Tiny Tales

Justice Tweedy, known by all simply as Tiny, decided it was time to go on February 23, 2015. He also decided he would float on whilst his human was several hours away, perhaps to spare her that very hard feeling that comes at the moment of crossing.... — Justice Tweedy, known by all simply as Tiny, decided it was time to go on February 23, 2015. He also decided he would float on whilst his human was several hours away, perhaps to spare her that very hard feeling that comes at the moment of crossing. He died in the loving arms of his amazing sitter, Anne, who just that morning sent along some great pictures of him and a report about how he was, as he always had, gliding through the house, a big furry cloud.
While his exact birth date and story if origin remains a mystery, it is believed that Tiny was 2,000 years old when he passed. Which means that he saw a whole lot in his life including, rumour has it, the bar mitzvah of Jesus. It is also believed that he was the father of every Great Pyrenees pup born in the last several hundred years.

How and when he got to Williamson County remains unclear, but he was found wandering along a road in Round Rock in late November 2014. His human’s smart aleck ex-boyfriend thought it would be funny to tag her (the human) in a photo of Tiny that appeared on Facebook, surely knowing that this would be all it took for her (the human) to zip up there and adopt him.

That’s just what happened. If you’ll scroll through to the beginning of this blog you’ll find that Tiny’s time in the shelter and, briefly at a veterinarian’s office in Georgetown, really sucked. On the bright side, though the intent of the vet was to de-ball him, his clear suffering and fragility left them no choice but to skip surgery and allow him to remain intact.
Tiny never met a floor he didn’t enjoy shitting on like a pony, leaving astoundingly magnificent mountains of poo throughout his house. Cleaning up after him was no trouble (well not too much trouble) because in addition to giving these gifts, he gave so many other gifts. Tiny was a genius meditator, a fabulous patroller of borders, and a world champion drooler. (Just the other day he drooled a strand so long it landed on the face of his sister, Rebound, connecting them for a few moments, in a way that was both pretty gross but terribly endearing.)

Anne reports that Tiny had an incredibly comfortable last day and that his last moments were pretty awesome, all things considered. He just went outside, laid down in the yard, and let go. Anne also points out that the weather was perfect– nice and cold the way Great Pyrenees prefer it, so that these last breaths were breaths of chilly air.

Tiny is survived by his sister Rebound who had a look on her face when the human got home that suggested, “Don’t look at me! I swear to god I had nothing to do with it.” And he is survived by his brother Dante, who is trying very hard to not act excited that he no longer has to be the middle dog, which he sort of hated. He is also survived by his human Spike, whom he selflessly rescued and showed just by being what chill looks like. She has yet to fully grasp the concept, but in light of all the stunning amount of love pouring in, she is making a vow to keep trying to focus on the positive, and stop getting sucked into the negative, which does regrettably still sometimes happen. Tiny is also survived by his legions of internet fans, so many of whom took time to read his weekly updates and send good vibes. It is, without a doubt, these vibes that sustained Tiny for his last three months, which doesn’t sound like a long time, but given what bad shape he was in when he got to Austin, is really nothing short of a miracle.

In lieu of bones, it is requested that anyone wishing to honor Tiny’s memory please make a donation to an animal shelter or rescue group or, if you can, adopt a senior dog. Yes, it’s heartbreaking to lose them after a very short stay, but it is so worth it to have them in your lives. You could also just skip all of that and go up to a stranger and lovingly scratch him or her on the nose today– getting his nose scratched was Tiny’s second greatest talent, right behind shitting in the house.

Every night Tiny went to sleep on his own little memory foam bed, a gift from his Auntie Keavy. He loved that bed so much. And every night his human would lie down on the floor and spoon his big furry body and whisper to him, “It’s okay, Tiny. You’re home and you’re safe.” It’s the best any of us can hope for– to be home and to be safe. Tiny is home now. And he’s safe. And high fucking five– he still has his balls.

