Give A Dog a Bone

Dogs have different nutritional needs than humans do, based on their own unique physiology. Take for example, teeth. One look inside a dog's mouth shows that our domestic companions are prepared for ripping and tearing flesh. With sharp incisors, long pointy canines, and few molars (pointy rather than flat), they are much better equipped for tearing muscle than for grinding down the cellulose of plant matter. Their mouths don't produce amylase – a starch breaking enzyme, and their digestive tract is relatively short, passing food through quickly (if you become a poop inspector, you will see this principle in action), and making the eating of animal flesh on-the-turn less risky. These biological features lead many to the conclusion that dogs are carnivores. As I've described in previous entries, Nicholai will eat most anything – dead or alive, when we're out in the wild – deer parts, voles and moles, bunnies, nutria, dead fish, and the list only gets grosser after that.

But dogs are natural scavengers, many argue. They are opportunistic eaters, like their wild ancestors and cousins, and therefore omnivores. Surely, this is rooted in the truth. The litters of puppies that our family fostered foraged in the yard without the slightest push from us, munching on all kinds of fruit and vegetable matter. And then there is the matter of grass. To date, I haven't met a dog who doesn't nibble grass, no matter what his people feed him. These observations (along with a ton of reading) have shaped my food offerings for my canine companions.

On Sundays, our dogs enjoy a big 'ole bone to chew on. It's usually a beef or buffalo knuckle bone. Nicholai, Izzy, and Kelley, each grab their prize and head off to a private and comfortable spot where they will chew for an hour or more, exercising jaw and shoulder muscles, manipulating the bone with wrists and paws, ripping off meat, cartilage, and fat, licking out marrow. Their pleasure in this afternoon delicacy could not be more evident. When they have chomped the large bones into pieces, we pick up the fragments. Their teeth are clean and breath is fresh. I am happy knowing they supplied themselves with a nice dose of calcium and other naturally attendant minerals, naturally occurring glucosamine and chondroitin, and most likely other stuff I don't even know about.

The dogs are happy … because, well, they're dogs. "Give a dog a bone," they say. And so, I do.

Breakfast

Every morning, our three dogs are treated to a fresh, home-made breakfast. Breakfast has gone through many incarnations at our house, depending on our dogs, their ages and health needs, and as I have weeded through fanatical opposing opinions out there about the best way to feed your dog. Everything from raw meaty bones only, to "scientifically" commercially produced kibbles are touted as the
way, and often the only way, to successfully feed our dogs.

For anyone seriously wondering what your dog should eat, I highly suggest reading Pet Food Politics, by Marion Nestle (no relation to the chocolate chips), and Food Pets Die For, by Ann Martin – just in case you think that there is solid science behind the production of kibble, or operate under the misconception that the dog food industry exists first and foremost to make healthy food for your dog. Thankfully, we've had the advent of better quality kibble with better ingredients in recent years. Still … little dry brown nuggets, every day …?

In the morning, I grab a bundle of veggies that I have prepped on the weekend. It includes leafy greens such as kale, collards, and mustard greens I have plucked from the garden; carrots, red pepper, and yellow squash, that I've supplemented from the store; zucchini from our freezer (we grew so many zukes this summer we saved enough to get through the entire winter for soup and dog food), a touch of celery or cabbage or broccoli, a few blueberries, half an apple. Chopping lightly, I then throw it into a food processor blending it into a fine mash. To this colorful veggie mash, I add a bit of organic whole milk yogurt, cottage cheese, and steamed yams. Several days per week, one fresh egg – shell and all – will top off the breakfast serving.

I add digestive enzymes (though the fresh raw food is replete with un-degraded enzymes, I supplement because of Nicholai's cancer – just to hedge my bets), an anti-oxidant vitamin, fish or flax or olive oil, and Nicholai's prescribed herbal medicines. On odd days, I put in a touch of local raw honey, a tablespoon of vinegar, a dollop of molasses, or a sprinkle of nutritional yeast.

The dogs dive into their breakfast with unrestrained gusto. Visiting dogs do not turn down these rations. When we fostered a litter of eight-week-old puppies, the youngsters scavenged from the garden of their own volition, nibbling on cabbage and zucchini, trying leaks and apples that had fallen on the ground. Many a morning, I have looked at my cup of coffee and my biscuit or muffin, and plopped a big scoop of veggies into a bowl with some of that creamy yogurt – m-m-m good.

