Pugs in tutus?

After work Friday I stepped out of my comfort zone. Thanks to the generosity of a friend, Lori and I were VIP guests at a fundraiser to benefit DoveLewis'  Pet Loss Support Program.

DoveLewis has a national reputation as leader in animal care, both as a provider of emergency and critical care for animals and as a place of support for people whose pets have died. This year marks the 25th year since the pet loss program began, so the organization took the opportunity to honor Enid Traisman, the woman who founded and still runs the program.

I've been to my share of fundraisers over the years. And, believe me, in Portland there's no shortage of opportunities to give your money to nonprofits that deserve all the support they can get: programs that help children learning to read, women who've survived domestic violence, families moving into affordable housing, just to mention a few.

But until Friday, I'd never found myself -- or, in my wildest dreams, imagined myself -- seated in the front row of a doggie fashion show, barely five feet from the runway and squinting into the bright lights illuminating the models and their four-legged companions.

Enid Traisman & friends

One by one they came out: pugs and pomeranians, labrador retrievers, terriers, chihuahuas, poodles and pit bulls, all wearing some kind of stylish fabric. There were tutus, vests, hats, sweaters, pants, skirts, dresses and paw-sized slippers.

One very calm cat came out on a model's shoulder. A young llama waltzed out with its owner and, Portland being Portland, someone tucked a chicken under her arm and took a turn on the runway. There were oohs, aahs, lots of chuckles and a moment when you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at a petrified pug that stopped dead in its tracks, its eyeballs bulging and refusing to move a single inch.

There was even an air of celebrity. Seth Aaron Henderson, the local fashion design rock star (he was the winner of "Project Runway" Season 7), was there, having designed one of the doggie fashion outfits.

Truthfully, I had my doubts about the whole event. I would have been happy to stay home that night to watch the Blazers on TV. But I've gotta say, it was very worthwhile. The food was delicious (can't go wrong with pulled pork sandwiches and red velvet cupcakes); Lori bid successfully on three items during the silent auction; and the money raised through ticket sales and the oral and silent auctions went to support a good cause.

In this pet-crazy town, I know there are thousands of people who pour their hearts into a relationship with their pets. We've certainly had our share: Max, Kema, Fred, Juneau, Bosco and Osita, among others. If we can help ease the loss for others, well, I suppose that's a good thing to do.

Photograph: DoveLewis

The animal kingdom

I already know we're outnumbered -- Lori and me vs. Otto and the two cats, Rudy and Mabel. So what's the difference if we open up the house to another dog and cat -- plus their owners -- to spend the night in our barely large enough condo?

Yet, that's what we did recently. When Jordan and Jamie visited last weekend and spent three nights at our new place they of course brought along their chocolate lab, Brandy, and their new kitten, Mister Biggs. They've been in southern Oregon the past couple days, visiting Jamie's parents; this time they took Brandy with them and left the kitten with us.

Except for Mabel -- who's proven to be a most ungracious host (I'm thinking of the "B' word here -- everyone's made room for our sweet little visitor. Really, there's nothing like a kitten to bring a smile to your face. This little orange tabby greets you in the morning, purring and soft as cotton, curled up in the cloth bed Lori bought for him. At night, he's running and jumping across the room like an Olympic gymnast doing a floor exercise routine. On drugs.

Jordan and Jamie -- emphasis on Jordan -- adopted Mister Biggs from the Humane Society in late May, during their waning days in El Paso. He was 8 weeks old then, so I guess that would make him 4 months old now. They named him after Biggs Army Airfield, a place Jordan became very familiar with while serving at Fort Bliss, Texas.

The animal parade continues this week. We'll be taking care of Quimby at some point. She's the little thug -- er, Chug, also known as Lil' Quim -- who belongs to Kyndall and Simone. Speaking of whom...Simone flies back this coming Friday after finishing her four-week summer course at Carnegie Mellon. She and Kyndall will load up their truck, spend a final night with us, then hit the road Monday for Pittsburgh... and 2,600 miles of interstate highway.

Animals. What would we do without 'em?

The fourth child

With a nod to Esquire's "What I've Learned" feature...

OTTO REDE | RAPSCALLION, 5 YEARS OLD, PORTLAND, OREGON |
Interviewed by George Rede | Photograph by George Rede

Yeah, I've got a pretty sweet life. Ever since the oldest Rede kid moved out of the house last fall, I've pretty much had George and Lori to myself here in the new condo.

Sure, Rudy and Mabel live here, too. But, face it, they're cats. Cats are wusses. I'm the one they take for walks. I'm the one they take on vacation with them. I'm the one they fawn over. Heck, Lori even takes me to Fetch, the doggie day-care, once a week. I can't complain.