Thank you to everyone for caring so much for this big guy. Special thanks to the team of friends who rushed in to assist Anne when I was too far away to get home in time to help. And thank you to everyone – friends and strangers alike– who messaged me while I was on the long drive home, offering to go and be there with Tiny and Anne. I love you all. Oh how Tiny helped us all feel the love.
Float on, Tiny Dancer. I loved you so much Big Guy. Always will.

In deepest gratitude,
Spike

Great Pyrenees rescue dogs

Last week Tiny made a new friend. That’s Harley, who is the dog roommate of my friends Anne and Mary. Harley is a rescue, too. Anne dubbed the visit Pyr-to-Pyr counseling, which was just perfect.

The funny thing about the visit is that even though Tiny already has a pack, something about Harley sparked a heretofore unseen joy in him. The Joy of Recognition. Rebound and Dante are nice enough to Tiny– they don’t snub him, although they are a big clubby, a pack of two, best friends and co-ear-lickers, none of which extends to Tiny. But they aren’t mean to him. It’s more live and let live around here.

But when Harley Met Tiny! Oh my! It was like they both just knew they were the same. Watching them float around the back yard like clouds come down to the earth was MAGNIFICENT! Tiny super pranced as he had never super pranced before in our midst.

So, yeah, there will be more Harley Time in the future. How fun when we find our kindreds. Thanks Harley and Anne for the wonderful visit.

rescue dogs Great Pyrenees

I had a little bit of Tiny Panic this week. Not related to his health so much as his welfare. I got a call from the shelter, a volunteer saying I needed to fill in his adoption paperwork because I was just fostering him. I blurted out something about... — I had a little bit of Tiny Panic this week. Not related to his health so much as his welfare. I got a call from the shelter, a volunteer saying I needed to fill in his adoption paperwork because I was just fostering him. I blurted out something about how no, no, he’s adopted, gotta run, buh-bye, and got off the horn.
My haste in exiting that call hinged on anxiety. Back when I got Tiny, when he had collapsed and was covered in his own shit at that terrible vet where he’d been sent to be de-balled, there’d been a bit of shuffling of paperwork to allow me to take him home with his nuts intact. It’s true I was supposed to later get him castrated, but then it seemed like he was about to die and so I decided fuck it, I’m not doing Ye Olde Insulte to Injurie Routine, the old man gets to keep his ballsac. Plus, on top of all that, I didn’t want to have to change his excellent URL.
A couple of days after that first phone call, I got another message from the shelter, this time a more forceful person saying I had to bring him in, and even that she’d made an appointment for him. It’s so interesting where the mind wanders when one who is prone toward anti-authoritarianism hears that particular bossy fucking tone.

Suddenly I imagined all sorts of scenarios that would allow for Tiny to hang on to the boys. I could call and say he died. But what if they asked for proof? Could I present a picture of him splayed on the floor, napping but appearing dead? Could I bring them Bubbles’ ashes and pass them off as Tiny’s? Have I been watching waaaaaaaaay too many crime shows lately? (<–Yes.)

Or maybe I could send him underground, pass him from house to house, so that when “they” came for him, I could say *I have no idea where he went. Just wandered off.*
That was the thing, I admit, that had me worried. That *THEY* would, in an exceptional example of No Good Deed Goes Unpunished, come and fine me, or wrest Tiny away, or make a scene. Contemplating this, I imagined a counter scene, a big stink on FaceBook, and one of those online petitions where you get 80,000 fanatical introverts who sit home all day looking for online petitions to sign, to sign the petition to **SAVE TINY’S BALLS!!!**
Am I the only one who has these nutty thought processes? I seriously doubt it. I’ll bet more than a few of you invent stories to tell to cops who aren’t there why you were speeding, just in case those cops materialize. Am I right?

In the admittedly boring end, it occurred to me that I know a friend of a friend who works at the shelter, and that she’d given me her card when I was adopting (or fostering or whatever) Tiny. And it further occurred to me that whilst I try not to ask for too many special privileges, this might be a right time to do that.