And this is only breakfast.

Goldie

Nicholai loves his chickens. For the past seven years, since he was just a young punk, we have been raising urban hens. At least once per day, I'll say to Nicholai, "Let's go check our chickies," and no matter what he's doing, he bounces up and trots beside me out to the coop.

The chickens have pretty great digs, a cedar-sided house, with heavy-duty screen windows for ventilation and sky-lights to provide adequate natural light. Two nesting boxes allow for comfortable and private egg-laying. Surrounding the coop are two fenced yards – or runs – where the girls can scratch and peck and take their treasured dust-baths. Nicholai takes up a post just outside the fence, waiting. He never tries to enter the run, standing patient and expectant; with tail gently wagging, he licks his lips in anticipation of a precious gift from the chickens. Dogs may be descended from wolves, but a visit to the chicken coop seems to call Nicholai to the side of wily coyote, knowing what yummy gifts the chickens offer.

The chickens flock around my feet when I come near, in anticipation of treats. I check the nesting boxes for eggs, and while there are always fewer in winter, wonderful fresh eggs delight us every day. On occasion, as I return from the coop a nice warm egg will "slip" from my hand and Nicholai eagerly laps up the clear egg white and bright yellow yolk, crunching down bits of shell, naturally balancing his mineral intake.

Nicholai has always patiently tolerated his hens. He chases ducks, geese, herons, and seagulls whenever we're out hiking, but his own chickens have carte blanche to roam the yard and garden. Perhaps he recognizes them as part of our family, or pack. Personally, I think he appreciates those tasty eggs.

We lost our sweetest hen, Goldie, today. Amenable to being held and petted, she often stopped by the office door when I was working, and I will miss her peering in to say hello. We don't know what ailed her. She became lethargic, had a small "fit," then flopped her head down, dead. Chickens are both remarkably strong and oddly fragile, and at over three years old, it may have simply been her time.

There'll be more hens in the future, there have been quite a few already, but little Goldie was a special girl. Goodbye, sweet hen.

On the Road - Again

This morning we hit the trail – again. Day after day it's more of the same, long walks in the woods or at the river, interspersed with bits of jogging and hill-climbing. You'd think it would get boring, but it never does.

This morning I heard a sound as if the wheels of a mechanical device squeaked along, needing a good oiling. Surprised, I surveyed the surroundings, at first seeing nothing that could produce the noise. Finally, following the din up, up, up, I spied a pair of bald eagles, sitting together high in the bare branches of a cottonwood tree, commenting loudly – perhaps about the state of the environment, I'm not sure, I don't speak eagle.

Every day there is something – a coyote with a pup, the musky scent of a deer, or a surprise small flock of hooded mergansers – to connect me with the circle of living things. Every day, small, but palpable changes occur in the wind, the color of the sky, the water level of the rivers, pulling me away from the razzle-dazzle frazzle of human machinations and drawing my roots deeper into soulful old mother earth.

If I didn't have my dogs to take me for walks, I might get lost on the runaway train of city life. I might forget that I am part of a pulsing, beautiful, living organism.

Thanks, dogs. My life is better because of your canine consultation.

Dog Love

When I drive to the park with Nicholai, he sits in the front passenger seat, body facing me, eyes forward. With his left front paw plopped on my shoulder, he leans toward me, a self-styled, hyper-cool, gold-chain-wearing type guy, casually possessive of his old lady. At least once per trip – if not several times – he lays his head on my shoulder and nuzzles my neck with his wet nose. I am always inclined to nuzzle him back, and kiss the top of his furry black head.

I've read expert opinions about dogs – and other animals – that they don't experience emotions, their behaviors all serve simple biological needs. You've got to be kidding me, I think when I read such a treatise, have you ever lived with … even a gerbil? I don't claim to know or understand what Nicholai and my other dogs think and feel, only that they do. I'm not sure we can ever solve the dilemma of understanding animals, as long as we humans can barely understand each other.

The word 'love' is used to communicate a tumult of sense, emotion, action, and understanding between humans. The vast amount of drama and miscommunication resulting from mismatched expectations around love should make it clear: even for us, the word is utterly inadequate. As Mark Doty says in his book, Dog Years, it's less a description, and more "a sign saying this way to the mountain top."