Sleeping arrangements? Got it made. Dude, I've got four beds on three floors in the condo, including two on the main level on the second floor. I can curl up near the window looking out to the street and growl at anyone I wanna hassle or I can crash on the pillow in front of the fake fireplace. Really nice during the winter months.

Of course, you won't find me in any of the beds at night. Nooooooo. I start out at the foot of their bed each night. And somehow, some way during the middle of the night, I wind up under the covers. Just like magic. This morning, I'd scooted up on one of the pillows, nearly nudged the old man off his side of the bed.

I miss Max. He was my buddy for a long time. Big guy -- half Lab, half Great Dane -- and black as night. Had a baritone bark but he was a softie. Poor guy had bad hips, so I used to run circles around him -- literally -- until one day he had enough and bit me under the chin. Still have the scar.

Soon I'll be missing Quimby too. She's pretty chill ... for a Chug. She belongs to Simone and Kyndall and I'm used to seeing her pretty regularly, mostly at her crib. She's got a big backyard and we always burn off some energy, doing laps like Nascar drivers on meth. Crazy. They call me Uncle Otto but I don't really get how we're related. Anyway, Quimby will be moving with her owners to Pittsburgh in about three weeks. We'll see if she keeps in touch.

Why do dogs lick themselves? Oh, come on. Because we can.

That thing about short-man syndrome? Not true when it comes to dogs. Why do you ask?

They call me Sheriff Otto. Something about always being on guard and keeping other dogs in their place. Hey, as long as I get three squares and a warm bed, they can call me anything they like.

The best thing about living with the Redes? That they think I'm "such a good boy." A regular choir boy. Seriously, I can do no wrong. Everyone knows Jack Russells are smart and cute. All I gotta do is cock my head and flash the baby browns and I got it made.

Rough and Rudy

Excuse the cheesy play on words but it's time, finally, to write about Rudy, the senior pet in the Rede household.

Rudy is 12 years old now, more than twice as old as either Otto, the Jack Russell terrrier, or Mabel, the gray tabby. And this is how he's taken to greeting Lori when she comes home in the afternoon -- seated primly at the base of a table near the front door.

We got Rudy as a kitten, just a few weeks old, when he could fit into a child's baseball cap. In retrospect, he was probably separated too early from his mother. After all, he was the runt and could have used the extra time under her care.

At first, Rudy was pretty timid. During the early years, and especially as he grew older, he would hang out with Juneau, our pure-as-snow white cat. And by hang out I mean they groomed each other daily and whenever one curled up to sleep, the other was there as a companion. When Juneau died in 2008, we could tell Rudy was thrown off. Gradually, though, he became more social, although not to the point where he would hang out with Mabel in the same way as with Juneau.

Since moving to the condo, however, it seems he's become a different cat. All the staircases in our new place have meant more exercise for Rudy, and he's noticeably lighter and thinner. He's also way more affectionate than he's ever been, making himself at home on the lap of just about any guest who comes to visit. We can hardly sit down to read or watch TV without him jumping up to join us.

The latest thing? Now he's decided to sleep with us, too. That never would have happened while Juneau was alive. They'd snuggle up into a black-and-white ball of fur, oblivious to anyone and anything around them. Now Rudy makes himself at home between us or sometimes near Lori's head. At least he's not kneading dough on us in the middle of the night.

The ironic thing about Rudy? We named him after Lori's father, who disliked cats and surely would shooed Rudy away. I'm thinking, though, that the way Rudy is behaving these days, his namesake probably would have let him onto his lap too.

Photo by Lori Rede

Mabel goes missing

Our brown tabby, little Mabel, was nowhere to be found for a couple of days this week. She's the shyest cat we've ever owned and she's pulled the Houdini act before, when we've had visitors over to our place. But she's always reappeared either late at night or early the next morning, emerging from some little hiding place under a bed or some such.

This time, we feared she was gone.

With the sunny weekend we had and dinner guests coming over Sunday night, we took the liberty of leaving the door to our rooftop deck open to let in fresh air. Guests showed up around 6 and left after 10 and still Mabel was nowhere to be seen. No biggie, we thought. I had a day off Monday and figured she'd make her presence known at some point. Didn't happen.

When I arose early Tuesday, I found a note Lori had left me on the kitchen counter: "Mabel is gone." Concern turned to worry.

Did she slip out the front door when we weren't looking? Could she have gone onto the roof and somehow made her way down to the street level three floors below? As an indoor cat, would she really do that?

Lori quickly designed a flier and rushed over to a Kinko's to put in an order. Then, back at home, she decided to follow a hunch and headed up to the rooftop deck. She called Mabel's name a few times and finally heard a tentative cry. Mabel had scooted underneath a small piece of furniture in a corner and, as far as we know, spent two nights out there without food or water.

