Slow

Fast, fast, fast seems to be the American way. Whether it's food or cars or minutes of fame, we have developed a taste in our culture for big and speedy. This tendency lives strong in me, nurtured by a family culture of being in a hurry. When I eat with other people, I am embarrassed at the swiftness with which I clear my plate. When I hike with others, I often outstrip their speed and have come to value those who are quick-of-foot for walking companions. No matter how little I have to do, I find myself rushing through a list of tasks, as if the quickness with which I finish them is some measure of my worth.

Currently I am called to slowness by the recurrent struggle to keep my retina attached and thereby keep my vision. Attuned to speed, I've been finding the healing process irritating. Doctor's orders are to spend most of my time lying down and to refrain from exercise and heavy activity (lifting, digging in the garden, and so on), but I have places to go and things to do. My intellect can understand the need to slow down but my cells chafe at actually doing it.

In Montana, both at my sister's house and at my mom's, mountain trails lurk just outside the back door, seducing me to experience the joy of wild places. At my sister's the trail is closed to hikers allowing resident herds of elk a lower winter grazing area. At my mom's the trails are part of a city park open year around, and I cannot elude their siren call.

To hike a mountain trail in the snow and not raise one's heart rate and respiration much, one must be able to take a leisurely pace. While speed is sometimes of objective value, at other times it clearly is not. I have learned to value slow food and eschew its faster cousin, finding deepest satisfaction in eating what we have grown and prepared at home over food-like products we can procure through drive-up windows, even though a lot more short term effort is required.

I could not say no to the beauty of snowy mountain trails or the enthusiasm of canine companions about racing through sparkling powder. Charged with pacing myself, I took measured steps up the hill while dogs romped through drifts stalking deer or searching for perfect sticks. Frequently, I slowed my steps or stopped altogether. With no roses to smell, I was delighted instead by a heady pine scent, church spires rising between the evergreens, cool crisp air, and moments available to do nothing but appreciate it.

Life has been unarguably difficult these past few years and yet, still beautiful almost to a fault. With my endearing, eager, spirited pitbull girls – my Live Dogs Walking – I will continue the journey I began with my beloved Nicholai. Making the time and the moments in every day to see and feel and hear and be grateful for the magnificence of life.

One day at a time.

Slowly.

Live Dogs Walking

Walks with my dog Nicholai – my Dead Dog Walking – were a thing of beauty. The looming end of our time together due to his lymphoma pressed on each day, squeezing meaning from every moment. Beauty had always been there, mindfulness always a possibility, but often I tended to race through the days of my life toward some unknown destination, missing the simple goodness right in front of me.

The sensation of a finely tuned focus felt familiar from the months after I was diagnosed with cancer in 1995. Life's distractions fell from view and the acute blueness of an autumn sky or the exquisite gold of a leaf floating to the ground on a fall breeze gained my full attention. My office still needed to be tended, bills paid, meals fixed. But under the threat of impending demise, I allowed my appreciation to linger on the multitude of plain joys gracing every day, waiting only for me to notice. Time passed, it became clear that my demise was indeed not imminent, and the tendency to hurry through a day's activities in pursuit of an elusive new and improved future seduced me again. When my beloved dog was diagnosed with cancer and predicted to live only a few months, the precious nature of each day's simple pleasures came to the foreground another time.

Now Nicholai is dead and my touchstone to the temporal nature of our existence is gone. I find it terribly difficult to slow down and appreciate life's many gifts without the threat of death hanging over my head. Walking the pitbull duo – while enjoyable – falls often into the category of chore instead of sacred opportunity. Both they and I need exercise so we walk and, check, another item crossed off the to-do list. I'm on to the next item.

No day is ever guaranteed but the day in front of us; still it seems that innumerable walks, hikes, and adventures await me, Izzy, and Kelley. Thus, I allow my attention to wander, hurrying once again through miracles of drenching rain or crystal blue skies. Izzy barks maniacally for my attention and Kelley stares me down, quivering with the anticipation of a thrown ball and daring me to forget my to-do lists and just play.

My challenge over the coming months will be to come fully to the present. Though my dogs are young, their ability to live in the present is one of the greatest gifts they bring to me. So, even though Izzy and Kelley's moments don't seem stolen right out of the grim reaper's hand and thus somehow more precious, I hope to allow their passionate focus on "now" to seep into my very veins.

So, it's time for wool socks and hiking shoes, warm shirt and hat. The trail is calling.

Montana Christmas Eve

Last spring, I had the mixed pleasure of making three trips to Montana to see my sister. Mixed because while Montana is a beautiful place replete with hiking trails and I love my sister, she had just been diagnosed with breast cancer and I would have preferred to be visiting under other circumstances. For those trips, my buddy Nicholai accompanied me.

Back in Montana now, I retrace steps I took with Nicholai the last time we were here. Mr. Pickle stayed pretty much glued to my side and we hiked and walked together as I shared in numerous blog posts. But even when I went to the bathroom, Nicholai followed me there, camping out on the rug while I showered. I'll never know if he perceived the approach of the grim reaper and vulnerability drove him to my side, or if he simply chose closeness to his primary person out of preference, much as I chose closeness to my primary dog-friend. Perhaps he knew as well as I our time together was finite and wanted the most out of our relationship.

These Montana steps are the last ones waiting to be experienced for the first time without Nicholai. Our trips here together during the mountain spring were laden with poignant moments. Both Joan and I watched Nicholai make the most of every day while we contemplated the ravages of cancer. Nicholai's robustness so many months after his predicted demise infused weary humans with hope and a sense of empowerment. Along with Nicholai, we chowed down anti-oxidant packed veggies and hiked relentlessly, soaking up the song of the hills until our souls were filled.

Staring down the potential loss of Nicholai, I wondered what life would be like without him. I didn't know how I would proceed without a daily dose of my contemplative companion.