Maybe Nicholai licks my face as a remnant of baby wolf behavior. Perhaps he runs to see me when I get home as a rush to protect his territory. I suppose he might jump onto the bed and roll to his side, offering his belly for a rub, solely to demonstrate his subservience to the provider of his meals. And maybe he sits in the front seat of the car, hanging on me and pawing at me because … because what? What is that behavior, if not relational? And heck, if his actions don't indicate his love for me, no problem – at least they inspire me to love him. And at the end of the day, I'm the only one whose feelings I really know, animal or human.

The Bucket List

For many years, Nicholai had a girlfriend. An all-American mutt, Maya belonged to a family friend and typically spent at least a month's worth of time at our house while her globe-trotting human traveled. Sometimes, she would spend significantly more time with us throughout the year. Nicholai and Maya played vigorously together, charging up and down beaches till their tongues dragged in the sand. At home they palled around together, easily sharing food and sleeping spaces. One afternoon, I glanced out the window to see the two of them lying in the yard, with front paws crossed, gently licking each other's faces. "They're so sweet on each other," I commented.

Two summers ago, Maya was staying with us for the month of July. She seemed especially playful, swimming and chasing tennis balls in the river. One sunny morning, she and Nicholai played their hearts out, reminding me of when they were young. The two of them were so filled with joyous puppy-surging energy that I called Maya's person to exclaim. Within a week, Maya had died of acute leukemia.

In retrospect, what struck me the most – gave me chills even – was the undeniable joie d'vie that Maya demonstrated immediately before her sudden and rapid decline. I had to ask myself – Did she know? Did I witness her last hurrah?

Dogs can identify cancer cells within small tissue samples in a Petri dish and can be trained to communicate this information to human observers. Would it not follow that dogs can smell cancer in other dogs, and even in themselves? While I have been known to wax poetic about the ability of dogs to live in the moment, I also have to wonder if they can sense the end coming. And if they do, do they have a Bucket List?

Nicholai talks to me each morning about heading out for our walk. He sits at my feet and vocalizes in a very intentional and energetic way – somewhere between a bark, a howl, and a whine. We all call it "hubba-hubba," because it sounds closer to that than anything else we can reproduce. If I don't respond right away, he ups the ante with increased volume and frequency, finally jumping into my lap. His intensity and sense of urgency appear to all in our household to have increased in the past six months. I think daily walks are on his bucket list.

Nicholai's brother, Kindred, has rallied – for the time-being, at least. I visited him over the weekend and he seemed great – happy and energetic. His human companion, my friend, tells me that though he's always been affectionate, now he sticks like Velcro and demands snuggles and petting. Is spending quality time with his beloved person on his bucket list?

I know that I have a bucket list for my time with Nicholai. It goes like this:

*give the dog a treat

*spend time with the dog

* take the dog for a hike

* take the dog for a swim

* pet the dog

*did I mention? – give the dog a treat

Wolf Pack

Nicholai, Izzy, and I walked familiar trails to the Sandy and Columbia Rivers early today. Our hike was brisk, but not over-exuberant or over-long. Though Nicholai is well, and sings to me – loudly – each morning of his interest in an adventure, I feel the need to enact some limits on his exertion, and so we trekked for only forty minutes in the morning sunshine.

With Nicholai I feel safe, even though we walk in semi-remote areas. I don't know that I am safe, but with my big black dog at my side, I feel protected, and even a bit dangerous. After years of running trails alone, and of walking with smaller, cuter dogs, the new sensation is palpable and invigorating. I am part of a wolf-pack.

Nicholai will protect me – I know this from experience. I also know there is a limit to what he can protect me from. The feeling of strength I have when out with him – the feeling of being a formidable duo – is internal, but it changes me. When I'm out with Nicholai, I don't look over my shoulder – except for the occasional cyclist, whom I fear he might try to eat. My internal landscape becomes one of confidence. When I watch out for others, it's not because of the danger they might be to me, but the danger we might be to them.

Nicholai and I work well together. At my request to "Wait," he stands still while I clip a leash to his collar so we can easily pass a cyclist or other potentially suspicious interloper in our territory. When we are out and about, we aren't just dog and owner, or dog and "mom", we're partners in adventure. When the Hound of the Baskervilles no longer travels at my side, it will leave a big gap indeed.