So I called her and I explained the situation. Tiny is dying. I mean, he might have a year left in him, but he is dying, faster than most of us are currently dying. He’s in the house at least 22 hours per day, only going outside long enough to confirm he prefers shitting in the house and, once in awhile, going on a three-block walk/drag that takes about an hour. Also, some days I can barely get him to stand up– I certainly cannot get him in the car.

I didn’t tell her this part, but he is inflexible enough so as not to even be able to lick his balls (*oh the irony, oh the unfairness!*). And he’s not humping anybody. He did try once, for a second, to see about mounting Dante but in that instant a) he nearly fell over and b) Dante swung around and shot him a look that said, “Dude, your sexual preferences are not my business but STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY ASSHOLE.”

In the end the nice woman at the shelter explained to me that there wouldn’t be cops banging on the door or fines to pay or some mad vet showing up with gardening shears to procure a pair of Tiny Oysters. She just said she’d go ahead and put him on the Hospice Foster list, a nice option for super old dogs who then get to live out their days with all their parts, have access to pain meds as needed, and never ever again have to return to the evil vet office where they think nothing of shoving dogs in crates, covered in their own shit.

Yay! Go Tiny!

It’s a little bit hard to see Tiny in this picture, so I included Rebound as a helpful visual tool. That really super big cloud to the right of the Reba Monster? Actually that’s not a cloud. That is Tiny!! I know, I know– hard to tell, right?
Thing... — It’s a little bit hard to see Tiny in this picture, so I included Rebound as a helpful visual tool. That really super big cloud to the right of the Reba Monster? Actually that’s not a cloud. That is Tiny!! I know, I know– hard to tell, right?
Thing is, and I know I’ve said it before, it’s not just that Tiny looks like a cloud. He behaves like a cloud. He just floats all around. Sometimes when I’m doing yoga he circles me and I get lost in the quiet happy cloud cover. Other times he just floats away, through the house, so quietly, like a gentle but steady breeze is blowing him.
I will say that in our house things don’t stay stored long in The Cloud. Oh no. Things exit The Cloud randomly and often. But as we move into month three of having Tiny as a roommate, I’ve been thinking about these Piles o’ Pyrenees Poo and I have decided it’s time for some spin. That’s not Pyr-Poo, it’s Thunder Drops. Big, brown, stinky Thunder Drops.
The thing about the Thunder Drops is that, whilst picking them up isn’t my favorite hobby– and, in fact, is much further down the list from knitting, meditating, walking, and boycotting American Apparel– it does rank above other things. Like getting acute food poisoning or listening to Phil Collins or Steely Dan on a loop. Also, the Thunder Drops are solid and so easy enough to pick up. Plus, compared to mopping up Rebound’s projectile vomit after she sneakily ate poop earlier, scooping up Thunder Drops is actually pleasant.
So thanks, Tiny the Cloud, for all the Thunder Drops, each little pony pile a reminder to always bear in mind perspective and strive to stick to the middle path and keep an attitude of gratitude. That said, you are welcome to poop in the backyard any time you like.