This morning I rose to a cold Christmas Eve day – sky, hills, and horizon all blue and white. While my sister ran with Kelley, I (still on activity restriction after eye surgery) walked with Izzy who was decked out in a red fleece jacket. A cold white moon hung in the wintery sky and a biting wind whipped around my face. I proceeded with one foot in front of the other.

I wish Nicholai was still here to enjoy life with me. But, no matter what happens, I find each day delivers at least one moment of beauty.

 

 

Commitment

After more than nine months writing daily posts, neglecting the blog these past two months leaves me feeling vaguely irresponsible. Nicholai was my touchstone, my daily walking meditation; without his presence I find myself sucked into the swirling vortex of a busy life. I miss the solid ground provided by paying attention with my big black dog. Perhaps now, off work due to another eye surgery, I will find quiet time for reflection during the dark days of winter.

When last I checked in here, we were in the midst of a struggle with our female pitbull dogs. Nicholai died, leaving a hole in the canine chain of command. Seven year old Isabella should have ascended gracefully to the position of Queen Dog and young Kelley should have acquiesced with gracious deference. Instead, Isabella swirled into hyperactive mode, barking insanely about each of the day's activities. She barked to induce us to get up in the morning, to open the door, to serve biscuits before breakfast, to go to the park, to throw a ball, to feed her bites of our meals. Often, it seemed, she just barked on general principle. With ears laid back, Kelley crept surreptitiously onto laps where she watched Izzy spin in circles making her demands. When Isabella's high-pitched frenetic barking became too much to bear, Kelley lit into her canine 'sister' with teeth and claws blazing. After three of these episodes where neither of the girls gave an ounce of ground and blood was drawn, I felt a sense of dread. Pitbull fanciers recommend just one dog of each gender to a household. A bit cockily perhaps, we had presumed we could mandate a peaceful existence between the girls despite any genetic whispers to the contrary lingering in their DNA.

We struck out in search of solutions that would allow us to keep both dogs. Some changes were simple – taking each dog on her own walk for instance. Requiring a little self-control from Izzy – while not simple, per se – was straightforward. We insisted (sometimes with a water filled squirt bottle in hand) that Izzy sit without barking before we opened the door, handed out biscuits, or tossed a ball. Izzy's eyes were wide and she trembled with the effort of containing her manic energy, but she did it.

Our veterinarian prescribed a Chinese herbal formula to pacify Isabella's wild physiology and a pheromone dispenser still metes out molecules of a chemical substance normally produced by dogs to send a calming signal to other animals in the area. These measures garnered a tentative accord between the girls. Still, we felt on edge and wondered when the next melee would occur.

I contacted a specialist in dog training and behavior who connected me with an animal communicator. Skeptical at best about the merits of animal communication (who does it, with what training, certification, or credentials, and how in the heck does it really work?), I felt we had nothing to lose.

According to the communicator, Isabella sees herself as separate from any canine pack hierarchy; she does not wish to be an 'alpha' dog. Izzy is just a girl who wants to have fun, and when the fun is over, she wants a warm lap to snuggle on without competition. No surprise there. The communicator told us Kelley felt uncertain about her place in our family. Nicholai's sudden departure left her uneasy; she didn't know what role she was to fulfill – was it Guard dog, playmate, or little sister? Was she meant to bark at visitors, to keep Izzy in line, or to protect the perimeter? We chatted for a while about roles and expectations then the communicator suddenly said, "Kelley doesn't know if you want to keep her."

I don't know if an animal communicator really talks to animals at all; perhaps if skillful, she simply pulls insights and feelings from the person she communicates with – in this case, me. But I chuckled in spite of myself. The communicator certainly hit on a truth about me. I found Kelley one fateful morning at Kelley Point Park and brought her home without thinking. Since then, we just kept her day after day without making a real decision; it took months for us to simply get her spayed. In a way, she'd been on unspoken probation all this time.

When I hung up the phone, I sat by Kelley. She looked up at me with her big brown eyes and I pictured the day she crept carefully across the parking lot toward me, just tossed out by her previous people. "I have loved you since that moment," I telegraphed to her with all my attention. I told her what a good dog she is and how much I value her. "I want you to stay forever. But to do that, you must find peace with Izzy."

Something is working: Izzy curtails – just barely – her frenzied behavior, perhaps she's helped by the herbs she takes or the pheromone signals. Kelley demonstrates numerous acts of gracious deference at the same time relaxing into her role as the much loved baby of the family. The girls are living side by side in peaceful harmony.

I don't know if the animal communicator nailed it for the dogs, but she sure nailed it for commitment-phobic me. Perhaps Kelley can relax now that she knows she's home for good. Without plan "B" which entails getting rid of Kelley, I am free to focus, not on if things work, but how they work. And for the first time since she moved in with us, both Kelley and I are free to love each other with abandon.

That may be the key to the peaceful kingdom.

Love under the Comforter

It was five o'clock in the morning. My room in a Minnesota friend's house was chilly, the fleece sheets and down comforter warm. But my bladder was chiding me about too many cups of chamomile tea late into the night and urged me from my cozy cocoon. I slipped out of the covers into the crisp air and tiptoed toward the bathroom.

No matter my soft tread, the six-month old puppy curled in her crate in the dining room jumped to attention. Even in the dim morning light I could see her eagerness – "You're up! You're up! You're UP!" I padded past to take care of business and I could hear the rattling of little feet against the metal crate door. "Let me out!" A part of me just wanted to crawl back to my warm bed and bury myself a while longer. But I thought – well, if my bladder's full, I'm sure she's ready for a potty break too. Plus she'd probably whine and wake my friend. So I quietly opened the crate door and led her outside, where sure enough, her bladder needed emptying too.

The morning was cold and the wind blustering, so the slim black pup raced back inside. She hurried past me and raced back to the room I was staying in where she leapt with the effortless grace of youth onto the bed. When I climbed in next to her, she wriggled and chewed on my hand. I was hoping for a bit more sleep, I thought a tad wearily, though the velvety squirming presence was not unwelcome. I snuggled up to her and in about a minute and half, she fell asleep, her teeth still around my fingers. In another minute, she buried her head against my chest and began to snore, giving herself to me completely, without reserve.