Paradigm

Nicholai has lymphoma, a cancer of the immune system where the malignant cells originate in lymph nodes. We do not understand how dogs (or people for that matter) get cancer most of the time. There are many possible causes in the environment, and there are genetic factors as well. Cancer starts as a cell, or group of cells, that have gone awry. When too many cells have run amok, the body can longer function appropriately, and the dog – or person – can no longer live. Often fatal, a diagnosis of cancer strikes fear into the hearer's heart.

I was diagnosed with cancer in the mid-nineties. When the initial terror subsided, I stood up, shook myself off, and began to research treatments. A twenty-year vegetarian and six-year vegan, a non-smoker and a non-drinker, I had colorectal cancer. I was not a fan of allopathic medicine or the pharmaceutical industry. But I had cancer. I would need to buck-up and undertake medical therapy, or so I assumed. Aching with sadness, and seething with anger, I found it difficult to be rational. Finally I was able, with the help of colleagues and friends, to locate, read, and evaluate the medical literature. We looked at the stand-up professional journals of the day – The Journal of the American Medical Association, The New England Journal of Medicine, and The Journal of Oncology. Having been told by my doctors that I would need radiation then surgery, followed by a year of chemotherapy, what I learned from the medical research shocked me.

At the time of my cancer diagnosis and treatment, numerous reputable studies demonstrated that the chances of disease-free time and the chances of survival were no better with chemotherapy treatment than without. That's right. Chemotherapy had not been shown to convey any demonstrable benefit to patients with my kind or stage of cancer. Yet … the doctors recommended it. When confronted with the research, one oncologist stammered a non-response. Another answered with more honesty, "It's the only tool we have."

I should have been happy. I didn't want to do chemo, to puke my guts out, to be bald and weak, to have my skin burn and peel off. But fear confronted me like a tsunami – my fear, family fear, cultural fear, medical fear. Proof didn't seem to matter, the paradigm was compelling – if you have cancer, you do chemotherapy, so what if it doesn't work? You have to do everything you can, and it's the only tool we have, right?

Wrong. After grappling with my own and others' fear for weeks, I finally came to peace with my own path. There'd be no chemo for me. I chose instead to get more exercise, eat great food, down a lot of anti-oxidant vitamins, and take herbal tinctures. An old Chinese doctor treated me with acupuncture and foul-tasting tea concoctions, and every day I crawled out of bed, and hiked the trails, woods, hills, and rivers of Portland and its environs with my beloved dogs.

A decade and a half later, I am confronting Nicholai's cancer and nothing has changed in the outer paradigm. The facts are harsh. Lymphoma kills. Radiation and chemotherapy have been tailored to be less noxious for dogs (so you don't have to show up at the dog park with your skinny, hairless, weak and puking dog), but they do not cure. Terms like success, and remission, may imply a cure, but it is not so in the vast majority of cases.

I have lived for nearly fifteen years since the doctors told me that I could die without chemotherapy. Nicholai has lived for the year oncology suggested that he could achieve only with months of medical treatment.

I do not recommend any particular course of treatment for any dog. Every cancer is different and requires its own approach. And, like the surgeon who hurried out of the room mumbling an unintelligible response when I asked for his opinion, I am loathe to go up against the tidal wave that sweeps us into medical treatment.

But, I've voted - with my life - for whole food, vitamin supplements, herbs with immune supporting actions, and walks, walks, and more walks. And a belly rub or two.

No regrets.

 

Poop Inspector

 

Some days, like today, time and other activities conspire against long hikes with Nicholai in the hinterlands and involve instead a leash, city streets, and a plastic bag at the ready. In town, I am a responsible dog walker, which translates into picker-upper of stinky poop. But in this year since Nicholai's diagnosis with cancer, the scooping of dog-doo has taken on a whole new dimension.

Poop may not be the window to the soul, but in these days of cancer management, it is one window to Nicholai's health status. Anxious for the report on my boy's gastrointestinal well-being, I hover about. Nicholai would prefer to do his business in tall grass or hidden in bushes, but this simple privacy is violated by the leash. Hugging himself closely to a chain-link fence, he crouches for the big event, giving me a sideways glance with squinty eyes that tells me pretty clearly I should turn away and mind my own business. But I can't. I have to see.