When Lori brought Mabel indoors, our older cat, Rudy, greeted her by licking her ears. Even our terrier, the irrepressible Otto, was able to approach Mabel, who usually keeps him away with an occasional hiss or a hard stare.

As the above photo shows, she's made herself at home again, curling up in front of the natural gas fireplace with Rudy. If only she could talk. What was going through her mind? Was she scared? Did she think we'd abandoned her? Is she likely to head up to the roof again?

We'll never know the answers, but I'm glad we've got her back.

Critter update

Just about the only sad thing associated with the move from our old home was having to give up our beautiful bunny. Just no room for her in the new, smaller place.

But as you can see, Roxie has found contentment. Here she is relaxing on the shoulder of Ann Robinson, the former co-worker who eagerly took her home to her husband and two daughters.

Glad to see she's in good hands. What a beautiful creature.

Mabel in the morning

Time to till the soil, plant a seed, water the garden. Pick a metaphor. After a week away on Orcas Island -- the most wonderfully relaxing place I know -- it's time to dive in again.

And what a nice way to begin with a furry greeting. I heaved myself out of bed at 6 to go swimming and had barely taken a step out of the bedroom when I ran into Mabel, doing her high-wire balance act on the railing above the steps on the main floor. As usual, she was purring lightly and arching her back for a morning scratch from ears to tail.

Mabel is our brown tabby cat, the youngest and shyest of all our animals (well, except for Roxie the Rabbit). She's about five years old by now and often so reclusive that visitors are surprised to learn we have a second cat. Rudy, the older and bigger one, has become more social in the year or so since his buddy Juneau died.

Mabel has always kept to herself. She can be frustratingly skittish, flighty, whatever you want to call her. But she can also be very playful, typically swatting at my head when I'm turning the corner to head down the stairs. She's pretty quiet -- even a full-throated meow doesn't carry very far -- but she's also very serene, content to curl up alone in our daughter's old bedroom.

All in all, I suppose she's not much different from the usual housecat. Quirky, unpredictable, occasionally affectionate and, around dogs, predictably feisty. Unlike Rudy, who rolls with the punches, Mabel doesn't mess around with Otto, our Jack Russell, or Quimby, our daughter's Chihuahua/Pug mix. She'll hiss, flash the claws and let 'em know who's boss.

I'm not quite how she acquired this personality -- spunky adolescent, detached teenager and sophisticated lady, all rolled into one -- but she is a morning delight.

Our little friend, Quimby

Ferocious, isn't she?

With Simone and Kyndall out of town for the weekend, we're taking care of their precious little dog, Quimby.

As you can see, she's a little bigger than a teacup. But she holds her own just fine. Just ask Max, our late Great Dane-Lab mix, who clearly was out of his league when he tangled with this little creature, who must weigh 5 pounds at most.


Quimby is a Chihuahua-Pug mix, just a few months old, and already spayed. I don't believe I've ever used this word to describe a dog but ... she truly is "adorable." I never knew dogs of her breed could move so fast. Seeing her run laps in her spacious backyard is like watching a one-car NASCAR race. So funny.

At the moment, she's playing with Otto, our Jack Russell terrier, who appears to be three times her size and, by comparison, mellow. One moment Quimby is on her back, biting Otto on the neck and all over his mouth; in the next, she's up on all fours, attacking from the rear; then she's on her back again, kicking her back legs; then onto her tummy, tucked under Otto's left arm. The main thing is, she's always moving.

She goes by a few nicknames, including Quimbles, Quimbylina, Quimbylicious, Quimbledon, Quimbylotta. Well, maybe I'm the only one who calls her the latter.

In any case, she's a wonderful playmate for Otto and an always-welcome visitor. Weather-permitting, we'll take her and Otto to a dog park this afternoon to burn off some energy.

Remembering Max

I was less than a mile from home, running west in a light, late-afternoon drizzle toward Wilshire Park when I turned south onto Northeast 41st Avenue at Skidmore Street.

All of a sudden, I realized two things: I hadn't been on that particular block in two-plus years -- and the last time I was, I was doing an early-morning walk with Max, my big buddy.

After hurting my Achilles tendon during the 2006 Hood to Coast Relay, I'd seen a physical therapist who prescribed a set of exercises and regular neighborhood walks -- no running! -- to get me back in shape again. So, for a time I was rising early to head up the hill in the Beaumont-Wilshire neighborhood with Max to get the exercise I'd normally get from running.

I remember a certain two-story house on the east side of the street because it was so unusual in its architecture. (Sorry, I don't know enough styles to offer any details.) When I started to run past it Tuesday afternoon, the memories just washed over me.

Max wasn't nearly as lame then as he was during his last year of life. During that fall and ensuing winter when I was recuperating, he would walk with me for up to 45 minutes with no problem, tail wagging and enjoying the fresh morning air.