Recently adopted by my friends, this little dog has no reason – by human figuring – to trust her heart and body to me. But she doesn't reason like a human, she makes decisions based on the present and doesn't require knowledge of religion, politics, employment, or future intentions. She can be available to love fully just for right now, just for this cold Minnesota morning snuggle.
 

Dogs are unencumbered by the workings of a pre-frontal cortex and because of that are free from ruminations about future consequences of their actions. Not so for us humans; we are required by the structure and strength of our brains to contemplate all kinds of factors, and how such factors may affect the long term success of any relationship before we commit our hearts to unbridled love. We need to maintain some boundaries, we have responsibilities.

Snuggled under the comforter, I knew the length of my relationship with puppy Lydia to be approximately three more days. I marveled at her doggish trust and gave a thought to the difficulty we humans have loving each other without complication. I decided to try to be more present in my human interactions, a little less concerned about impressions and consequences. Lydia snored loudly, her small body pressed into my abdomen and her breath warm on my chest. I knew this relationship wouldn't last, but no matter; I did something very canine. I gave my heart to her one hundred percent.

Soul of a Bouncer

A third bloom has joined the first two on the anthurium, a shiny, young new bloom. Once again, I picture Nicholai joining his surrogate dog-moms, Kali and Molly, out in Heaven. I don't know this is true - in fact I doubt it - but I like the picture anyway.

We miss our big black bouncer who - we come to find out - was a staunch mitigating force between the pitbull girls. Day before yesterday, Kelley made her play for "Number One Dog" by jumping on Izzy and attempting to bite her face off. We'd seen the little bits of jealousy, the plays for the front seat, or snuggles on a lap, much like a couple of siblings jockeying to be the favorite child.
"Mom likes me best!" they occasionally seemed to say, and we were careful to dole out attention evenly and require some deference from the new kid on the block.

Kelley has been cooling her heels at her auntie's house since her ill-fated attempt at domination. We all adore her - sweet and soft and uber-cuddly. Every evening, she comes upstairs to snuggle with Tim and listen to his bedtime story. But it's going to have to work between a hyperactive hyper-energetic female who has always had an "in-your-face" style - though not a single altercation with another dog in six and a half years - and a feisty, strong, game-on style female who clearly wants to be top dog. Nicholai managed this dynamic for us, and we knew it; I guess we just hoped the girls could and would work out a peaceable truce without him. Apparently, not.

As Timmy said, distraught on Sunday at the thought of losing Kelley, "Why did Nicholai have to die so soon?" Darn it all, I'd love the answer to that one - and a host of others while we're at it.

For now, I notice the anthurium and I think to myself Nicholai's both where he needs to be, and with me. After initially thinking the only solution to the females' rivalry is re-homing Kelley, I've decided to pull a little of the bouncer from his storage spot in my heart. If he's here with me - and I choose to think he is - I'm going to use his sensible dog-logic. I'm going to become the mitigating force between the girl dogs.

When Kelley comes back home, stricter rules will apply. Izzy has top billing - on the couch, the bed, the car. Kelley needs to wait at doorways for me instead of crashing ahead like a locomotive, in fact Kelley and I need to head off to formal obedience training. Izzy has got to reign in her frenetic excitement when she can, and when she can't, we've got to give each dog some space. For a while, I provided them with individual adventure walks. Due to the time-sucking nature of that effort, walks had become combined - seven days a week. And that's not working.

Come on Nicholai, if you're out there somewhere hanging' with St. Francis, lend me a hand. I want a peaceable kingdom.

St. Francis' Day

Exactly two months ago, Nicholai woke up in the wee hours with his breath ragged. The time had come to make his way up and over the rainbow bridge and he strained with the effort.

Today marks the Feast of St. Francis, the patron saint of animals and the environment, the monk who preached loving tolerance for all god's creatures. He was said to preach to the birds and to have given blessing to a wolf who was plundering a local village. Francis preached to humans and animals the universal ability of all creatures to praise God and the duty of men to protect and enjoy nature as stewards of creation and ourselves.

In today's world, where money seems to have become our greatest deity and we see the world and all her creatures as ours to use up as we see fit, it might behoove us to bring to mind the image of a man who pledged to live a simple life, to forsake money and to embrace all of creation. Whether he succeeded perfectly, we cannot know, but perhaps the inspiration can help us now when we need to find a way to harmony of man, beast, and earth.

I hope that Mr. Nickle-Pickle has met up with good St. Francis on his travels. Francis might provide a healing blessing for Nicholai and perhaps Nicholai will carry my hopeful prayer for the soul of humanity to the patron saint of beasts.

May we change our collective mind and heart before time runs out. "All praise to you, oh Lord, for Brother Sun and Sister Moon, Mother Earth and Brother Fire, for all these brother and sister creatures."

Syntax and Grammar

Traditional wisdom would have it that "man," or humans, are the most intelligent life form on earth. We, the humans, believe that our larger brains (relative to body mass, dolphins and whales actually have bigger brains) confer us with greater intelligence. I would point to simple behavioral attributes of humans – war, pestilence, environmental degradation – and make the case that perhaps brain size is overrated, but I digress.

Language is often pointed to as the coup d'état proving man's superiority to beasts. Surely, if animals were so smart we argue, they would develop language, but alas, they don't. We shake our heads at their sweet but dumb simplicity. Poor things.

I've lived with wolves in my parlor for many years. Initially, I appreciated how they learned a little English with their inferior canine brains: sit, down, stay, and occasionally, when they wanted to, come. Oh, yeah, and w-a-l-k, c-a-r, and g-o. And then alk-way, ar-cay, and o-gay. Not that they were smart or anything, learning to interpret spoken and spelled English as a second language not only across culture but across species.