I have become a poop monitor looking for the perfect stool. It should be just so – not too hard, not too soft. Color, texture, and size – all these attributes concern me. Is Nicholai constipated? Leaning toward diarrhea? Did he have too much calcium or too little? How about roughage – does he need more or less? I tweak his diet and supplements, depending on this output report, and I keep a lookout for red flags that might signal a downturn in his condition.

Today I breathe a sigh of relief. Nicholai's stool is just right – like Goldilocks' porridge. While Nicholai scratches the ground and looks over his shoulder at me, I scoop his perfect poop.

One Day at a Time

A year ago, I could not have shared Nicholai's story. My hope was too tenuous, my grief too near the surface. Now that we have reached the magical one-year line, I can risk it.

As time goes by and Nicholai flies in the face of predictions, I search for emotional balance, finding myself often experiencing equal parts of cockiness and denial. "Have we beat this thing?" I'll wonder as I go about my business, Nicholai hikes energetically, snarfs his food, and nuzzles me with his nose as I drive us home from one of our outdoor jaunts. Nothing has changed for him – with the exception of inadequate rations, life is still beautiful. Then I see his enlarged lymph nodes and I remember.

I find that I have no choice except to accept a doggish approach to the future. Nicholai insists that in this moment he is well, and he refuses to be defined by his diagnosis. Since he won't play by the rule book, and we're out of authoritative predictions, I don't know what to expect. I guess I'll actually have to take it one day at a time, mixing joy and hope in equal parts without subtracting from today's experience just because it might not last till tomorrow.

I'm a bit afraid of hope, disappointment, and a broken heart. As I sit and search for the words, a blue light from the computer reflected on my face, Nicholai comes and whines at me, turning and giving me his back end. "Pet me, human-partner, scratch my butt." He is insistent. How can I fret about a future broken heart when my main-man needs scratching?

I Have a Dream

I was entering the third grade when Martin Luther King delivered his famous "I have a dream" speech to hundreds of thousands gathered under the Lincoln Memorial. Today I watched a black and white video clip and listened to Dr. King's historic words with my third grade son.

Since that day in 1963, change has come to America. My son cannot conceive of segregation, attending school with African American, Hispanic, Asian, and Caucasian children in roughly equal numbers, which is so unlike the de-facto segregation that colored my early world view. Dr. King's voice boomed out of our computer, echoing across the decades, daring to envision a day when Negroes would find justice in this great land, and when our children could hope to be judged, not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.

My son comprehended Dr. King's words, but for him they held little of the power and drama that they still hold for me. My skin prickled and the fine hair on my neck stood up. In my lifetime, it was first inconceivable and then achievable for an African American to be elected president. My son looked away from the image of Dr. King on our computer and toward me, with his head tilted to one side, a question on his face. To him, a time when a black man could not be president is in some distant historical past, along with slavery, women's suffrage, and the ice age.

Tomorrow will be another day; a day to work for justice, a day to reduce my carbon-footprint in an effort to save our planet, a day to walk with the dogs along the winding river. I know there is a very long way to go. Today I am grateful for how far we have come.

Heavy Heart

Sitting staring at the blank screen, I wonder what to say and what to leave out. What have I committed myself to with this blog?

Nicholai is fine, his coat still black and shiny and his appetite as vigorous as ever. He has tucked himself in the basement to gnaw on a Saturday afternoon recreational knuckle bone. Today, I don't have to face a change in his status. I just spoke to his brother's people though, and theirs is a different story.

As I think about "K-K" – his loss of appetite, his pain, the abscess at his incision, and his sudden development of multiple additional tumors, I feel an undeniable physical sensation at my chest. I search for other words, but only come up with: heavy, weight, pressing, down. While I am ever hopeful, there still comes a point when the only path before us is the path to goodbye.

I wanted – already feel my longing slipping into the past – Kindred's story to parallel Nicholai's. I hoped he and those who love him would share many moments of sweet togetherness in the weeks to come. I hoped luck, genetics, determination, and a few remedies would buy him more good time, but as of today, it seems it's not to be.

Of course I realize that Kindred's days, like Nicholai's days – and all dogs' days – are finite, but it doesn't mean that I have to like it. On a day like today when the news is dismal, and I am reminded how exquisite and tenuous each day is; the passing I can't help but ready myself for feels as heavy as a cement block.