We have two cats and they can be finicky as hell. With Max, my Black Lab/Great Dane mix, there was never a question of loyalty or love. I miss the big galoot.

Roxie: Our year-round bunny

It's Easter Sunday, so what better time to say a few words about the quietest member of our animal family -- Roxie.

She's a member of the Dutch breed, a beautiful brown-and-white like the one pictured here. She came into our lives about five years ago, when Jordan was a high school junior. He and Lori got her from the Oregon Humane Society through the foster care program. One thing led to another and, of course, she became a permanent member of the household. Jordan originally named her after one of the characters in "Watership Down," one of his favorite books as a kid. But because only he could easily pronounce the name -- Hyzenthlay -- my suggested alternative of Roxie eventually stuck.

Every time I sit down to write at this computer, Roxie is just a few feet away in her pen (not a cage). She's got a piece of linoleum, roughly 6 feet by 6 feet, with a metal screen, about 3 feet tall, all around it. She has a pastel-colored blanket, with tons of holes in it, to sit on, chew or burrow into, depending on her mood. She's a gentle creature, as you would expect, so much so that you can place her on her back on your lap and stroke the top of her head, right between the ears, until she closes her eyes and completely lets go of any tension in her little body. She weighs, at most, five pounds.

Roxie is, without question, the softest thing I've ever touched. Her coat is just luxurious. I sometimes wonder if she'd be happier with a mate (for companionship, not for reproduction) but I can't say I'm inclined to go get another one.

So, call her Hyzenthlay or call her Roxie. She's easy to care for and easy to like.

Otto: A new appreciation

Subdued isn't a word I'd normally associate with Otto. Our Jack Russell terrier is anything but.

It's clear, though, that his behavior has changed since he lost his big buddy, Max, this past weekend. Normally, he's jumping up to see me first thing in the morning, his stubby tail going 80 mph, and mouthing a chew bone or some other toy. Today, he stayed put on the pad we have for him in the kitchen and gave me the equivalent of a nod. At the moment, he's curled up in a ball on the floor, catching a little snooze.

It's not hard to tell what's going on. He's adjusting to the loss of not one but two companions as we transition to empty nesters. First, Jordan leaves for basic training. Then, a few days later, Max dies unexpectedly while we're on vacation.

Otto's always been something of an attention hog and a virtual extension of Lori, whom he's always regarded as his master, if not mother. Now, with Max gone, it's a different dynamic. I can see myself spending more time with Otto and appreciating his good qualities -- his intelligence, his playfulness -- as we all adjust to a quieter, less crowded house.

I suspect today's subdued behavior is nothing but an anomaly. Otto's a good little guy. He'll adjust -- and so will I.

Losing Max

A week away from the city did us some good, but little did I know we'd come back from the island without our big, lovable dog. Max died in the early morning hours on Saturday, March 29. Today would have been his 12th birthday.

Max was a gift -- a Father's Day surprise in 1997 -- from my wife and kids, who had heard me say for many years that I wanted a big dog. Well, big is what I got. He weighed close to 90 pounds after three months and topped out at 110. No surprise, given he was half Black Labrador and half Great Dane. Standing erect, he could put his head on the kitchen table without even trying. His paws filled your fists and his noggin weighed the same as an anvil.

For as big a dog as he was, he was never mean or aggressive -- just a friendly, mellow guy with warm brown eyes who loved to put his head in your lap. He was patient, too, with Otto, our Jack Russell terrier, who would literally run circles around him and greet him everyday with licks and play-bites.

As he aged, Max developed the predictable hip and hind leg problems that afflict Great Danes. Increasingly, he had to expend a lot of upper-body strength to get to his feet. Painkillers seemed to help some, but in the last couple of weeks we noticed he was slowing down even more.

On Friday night, after dinner guests had left, Max began showing signs of distress. I had to carry him to the porch, where he lay on his side, his eyes reflecting fear and worry. We brought him back inside and lay with him, covered with blankets on the kitchen floor and his head resting on a pad. His breathing grew more labored and we just stayed with him, petting him and channeling the love and concern expressed by Jordan, who had asked after him in his first phone calls from Fort Benning. (Max, after all, had essentially become Jordan's roommate after he could no longer climb the stairs to our bedroom.)

Death came around 2:30 a.m. We took the ferry to a veterinary hospital in Anacortes so he could be cremated. We'll get the ashes sometime next week and probably keep some here and take the rest up to the island. If he had to go, we're glad it was on Orcas Island. He loved the fresh air and seemed so much at peace, spending time with the ones who loved him.

For a dozen years, Maxie Boy gave us nothing but love, affection and loyalty. We will miss him dearly.