As time went by, we noticed we were spelling more words as our dumb dogs' English vocabularies grew. I noticed that I could say things like "Go find Maya," and Nicholai would dash to the car, seeming to understand we'd need to drive to Maya's house to find her. It seemed a lot to put together for an inferior mind and I became more impressed with the dogs' understanding of our language. On many a w-a-l-k with Nicholai, he appeared to read my mind, reacting to my thoughts even when we were not connected by a leash. Once I noticed a dark hooded figure skulking along the edge of the brush in the distance. Nicholai was sniffing driftwood about two hundred feet away from me, but at the moment I decided the mysterious person was suspicious, he lifted his head and glanced not toward me, but toward the figure, and raised his hackles. I imagined he felt a molecular shift in my energy or smelled a change in my chemistry, but how did he know about the dubious character? Not via language as we tend to think of it, but it seemed pretty sophisticated communication.

I began to observe the dogs more closely – their interactions with each other as well as with us. They don't use words like we do, but goodness me, they utilize countless variations of motion and stance, ear placement, eye direction, tail carriage, woof, ruff, bark, whine, and growl. A deaf man once commented to me (in sign language) that people with normal hearing have a repertoire of body language and facial expression roughly equivalent to a wooden Indian, relying heavily, as we do, on the spoken word. With a chuckle, I remembered his comment as I watched Nicholai communicate with my non-dog owning brother one day during a Christmas visit.

Joe plunked down on the couch and set a large blueberry muffin on the end table beside him. Nicholai trotted over and sat squarely in front of Joe, facing him. I didn't pay much attention, reading a book in a rocking chair nearby. After a couple of minutes, my brother asked with a nervous chuckle, "Uh, Mary, why is Nicholai staring at me?" Raising my eyes over my book, I looked at Nicholai. Joe looked at me with raised eyebrows and a shrug.

Nicholai sat erect and purposeful, staring at Joe. His gaze was soft, his ears alert, but relaxed. His tail wagged gently on the floor behind him; "I come in peace, but with a purpose" by all accounts. He stared at Joe's face, then raised one eyebrow and flicked his eyes toward the end table, subtle, but unmistakable; then lowered the eyebrow and returned his gaze to Joe. I laughed out loud. "Joe, you're smart," I said. "You're a scientist, you figure it out." I went back to my book. A moment later, I heard Joe laugh. "Ohh. He wants my muffin. Should I give him some?" "Entirely up to you."

Nicholai's meaning was crystal clear, syntax, grammar, even etiquette appeared present. So I wonder, do animals really not use language, or are we – like the stereotypical hearing person – just too "wooden" in our approach to see any language other than our own?

 

 

Threads

What is it that some of us love about animals so much? Why do I, a college-educated professional and parent, find my heart so deeply intertwined with the lives and hearts of animals? I could move on to contemplate more important things leaving Nicholai's life behind; he was after all, just a dog.

There's the fact that we need animals to live. For millennia they've provided humans with food and clothing, and in the most recent tens of thousands of years, with working partnerships in hunting, herding, and protection. We've domesticated some animals and formed alliances with other once-wild animals to our mutual benefit. So, I guess the first answer is simple. Even if we don't eat animals, we still need them to live.

I depend on animals for more. Whether I'm feeding the squirrels in the back yard (a plentiful population, especially without a prey-driven black dog guarding the perimeter), clucking at the chickens with left over corn-on-the-cob in hand, observing a spiny reptilian bearded dragon lounging on a rock, or enjoying a snuggle on the couch with my favorite canine companions, there is soul feeding that goes on for me. Each of these critters, wild and domestic, captive and free, connects me to the complicated labyrinth of the living world, removing me – if just for a moment – from the world created solely by and for humans. When life seems ridiculous in its difficulty and unfair in meting out challenges and blessings; when words and expectations pollute candid exchange of emotions between people, I find solace in the honest company of animal companions. Their unconditional love weaves me firmly into the world by shining threads; strands so slim as to evade notice, but strong as steel and silk.

A quilt hangs in our dining room stitching connection between lives over distance; threads speaking quietly of movement across seasons and years and decades. The quilt's maker was once a friend but our ships sailed apart long ago. Yesterday I learned she committed suicide just a few days ago. I have no knowledge of the struggles and pain that guided her hand and after five and a half decades of living, no arrogance with which to judge her actions. Only a tender awareness of fibers tugging at my viscera and a fleeting image of filmy white cotton fluttering in the breeze.

I've questioned the value of my individual life, wondered at the worth of putting one foot in front of another in the hardest of my times. I am grateful for the wordless love of plain dogs. Love that anchors my feet to grassy fields and sandy beaches, weaves my heart to the first crocuses of spring and the last crimson leaf of fall, entwines my arms in furry hugs, and knits wet-nosed kisses firmly to my cheek each morning.

Most days, life enthralls me in all its color and complexity. But on some days, the filaments of love offered by a dog are pretty much what get me through.

 

 

 

 

Brother Dog

"Oh Nicholai, I loved you so-o-,

I wonder why, you had to go-o-o.

I feel so lonely now that you're gone,

Oh Nicholai, why did you go?"

The home-made tune wafted to me over air rushing through partly open car windows and whining girl-dogs as we sped along the highway to the Sandy River. Blue sky overhead, sunshine, tennis balls, and a plastic bucket for berry-picking, we were set for a lovely upbeat morning. I joined Tim in his ode to a Dead Dog, my heart light. After a couple repeats, we sank into silence except for the panting of the girls, their eyes on the road ahead, quivering with anticipation.

"We're almost there; could you grab the balls please?" No answer from my talkative-to-a-fault kid. A glance in the rear view mirror showed a sobbing nine-year-old. I reached my hand between the seats. "Oh, bub," I said. "I'm sorry, I miss him too."

"I don't feel as brave as when he was here. Even if he was away with you, I still felt braver than I feel now." More sobs. "I've known for almost my whole life, he was my brother!" What can I say? "Why did he have to die too soon?" Hell if I know. "I hope he waits in Heaven for me to get there; I hope he doesn't go away."