In spite of inevitable and repeated loss, I choose to love dogs with their slipper-chewing, squirrel-chasing, stinky-farting, poop-eating, tail-wagging, face-licking, don't-care-how-much-you-weigh, how-big-your-bank-account, what-color-your-hair, or how-new-your-car, slobbering love.

Help Haiti

Nicholai says, "We've got it pretty good here. Bellies full of fresh veggies and green tripe, nice couch to sleep on. Drinking water is clean, heat is on. Even a dog with cancer has little to complain about."

"Maybe all you people - with your thumbs and bank accounts - could send some money to Haiti. Do it right away, but save a few bucks. Animal rescue efforts will not begin till basics have been restored for people, but when they do, the humane organizations will need your help too.

Cancer Prayers

Nicholai's litter-mate has just been diagnosed with soft tissue sarcoma. His people have been told that the prognosis is not positive.

Kindred is a soulful dog, big and doofy, like Nicholai. He's loyal and protective of his family, sometimes to a fault – the brothers are much alike in many ways. Apparently, they also share a predilection toward the development of malignant cells.

When we rushed out to visit Kindred and his people last January, Kindred took a sniff of Nicholai and scuttled away, showing the whites of his eyes and raising the hackles on his back; we all felt certain that he understood the nature of his brother's illness. At the time, we all thought that Nicholai would leave us within weeks or months. Now, in an unexpected turn, we fear that Kindred will take his leave first. He has always been the big brother, the leader of the pack. Is it his role to lead the way over the Rainbow Bridge, the final way home?

To those of you following this saga, and to those you share it with, I'm going to ask a favor. Please light a candle this evening and again on Sunday evening. When you do, please send out a prayer – or meditation or wish – for Kindred's continued strength and a long and healthy life. If you don't mind, include Nicholai. I have put a request for him on the Canine Cancer Prayer List several times over the past year and, given his good health so far, I am not one to pooh-pooh the effort. Maybe while we're at it, we can hold thoughts for all pets – and people – who struggle with disease today. May each have relief from pain and live as long and as well as possible.

Getting Old

Well, it' official. Nicholai is ten years old. I breathe a little sigh of relief, though why it matters so much, I'm not sure. I guess it just comes down to having time; time together, time for adventures, time to slow down, time to change. My previous dog Molly, lived to the ripe old age of fifteen. During her last couple of years, she got really old – stiff and slow and leaking pee. She slept most days away, and appeared content to putz around the yard, take a few rides in the car, or get pulled along in her red wagon. By the time she slipped away one December night, we had said goodbye many times – goodbye to hikes in the Gorge, goodbye to runs, goodbye to long walks, goodbye to walks at all. I'd had lots of time to prep myself for her final exit, which – I was a touch dismayed to discover – did not eliminate grieving when she died. But through my sadness, I felt a lot of gratitude for the quiet days of her elder-hood and for the honor of walking with her to the very end.

Nicholai is a big boy, as I have mentioned. We think he should weigh about ninety pounds; he does his best to keep his weight at ninety-five or better. He complains often and loudly of starvation and neglect. Quietly, after we have gone to bed or left the house, he steals pies, or bread, or raids the chicken bucket – a white plastic bucket that lives on the kitchen counter and into which we put crusts of bread, left over salad, and other delights for our chickens to enjoy. Nicholai has the prosperous look of a well-to-do dog, one who suffers a lot less neglect than he might try to tell you about, if he had the chance.

As I've looked at him in recent years, I've begun to wonder how I'll care for him when he gets old. With Molly – at sixty pounds – I could lift her when necessary, carry her up or down the stairs, give her a boost into the car, or lug her down the block. Nicholai I can barely get off the ground. Two years ago I purchased a set of six carpeted wooden stairs to place at the foot of the bed, so that he could get up and down on his own with ease. I worried about when he got old, when he had trouble moving. How would I help him? I didn't want to see him unable to get around or have to struggle with caring for him. Then suddenly, it seemed as though I wouldn't have to. And in that moment, old looked good. I longed to see Nicholai with a gray and thinning face, thick joints, and jerky, wooden movements. I'd figure out how to help him get around if it came to that, and now, I hoped it would come to that.

