, frenzies of purposeless pulling in which we would cast madly off in all directions, fighting for command. Nor were they the exuberant archaeological expeditions of his middle years, when every other tree or hydrant or blade of grass held tantalizing secrets about his neighbors. In his old age, Harry had transformed his walk into a simple process of elimination—a dutiful, utilitarian, head-down trudge. When finished, he would shuffle home to his ratty old bed, which graced our living room because Harry could no longer ascend the stairs. On these walks, Harry seemed oblivious to his surroundings, absorbed in the arduous responsibility of placing foot before foot before foot before foot. But this time, on the edge of a small urban park, he stopped to watch something. A man was throwing a Frisbee to his dog. The dog, about Harry’s size, was tracking the flight expertly, as Harry had once done, anticipating hooks and slices by watching the pitch and roll and yaw of the disc, as Harry had done, then catching it with a joyful, punctuating leap, as Harry had once done, too.

Harry sat. For 10 minutes, he watched the fling and catch, fling and catch, his face contented, his eyes alight, his tail a-twitch. Our walk
home was almost … jaunty.

Some years ago, The Washington Post invited readers to come up with a midlife list of goals for an underachiever. The first-runner-up prize went to: “Win the admiration of my dog.”

It’s no big deal to love a dog; they make it so easy for you. They find you brilliant, even if you are a witling. You fascinate them, even if you are as dull as a butter knife. They are fond of you, even if you are a genocidal maniac. Hitler loved his dogs, and they loved him.

Puppies are incomparably cute and incomparably entertaining, and, best of all, they smell exactly like puppies. At middle age, a dog has settled into the knuckleheaded matrix of behavior we find so appealing—his unquestioning loyalty, his irrepressible willingness to please, his infectious happiness. But it is not until a dog gets old that his most important virtues ripen and coalesce. Old dogs can be cloudy-eyed and grouchy, gray of muzzle, graceless of gait, odd of habit, hard of hearing, pimply, wheezy, lazy, and lumpy. But to anyone who has ever known an old dog, these flaws are of little consequence. Old dogs are vulnerable. They show exorbitant gratitude and limitless trust. They are without artifice. They are funny in new and unexpected ways. But, above all, they seem at peace.

Kafka wrote that the meaning of life is that it ends. He meant that our lives are shaped and shaded by the existential terror of knowing that all is finite. This anxiety informs poetry, literature, the monuments we build, the wars we wage—all of it. Kafka was talking, of course, about people. Among animals, only humans are said to be self-aware enough to comprehend the passage of time and the grim truth of mortality. How, then, to explain old Harry at the edge of that park, gray and lame, just days from the end, experiencing what can only be called wistfulness and nostalgia? I have lived with eight dogs, watched six of them grow old and infirm with grace and dignity, and die with what seemed to be acceptance. I have seen old dogs grieve at the loss of their friends. I have come to believe that as they age, dogs comprehend the passage of time, and, if not the inevitability of death, certainly the relentlessness of the onset of their frailties. They understand that what’s gone is gone.