When Tim came to live with us, he was three and a half years old and we constituted his ninth home. That's right – nine homes in three years. Birth parents, foster homes, a failed adoptive home, more foster homes. He was the poster child for attachment problems and at the tender age of three, came with a warning – "can be cruel to animals." Into our household he came, where not only a sibling but four dogs greeted him. Over weeks and months of trials and tribulations, we struggled to gain his confidence and rebuild the trust so severely broken before we ever met him. We supervised every canine-child moment for fear of harm one way or another. Then one day as Tim cried heartfelt tears over lost families, he recited a litany of names – every lost dog and cat family member since he had conscious memory. I was struck with the realization that his "cruelty" was born of the need to repel the instant and deep connection animals offered him. Experience had shown him clearly that forging bonds of love was a wasted effort, doomed only to heartbreak. Hence the pushing, shoving, kicking – keeping those damned critters out of his bruised, but not entirely broken, heart.

Our dogs won him over, one by one. And now, one by one, he's had to say good bye, not as he's shuttled to another home, but as his dogblings take their final and inevitable curtain calls. His open grief over losing his brother and protector Nicholai is a yardstick by which I can see how far he's come in the heart department.

We held hands and sang another verse to Brother Dog.

"Oh Nicholai up in the sky,

Watch over us with your loving eye.

Don't forget us, though we're left behind,

And please wait for us wherever you are."

 

 

 

Maltese?

I'm trying to square memories of Nicholai with images of diminutive white fluff balls called "Maltese." Lapdogs of royalty for centuries, it's impossible for me to find a remnant of this 4-7 pound doglet in my nearly hundred pound personal protector and rabbit eater. Maltese – really?

Don't get me wrong, I find lapdogs cute and cuddly. I imagine one day in a few decades a petite canine will be the perfect companion for this will-be old lady. The thing is, Nicholai was a great big, burly, wild, watchful, sometimes fierce, large, black buddy. How would a Maltese ever get in there? It just wouldn't be right.

The other oddity is that we knew Nicholai's parentage on the maternal side. Mom was what any person with half an education in dog breeds would label a "pitbull." And while pitbull is more a type than a strict breed, with lots of breed tweaking going on in back yards, I doubt any breeder of pitbulls anywhere at any time added a dab of Maltese to his or her line of dogs. I suppose the Dachshund might have gotten together with the Maltese over a back fence somewhere back in the ancestral lineage – at least it is a physical possibility.

We laughed about it when Nicholai was here, so implausible it seemed that he was descended from a pocket-sized prince of a toy dog. I know genetics are complicated and genes might or might not express themselves for generations, showing up as a blue eye, or a curled tail, or a splash of white in a black coat.

Mostly moot now that he's gone, we just chuckle at how Maltese Nicholai wasn't.

DNA of the Bully Girls

Ostensibly, Izzy and Kelley belong to the same breed, or perhaps I should say breed group. Most folks on the street identify each of them as pitbull, or they cock their heads to one side, raise an eyebrow, and ask – "What kind of dog is that?"

The bully girls look nothing alike. If they represent one breed – the American Pitbull Terrier – one wonders how a breed standard would be defined. Izzy is compact and muscular, deep-chested, narrow waisted, with a small head, narrow muzzle, and comical upright pointy ears. I once told someone she was an Egyptian Pharaoh Hound as a lark – and they totally believed it. Kelly is long and lean, well-proportioned, moderate in head and muzzle with half-prick ears. Both girls have fairly classic "pitbull" markings –white toes, white chests, narrow white blazes on the face and cute little white diamonds on the back of the neck. When I look at either of them I see pitbull, but I cock my head to the side too, and wonder – who else is in there?

According to Bio-Pet's DNA test (a swab of the inside of the cheek) the answer to the mystery is as follows.
Bulldog, American Staffordshire Terrier, and Papillon

Izzy's ancestry is Bulldog, American Staffordshire terrier, and Papillon. Bulldog is believable and likely accurate. The bully breeds are called such for a reason – they are all descended one way or another from bulldogs. However, there are upwards of a dozen bulldog breeds – Olde English Bulldogges, American Bulldogs, Valley Bulldogs, French Bulldogs, Alapaha Blue Blood Bulldogs, and … well, you get the picture. So, which bulldog line is Izzy from? She appears to carry traits of the American Staffordshire terrier (Am-Staf). Strong, athletic, active, and very friendly with people; she is notably neither protective nor dog-aggressive, both traits for which the American Staffordshire terrier is famously known. Papillons are described as calm and patient; neither is a term that ever comes to mind when I set out to describe Izzy's personality. Perhaps her small round head, narrow snout, and erect ears are contributions from the Papillon line.
Bulldog, Boston and Bull terriers. Labrador,and Mastiff

Kelley turns out to be a mix of four bully breeds and a Labrador retriever. Boston terrier, Bulldog (see above), Bull terrier (we think her snout took design elements from this group), Mastiff, and Lab are the breeds who theoretically make her who she is. Kelley is strong and athletic (bulldog breeds) and she love, Love, LOVES (did I mention loves?)
to retrieve balls, toys, sticks – or any other item in a pinch. She was born to swim, smooth and efficient in the water, and she'll swim till she's hypothermic if I let her, so Labrador retriever, I think, is quite likely.

The girls' DNA results seem plausible when compared to Mr. Nicholai's. I can actually see the Mastiff or the Lab or the Bull terrier in Kelley. Isabella is most certainly largely "pitbull" – that being reflected by the Bulldog and the Am-Staf.

I'm still struggling to find signs of either Dachshund or Maltese in my big 'ole black dog. If those were his ancestors I can't see it, but I do get a chuckle out of it.

Who’s In There? DNA Breed Results

During the ten-plus years of Nicholai's life, we often wondered what breeds made up our sometimes sensitive, occasionally aggressive, always protective, soft-touch of a hundred pound dog. He looked to the casual observer – even dog-savvy ones – to be largely black Labrador retriever. However, retrieving wasn't really his shtick and while I described him as a black Lab mix myself a thousand times, I had my doubts. What breeds do you see?