Therein lies the dilemma – my dog companions, whom I love up to the sky and back again – will either get old – with all that comes with that territory – or they won't. As it turns out, I'd rather put up with old - arthritis, leaking pee, a plethora of pills, selective hearing, and slowing down. I'd rather walk the long slow walk to a distant end. But I will take what I can get.

Once, I Ate a Pie

On returning home one evening just before Christmas, my younger son walked into the kitchen ahead of me. "Oh my god!" he cried. "What happened?" His voice was high and shrill, though he does tend toward drama. Just a step behind, I soon took in the scene, and with the evidence before me, did some quick math. A teapot lay on the floor, the lid halfway across the kitchen, next to a sauce pan. A cookie sheet rested against the oven door and in the corner, an overturned, empty pie plate half hid itself under the cupboards. I knew exactly what happened.

"Once, I ate a pie," I said. My son looked up at me, a quizzical look on his face. He shrugged his shoulders, cocked his head, and raised one eyebrow. He has a wonderful children's book of poems about dogs from which I was stealing the title, Once I Ate a Pie, and I knew that he would soon make the connection, as I had. In the poem by the same name, a chubby Pug takes his food treasures to the basement to devour in pleasure and privacy, ending with the pie. My son's curious face looked around again; it did look like a disaster had befallen the kitchen. "Look over in the corner," I prompted. "Once, I ate a pie," I said again, for emphasis.

My eight-year-old turned to me, his mouth hanging open. "Nicholai?" "Why yes, I believe you are correct." I had left an entire, freshly baked pumpkin pie at the back of the stove, which mind you, is two feet away from the edge. I had placed the sauce pan and the teapot in front of the pie, as a barrier. Clearly, none of that conferred adequate pie protection and not a drop of filling, nor a crumb of flakey crust was left. "I believe we'll be seeing some pumpkin-pie poop for the next day or two," I said with a smile, "and we will know who the culprit is for sure." And we did.

Two Januarys

A year ago January, I could not conceive arriving at today with Nicholai in tow. After getting his diagnosis, I called a dear friend who is the owner and companion of one of Nicholai's litter-mates. "We need to set a play-date for the boys," I told her. "Nicholai has cancer, I don't know how long he'll have left." Hearing this news, my friend cleared her schedule and we visited that weekend, it seemed that time was of the essence. I contacted a photographer who has done the nearly impossible and accepted our family of four humans and three dogs for photo sessions. Somehow, (perhaps with a little digital assistance) he has managed to come up with family photos of the lot of us, where each of us looks at least passable. "Do you think you could fit us in for a photo session with Nicholai, soon?" I explained the situation and he made time the next week. It wasn't just me, the situation seemed dire, and no one expected Nicholai to still be kicking a whole year later.

This January triggers a sense of anxiety for me. It's like I'm starting over again, predicting, hedging my bets for survival times. I've got arbitrary landmarks that I want Nicholai to cross, such as his tenth birthday, his diagnosis date, the anniversary of finding him and his litter in the freezing rain at a north Portland park. His birthday, I think we've got that covered; with his original vet we figured the puppies were born between the 7^th and the 12^th of January, and well . . . it' s the 10^th now. I can almost cross it off the list. His diagnosis, the 25^th, his litter found shivering in the cold, February 12^th. Once we meet those, I will of course get lost in the future and start aiming toward spring hikes and summer swims with more arbitrary deadlines. I wonder if my complicated primate brain will ever just relax and be happy and satisfied with today.

It's January, it's Sunday. I have my boy-dog, my girl-dogs, my human boys, and my partner. We have a roof over our heads, good food for our bellies, great friends, and a real nice hot-tub. The freezer is full of produce we grew this summer and I have nursed a small winter garden along, so there are fresh greens. The chickens lay a few eggs these days, and the dogs made it through a scary bout with salmon poisoning. Maybe I don't have to know how many days Nicholai will live with lymphoma. Today is a good day, maybe it is enough.

Saturday, In The Park

Saturday morning and not a car sat in the parking lot, nor a single footprint betrayed the passage of man or beast as Nicholai, Kelley, Izzy and I hit the beach for a long trek. A Great Blue Heron stood on a piece of driftwood, intent on the water until we strode within striking distance, then it flew off, prehistoric in both movement and croaking cry. A bald eagle, probably a foot tall, perched on a naked branch high in a cottonwood tree, watching our every move. As I neared his perch, trailing behind the dogs, I raised my head and said "Good morning, sir. How is the day from your vantage point?" He looked straight at me, glanced at the dogs, then back to me. His stare unwavering, he seemed quite sure of himself.