Great Pyrenees dog rescue spike gillespie dog poop

Yesterday I had my moments– multiple– of feeling like we were returning to where we began when Tiny first moved in. As in it seemed like Tiny was possibly actively dying. And yet once again this morning, he did his trademark shuffle stumble into my... — Yesterday I had my moments– multiple– of feeling like we were returning to where we began when Tiny first moved in. As in it seemed like Tiny was possibly actively dying. And yet once again this morning, he did his trademark shuffle stumble into my bedroom (unlike the other dogs who sleep in the bed, Tiny prefers to guard the front door) and nudged me with his huge nose.
So here we are. Another day. Tiny is back to his own version of holding steady.
I think what convinced me that he was a goner yesterday was a nice combination of reality and imagination. During our walk he really, really, *really* had a hard time. To the point I was doing that thing– calling up in my head nearby strong menfolk friends who might be able to dash over and help me lift him into a car, which in turn made me sad because I was reminded that Garreth, my go to guy for crises better served by men, now lives across the pond. Turns out though, that Tiny did make the full loop back to the house. He did not and does not seem at all uncomfortable, just he’s a million years old, and this happens. I understand. My arthritis has been screaming at me lately.
I do try to remember my friend Vince’s cheerful voice when I am out on these walks. He calls the dogs my Zen Walking Coaches. And they are, with Rebound yanking furiously at the sight of a cat, a squirrel, a leaf, an imagined whatever, and with Tiny dragging like and furry anchor set fast behind me, and with Dante by default representing The Middle Path.
Then last night, as I was getting ready to sleep, I had one more peek in on Tiny, asleep on his memory foam dog bed in the living room. We’d already done the ritual where I spoon him and remind him he’s safe. This was just a quick circle back round. And I said, “Tiny?” No response. Again– *“Tiny?"* Again no response.
Instead of taking into account the obvious– that as a Great Pyrenees it is Tiny’s duty to feign deafness always, I allowed circumstances to mess with my mind. I’d been fishing around for a new TV series to watch because I like to knit every day and watching TV and knitting go together nicely. Danny suggested *The Fall.* I gave it a whirl. I like the psychological aspects, but not all the physical violence, which is so creepy. And I could really do without all the corpse scenes. And I swore after the first episode I wouldn’t watch it again. But of course I did.
And so with a head full of crime TV it was that I looked at Tiny sprawled on the floor, eyes open, staring blankly, not responding. And I thought *He’s dead Jim!* Which again set me to making a mental list of what men I might call who’d be willing to dig a hole at this late hour, and did I even want to bury Tiny in the back yard. At which point of course Tiny let out a sigh and sort of scared the crap out of me.
Now here I sit, Tiny giving me *The Look*, telepathing he’s ready for another walk. I’m not so sure I agree with his assessment that his legs can handle it. But I do like his attitude.

rescue dogs Great Pyrenees

Today at Tiny Tales, praise and gratitude continue for the Big Boy. He is just so funny. He truly is a guard dog, and very much enjoys monitoring my every move, from typing to peeing to hooping. I took the above photo whilst lying upon my yoga mat.... — Today at Tiny Tales, praise and gratitude continue for the Big Boy. He is just so funny. He truly is a guard dog, and very much enjoys monitoring my every move, from typing to peeing to hooping. I took the above photo whilst lying upon my yoga mat. It is very important to Tiny that he be able to guard me here, too, when I am executing up and down dogs, pigeons and happy baby poses. I suppose that, just as he doesn’t want anyone else to injure me, he doesn’t want me to injure myself. Thank you, Tiny.
I know I am jinxing myself by reporting that the ongoing indoor festival known informally as Poop-a-Palooza, has slowed considerably. I can’t recall the last time Tiny dropped shit in the house, though let us all factor in that, now that I’m in my fifties, I often can’t remember what I did five minutes ago. Still, I’m pretty sure it’s been a solid three of four days since he left his trademark Hansel and Gretel ellipses of caca from his bed to the backdoor, as he has thus far been fond of doing. (Surely, sensing I’ve written this, it is only a matter of moments before he spells out *Gotcha!* in his signature softish stool all across the living room floor.)
In other news, I have had to admit that taking him on walks is kind of a bummer for Dante and Rebound and me. Tiny is so so so so SO slow that none of us actually gets exercise. Yesterday he was so unsteady on his feet that I cut our already shortened walk even shorter, dropped him off, then headed back out with the other two for a brisk jaunt around the park. We really needed it.
I worried a little that Tiny would be sad, home alone. Then I remembered an excellent t-shirt slogan I once saw that is this:
*Quit Anthropomorphizing the Animals– They Hate It.*
He seemed perfectly fine when we got back yesterday, perhaps he even enjoyed a little alone time. So today, I’m trying another experiment. Tiny is in the backyard, in the sunshine. I just caught him peeking in the backdoor. I have hidden myself and the others (by which I mean we are in the butt magnet otherwise known as my king sized memory foam bed). Once I get a glimpse of Tiny hopefully frolicking (in his own manner) out back, I will reassure myself that he is just fine and attempt one of the long walks that was part of our daily routine prior to his arrival. I hope it goes okay. It WILL go okay!
Side note: Perhaps in an effort to compensate for the relative lack of shit in the house of late, Rebound is in a lower quadrant of The Bed farting up a doggdamn storm. Her capacity for releasing gas is surely The Eighth Wonder of the World.
Love,
Spike