Nicholai had a short coat with hints of an undercoat, a thick ruff at the neck, feathers on the back legs and a bit of brush to the tail he often held over his back with a slight curl. Then there was his goofy big pink tongue with giant black spots. Many people argued those spots to be a definitive sign of Chow, but I have personally seen many other dogs, including purebred dogs, with black markings on the tongue.

Personality and temperament seemed to rule out the Labrador retriever most people mistook him for. He wasn't affable or easy-going, didn't much like to retrieve, and was quite circumspect when it came to strangers. He loved to hunt small mammals – and eat them. He was impatient with dog parks and crowds, sensitive to moods and raised voices. He loved a den and retreated to quiet out of the way spots around our house and yard – behind the washer in the basement and under the work table in the greenhouse were his favorite hideouts. He was devoted to his people, loving, affectionate, and soft of mouth. We adored him and he adored us, but everyone else raised his suspicions and he maintained a keen sense of proprietorship over home, grounds, and family. When he was younger, I sometimes took our old three-legged dog on outings with us, hauling her in an all-terrain wagon. Nicholai would not allow any dog – no matter how friendly – to approach his Molly in her wagon.

All along we guessed Nicholai to be some kind of mix of pitbull – based on his mother, and Lab – based on his looks. We speculated about Akita, Chow, and Rottweiler with occasional conjecture about mastiff, bulldog, or shepherds. Here is what we found out.

When we tore open the results in anticipation, we were initially disappointed. "Send them back," I declared, "they must have switched samples." According to the test we used (Bio-Pet, accuracy unknown), the following breeds were present in Mr. Nichol-Pickle (in descending order): Rhodesian ridgeback and Dachshund; Afghan hound, Chow-chow, and Chinese Sharpei; and finally, unbelievably, Maltese.

On examination, it turns out all the breeds (except Maltese) have characteristics that really could have been our Nicholai. "Aloof," "protective," "suspicious," "territorial," and "excellent guard dog" came up with four of the six. Afghan hounds, Rhodesian ridgebacks and Dachshunds are all hunters of small animals with high prey drives. Chows have a ruff like the mane of a lion and they and Sharpeis are known for a dark purple-to-black tongue. Clearly, the Rhodesian ridgeback won hands-down in the size category, the only dog on Nicholai's genetic history list to reach 85-90 pounds. Maltese? Cute and fluffy, thrive on attention – hmm, can't see it.
I'm thinking a Maltese would have it's advantages as a lap dog.

I don't know if the test is accurate and in the end, I don't care. I care little for breed (or racial) purity. My kids were adopted from foster care and our dogs' pedigrees were built on the street – from whence they hailed. So whether Nicolai was Lab or pitbull, Rhodesian ridgeback or Maltese (??), the point was that I loved him and he loved me. We shared a moment on the journey of life.

But it's fun to speculate about the ancestors in his family tree, and perhaps gain a tad of insight to the dog I cherished.

Silent Spring

In spite of the fact Nicholai's lymphoma finally took him away, in spite of our inability to cure him, in spite of how frightening a cancer diagnosis is; I still believe the answer – the cure – for cancer lies outside of pharmaceutical approaches. It continues to befuddle me that in our mainstream treatment approaches, we add more burden and more toxins to bodies already compromised. As far as I can see, the most critical area for reducing the incidence and fatality from cancer is in prevention. And the most important part of prevention is cleaning up our nest.

Nearly fifty years ago, Rachel Carson wrote a book called Silent Spring. Carson exposed the dangers of pesticide use to the public in unprecedented numbers. "Silent Spring" referred to an eerie kind of silence like the one a gardener described to Carson about a mosquito control campaign that resulted in a mass death of song birds around her home. Those that lay scattered around her DDT contaminated birdbath had perished in a posture of grotesque convulsion: legs drawn up to their breast, mouths gaping open. Published in 1962, her book and the ensuing outcry eventually led to a ban on the use of DDT in the U.S. Sadly, much DDT had already been released into the environment and is still in use around the globe. Those born in the 40's 50's 60's and 70's have experienced exposures during their prenatal, infant, toddler, and for some, teen and young adult development.

The rapid birthrate of petrochemicals began in the 1940's and quickly overwhelmed the ability of government to oversee. In 1972 DDT was finally banned. In 1976, Congress passed the Toxic Substances Control Act (TSCA) which mandated a review of new chemicals. There was just one glitch in this system: the entire inventory – 62,000 chemicals already in use – was exempt from testing. And today, they still are. They still are.

My beloved dog just died of cancer and my dear sister (born in 1958 into a DDT-happy world) struggles against its ravage right now. After four decades, most chemicals in use in our food, clothes, cars, homes; most chemicals invading the soil, water, and the very air we breathe, have never been vetted. This has to change and we have to demand that it change.
Recycled glass instead of plastic

In honor of my Pickle, I will continue my small in-home crusade to eliminate the invasion of potentially toxic chemicals; room by room, looking at paints and plastics, cleaners and containers, air fresheners, fabrics, and ingredient labels for everything.

I cannot, on my own, even begin to hope to purge our home of every toxin. As long as they are used anywhere, chemicals will travel via wind and rain to wherever I am – even the mountain tops and the Arctic Circle now suffer contamination from substances used hundreds, or thousands, of miles away.

But in my little corner of the world, I'll be doing my part to cleanse the nest in which I – in which we – all abide.

Eggs

Out of respect for my Dead Dog Dancing in the Sky, dear Nichol-bubba, and out of concern for all of us, I've got to comment about eggs and Salmonella. Reports of contaminated eggs have rung from the television and internet with a slightly hysterical tone. "Be afraid," they seem to me to say, "Be very afraid of your food."

The scoop: 228 million eggs were recalled for suspected Salmonella contamination. All the eggs in question were produced in Galt, Iowa by Wright County Egg. Today, in our gas-guzzling food production system, those eggs have been distributed far and wide under more than a dozen brand names – including Lucerne, Albertson's, Farm Fresh (fresh, I doubt it), and many more. And yes, we should be afraid of industrial eggs. Science shows that forcing hens to suffer inside cramped cages increases Salmonella risk compared to keeping hens in a cage-free environment. Each of the nearly 280 million caged hens cannot even spread her wings, living in less space than a sheet of paper.

This is the reason we began our home-grown chicken project about seven years ago. We wanted fresh eggs from healthy happy hens. The healthy part's a no-brainer. Who wants Salmonella or other contaminants in their food? Unhealthy hens cannot make healthy eggs, period. In addition, I firmly believe that suffering comes right up the food chain to us one way or another, just as life and beauty can come bountifully our way along with protein, vitamins, and minerals.

Nicholai seemed to hold affection for his chickens. He protected them, like he protected us, waking us at night if he heard any disturbance. For a time we kept a couple of roosters and Nicholai was all about keeping them in line (one of the guys was a bully, the other a soft-touch). One day, I heard the bird-boys fighting and rushed into the run, failing to latch the gate behind me. Nicholai followed at my heels and rushed past me, past the cowering hens, and jumped on the offender, holding him down till I arrived. Momentarily I panicked, thinking my good boy was going to murder the cocky rooster. But in a second I could see he was merely holding him down, insisting he surrender; when a hundred pound dog pounces on a bird and doesn't hurt it, you know he didn't mean to.

Nicholai quickly put two and two together and deduced that yummy eggs came out of the chicken coop, whether he knew the hens made them, I don't know. But on many a nice evening, chickens and dogs would gather around the outside table hoping for (and getting) scraps from our dinner. While Nicholai chomped his Sunday afternoon recreational meaty bones in the back yard, the hens would putz around, pecking delights from the grass nearby.

Chickens are meant to have chicken lives, not live as perpetual prisoners, suffering every day of their lives. No wonder eggs become contaminated. And labels so often tell a half-truth, if any truth at all.

But we have other options. We don't have to be afraid of food but we should be afraid of our current food system. We can do a smidge of homework, know our farmer, visit the farm, have our own chickens. We can make it different for all the dogs like Nicholai who will die untimely deaths from cancer.

We can make it different for all of us.

Three Blooms Instead of Two

Two blooms appeared on each of our tropical houseplants – two orchids and one anthureum – in the week before Nicholai died. Two blooms each. The anthureum hadn't bloomed since it was purchased years previous, the same for the luscious smelling mauve orchid. The third was an orchid I purchased immediately upon learning of Nicholai's diagnosis in 2009. After the initial flowers faded, it too remained bloomless, calling into question our family's collective green thumbs – at least when it came to delicate tropical plants.

I didn't assign particular meaning to the simultaneous appearance of two blooms on each plant (why two?), but was touched by the coincidence. It was as if life noticed the passing of my sweet boy-dog and presented a gift in remembrance – like the friends and family who sent flowers and cards.

Meanwhile, I've wondered where Nicholai's soul is; where all of us go when we die. I watch and wait for a sign or a feeling, something to tell me everything's alright, that my Nichol-bubba has made it safe and sound to … somewhere safe and sound. I want to know that he's okay, and selfishly, I want to feel him with me, at least in an ethereal way.

Nicholai grew up with two older female Lab mixes who were mentors, friends, and surrogate moms to him. Kali taught him to guard the perimeter and bark at every passer-by. Molly tolerated each puppy antic and adolescent faux-pas, allowing tiny and then substantial Nicholai to snuggle close whenever he felt the need. Kali died nearly five years ago and Nicholai assumed the official role of guard-dog-in-chief. When Molly died just before Christmas three years ago, Nicholai mourned for two long days, pawing my arm, leaning his head on my shoulder nuzzling my cheek with his wet nose, whining and howling at intermittent intervals all day and night. I'd say he loved her.

This morning I noticed a small third blossom on the fragrant deep pink orchid. Just one additional blossom beginning to open its petals, making three where a couple weeks ago there were only two.

Again I am reluctant to ascribe mystery and meaning where there mightn't be any. But I've been asking for a sign to know that Nicholai has arrived at his next destination, that he's safe and happy. Perhaps the flowers are helping me to understand what my rational mind cannot.

I choose to take the budding orchid as a missive from my best guy. Nichol-Pickle is safely on his journey and Kali and Molly have been there to guide him on the way.

I have three delightful, aromatic flowers as my symbol that all will be well.

House Keys

In recent weeks, I've had to locate my house key. Only a fool would have entered the house with a hundred pound black dog lunging and barking furiously at them ala Hound of the Baskervilles, so keys became a moot point and the back door was always open. When our oldest boy first came to live with us (adopted from the foster care system and hence a traumatic early life), he constructed numerous booby traps day after day in preparation for "when the bad guys come." One evening I said, "Do you think any bad guys can actually get in our house?" His eyes narrowed as he turned to glare at me. "I mean, they'd have to get past Nicholai." His eyes widened. He looked at Nicholai, then back at me, considering. "Really, B, he hears people walking by in the street. No one can get in without us knowing." Very slow to trust adults – and people in general – he regarded me again with suspicious eyes, studied Nicholai then shoved his pile of rope and sticks and duct tape and miscellaneous pieces of plastic broken stuff back into his toy bin. A wide smile spread slowly across his face.

A year later, Nicholai woke us in the middle of a summer night with furious deep-throated barking. I looked out through the guest room window to see a dark figure attempting to force open the front gate. "We're going out," I hollered to my partner, then "come on Nickle!" I glimpsed the mysterious hands begin to push the gate closed again. Nicholai bounded ahead of me when I opened the front door and charged the gate with fury. I followed behind, baffled as I watched a car back out of the neighbors' drive, slow while a young man in the street jumped in, and then speed away. The next morning I learned from a police officer visiting our neighbors that genuine bad guys had been cruising the area the night before, breaking into cars one by one and cleaning them out. Nicholai's barked warning and our charge to the street had ended their spree. Nicholai gained credibility and respect that day as a bona fide guard dog and both boys slept better knowing he was watching out for us.
Watching

Now he's gone and I have to find my house keys, lock the doors, and stop leaving my wallet or other valuables in plain sight in the car. Tim frets at night, tosses and turns, and says, "I miss my protector dog." Out on the trail all alone, I have to put my sixth sense back in gear for the girls are not protectors, they are fetch-nuts.