Tiny Tales Great Pyrenees dog rescue

spikegillespie

stillgotmyballs

Some mornings— not always but once in awhile— Tiny’s enthusiasm for life manifests as The Happy Dance. You know how sometimes you have a dream so intense that it informs your waking life the next day? Days like today I can only guess he spent the night dreaming he’s still a young stud. So he does his best to show us how he looked in his dreams.

In other news— still pooping like a champ in the house. He’s getting more creative. This week he did a Hansel & Gretel routine where he left a Trail o’ Turds from his fancy bed to the back door so he could easily find his way back.

Oh Tiny! You big slobber head you.

Tiny Tales Great Pyrenees dog rescue

Well no real new tricks over here. Tiny sort of learned how to jump through hoops, but this was more a combination of ample treats and accidental threshold crossing. Still, it was fun to watch.
On the Poop Front, he’s still shitting like a pony, a... — Well no real new tricks over here. Tiny sort of learned how to jump through hoops, but this was more a combination of ample treats and accidental threshold crossing. Still, it was fun to watch.
On the Poop Front, he’s still shitting like a pony, a champion pony. And still inside so that I don’t have to go out in the cold to deal with it. Very thoughtful really. I never stop loving my concrete floors, so thanks Tiny for the added opportunities for gratitude.
Oh, and we did manage one walk on the day it wasn’t too cold and windy. I’ll need to repeat the experiment before I can report accurate stats but I *think* Tiny might just be up to one mile per 58 minutes, which means he shaved two minutes off his old record. Not too shoddy.
We hope you’re all keeping warm and that you know that Three Dog Night doesn’t just refer to a band.
See ya next week.
Love,
Spike

Great Pyrenees rescue dogs austin spike gillespie

Happy Almost New Year Y'all. Tiny remains in a pleasant holding pattern. Sometimes he has to do a reverse butt surf to gain purchase up against the wall so he can stand up on his own. But you know, you do what you have to to stand up for... — Happy Almost New Year Y'all. Tiny remains in a pleasant holding pattern. Sometimes he has to do a reverse butt surf to gain purchase up against the wall so he can stand up on his own. But you know, you do what you have to to stand up for yourself.
His hobbies also are the same steady favorites: pooping inside after a nice long spell out in the yard, futilely attempting to hatch one-legged Baby Jesus, drooling exquisitely long strands of drool, giving us all The Look, and feigning deafness as it suits him. We also have a well-established bedtime ritual now, where he stretches out on his memory foam mattress and I semi-spoon him and tell him over and over he is home and he is safe. This makes us both feel great.
Tiny would like to remind you on this, the penultimate day of 2014, that there’s absolutely no use in trying to tie up the old year’s loose ends in a neat bow. If you do, you’ll just look ridiculous. He would also like to remind you something I told him that my dentist told me for years before I finally understood: *It’s never too late to have a happy childhood.* We will never know Tiny’s before story, we only have the now. And now, even though when he tries to prance like a puppy he usually falls over, hey, at least he’s still trying to prance like a puppy. He suggests you try doing the same.
A super wonderful New Year to y'all. Thank you so much for all the Tiny love and support. He really was our biggest surprise this year, wasn’t he?
Love,
Spike

Tiny Great Pyrenees rescue dogs happy new year

Tiny Tales

See, that’s what the app is perfect for.