Everything happens as it should. I needed a guard, a protector and a quiet confidant this past decade – and life sent me one. His departure begs a question; how will life change now? I feel an opening, to what I am not sure. But my body guard has left, making me more available, and so I wonder, available to what?

Angels in the Cottonwoods

As I walked along the Columbia beach, the fetch-driven girls racing up and down the shoreline in slavish pursuit of chucked orange balls, the morning sunshine glinted off the water. I bent to retrieve yet another ball dropped at my feet and straightened to see my shadow shimmering on the beach, see-through in the dancing rays. Shifting to the left and to the right and raising my arms up and down, my shadow remained translucent in a way I've never seen before.

I swung the chuck-it in a giant arc to send the next toss careening down the beach and as I watched the ball fly, I took in the sparkle at the tops of the cottonwood trees as sunlight danced with leaves. Warmth coalesced in my chest and rose to my face, erupting in a wide smile. I saw, or almost saw, or anyway, thought, angel dogs were lying high in the trees, wide dog-smiles on their faces.

Nicholai was there, the idea of him anyway, happy to be reunited with his friends. And happy too, to see me play on the beach. Molly, my dear departed three-legged dog was there with him, laughing; at least I like to think so.

Maybe it was the sun's golden play or the leaves' saucy rumba in the breeze, but a cheerful gladness took me for a moment, and for the first time since Nicholai died, I felt at peace for him and for me.

Angel Nicholai, or the idea, looked happy laying near the Molly he so loved. Molly's jovial countenance reminded me I need to finish my book, which has languished for the past few months, forgotten almost, in thoughts of cancer, fears of loss, and great sadness. I saw, or thought I saw, or felt anyway, a glimmer of other old dog-friends, now angels, in the trees.

Thank you, Mary Oliver for the images of angels in trees. This morning they were – I think – all around me.

Angels and Trees

We're still talking about Nicholai around here, especially the youngest and me. We miss our "bubba" and can't help wondering about the nature of life after death – specifically, where is Nicholai now, and what is he doing?

For my part, I tend to be a Doubting Thomas. (For those of you who didn't grow up Catholic, Thomas was the apostle who didn't believe Jesus had risen by hearing the tale, he needed to put his own hands in the wounds. He was a scientific, see-for-yourself, proof kind of guy.) I don't imagine how there's a heaven that a)can fit all the souls who come and go over millennia, b)isn't incredibly boring – an eternity of harp strumming?, and c)has never been able to be found or shown or measured or … well, you can see how I am. I told Tim I doubted Nicholai existed as his dog-self but in see-through ghost form; I figure he's more particles of light or energy, maybe the impulse for a new life to be formed.

Tim's response was there's a lot more to outer space than the sky we can see from earth; he figures space goes on for infinity like all the souls, so heaven is out there with plenty of room for everyone. He is sure – without any proof – Nicholai is with Molly and Kali and his other departed dog friends and they are all waiting for us. His red-eyed certainty made me teary, I responded at least if Nicholai is hanging out in verdant celestial fields, he is no longer bothered by annoying tumors or difficult breath, he's vigorous and having a great time (I hope).

An acquaintance from outrigger canoe paddling days is currently struggling with pancreatic cancer. Thanks to her for sharing this poem by Mary Oliver, it touches just the right spot in my questioning, healing heart.

About Angels and About Trees by Mary Oliver

 

Where do angels

fly in the firmament,

and how many can dance

on the head of a pin?

 

Well, I don't' care

about that pin dance.

what I know is that

they rest, sometimes,

in the tops of the trees

 

and you can see them,

or almost see them

or, anyway, think: what a

wonderful idea.

 

I have lost as you and

others have possibly lost a

beloved one,

and wonder, where are they now?

 

The trees, anyway, are

miraculous, full of

angels (ideas); even

empty they are a

good place to look, to put

the heart at rest – all those

leaves breathing the air, so

 

peaceful and diligent, and certainly

ready to be

the resting place of

strange, winged creatures

that we, in this world, have loved.

Stardust in a Midnight Sky

There's nothing for it at this point, I have to acknowledge: my dog is dead and no longer walking. How I tense at this admission, how I long to avoid it, how I want to hold onto Mr. Pickle through this blog. I feel my fingers curling tight around its edges, clutching with all my might, reluctant to ease my grip lest the last vestige of my buddy evaporate like morning fog dissipates in sun.

At break of day tomorrow I plan to slip out to our old haunt by the Sandy River, a smattering of ashes in my pocket. Nicholai and I spent numerous hours on many days, in and out of months and seasons, over the better part of six years, seeking refuge on the abandoned roads and trails in this area. Together we hiked and ran, waded and swam, listened to eagles call, watched coyotes slip into brush, met each other's eyes, shared a love of walking on the wild side.

I will largely retire this walking route now that my main man is not by my side. The girls are happy to romp at nearer spots or hike with me at Forest Park or on Gorge trails, and I long to do so. In addition, the once forgotten area Nicholai and I found to roam has recently been "improved" with asphalt biking trails and no-dogs-allowed wetlands areas. Funny, how timing works.

But I must return there at least once more with a bit of Nicholai in hand. And once there, I must open my clasping fingers and let his ashes fly. He was a wild thing and I will feel some peace knowing I have let a bit of him float on the breeze and come to rest in some of his, and my, most favorite spots.

Few posts on Dead Dog Walking remain. Nicholai is now a Dead Dog – shimmering particles of stardust dancing in a midnight sky. Though my heart still aches at his absence, I must let him go.