This is the gift of living with big dogs requiring big walks. I've watched late waking raccoons make their ways to daytime sleeping spots, osprey train younglings to fly, bald eagles consider – and then dismiss – dogs as prey, deer slip into the deeper reaches of the woods, and the odd coyote linger in the open on an early morning. Not the stuff of modern city life without a concerted effort, an effort required for the health and happiness of my canine companions – and coincidentally for me.

Today, I rejoice in healthy dogs. Yes, I use the term "healthy" for Nicholai. After a course of antibiotics specific to the bacteria from the salmon fluke, he is strong and energetic and seeming fully recovered, as is Kelley. If you saw him strutting along ahead of me, head and tail held high, you would not suspect cancer. If you saw Kelley today, you would know she'd had some kind of medical procedure because of her shaved belly and the neat shaved rectangle on each front leg, the remnants of her IV's and ultrasound, but her energy, like that of her adopted "brother's" is in good supply for bounding up and down the beach in wonderful doggish celebration of another day.

For a moment, I thought that my Christmas present would be to lose both dogs; my long time buddy and elder canine boy, and my unexpected, found-at-the-park canine girl; I grieved their unopened Christmas stockings and all the walks and hikes and swims we would never have. I must learn to take a cue from my present-minded dogs: live while the livin' is good and try not to dwell on a future that hasn't arrived yet. Not sure my human brain is up to that task, but the daily reminders do me a world of good.

Mystery Malaise

Over the next two days, Nicholai looked alternately better then worse, declining most meals, vomiting, and shedding syrupy diarrhea (I know, too much information). I made organic chicken soup for him, backed off his medicine, let him rest. Deeply sad, I realized that our time together might be permanently shifting from hiking adventures and buddy-ship, to care-giving and to walking our last mile together. Not the Christmas I had imagined.

On the afternoon of the second day, I sat at the computer, half working and half contemplating next steps with my boy-dog when I noticed that it was unnaturally quiet. When I'm at the computer, our youngest, dog – another foundling - comes to me with her toys constantly. She bumps a tug-rope or a chew bone into my thigh then stares at me "Whatcha gonna do, mom? Huh? Huh?" If I don't respond – say I'm actually trying to get some work done – she bumps me again or jumps up, landing her front feet onto my back, looking over my shoulder at the computer. "Whatcha doin'? Gonna play – are ya, are ya?" Patience is not her strong suit. This afternoon, Kelley hadn't bothered me once; I glanced around then assumed that my partner had taken her on errands. Later when everyone arrived home and still no Kelley jumping on me, I asked "Hey, didn't Kelley go with you?" "No, I thought you had her," came the reply. At that, I pushed away from the desk and walked upstairs. Kelley lay on the bed and barely lifted her head when I came in. Heat radiated off her head, I felt it before I touched her. What the heck . . . . older immune compromised Nicholai suddenly ill, young healthy Kelley suddenly ill . . . was there a connection?

Back to the vet, and hopefully, the drawing board. Kelley's examination revealed that she was indeed running a fever, her white cells were low, and her lymph nodes were swollen. Her fecal exam revealed no evidence of parasites (Nicholai's hadn't either). The vet speculated that Kelley had the flu and that she and Nicholai's illnesses were not connected, just coincidental. "Could they have eaten something that's making them sick?" I asked. I couldn't let go of the niggling feeling that something other than Nicholai's lymphoma was getting him down. "With all the things he's devoured over the years?" Nicholai's reputation preceded him. "I don't think so." He prescribed an antimicrobial, immune-boosting tincture for Kelley and sent me home.

As the weekend progressed, Nicholai was up and down; Kelley, on the other hand was sinking, her ship was going down. Still suspicious that the two suffered from the same mystery malaise, I stopped giving the tincture to Kelley (who couldn't keep it down) and gave it to Nicholai instead. Kelley stopped eating altogether, squeezed out liquid poop and threw up every last drop in her little-girl system. Her condition deteriorated and we switched our focus to her; Nicholai could at least keep down some chicken soup and putz around the yard.

Monday and Tuesday, I checked Kelley into the veterinary office all day long, where she received IV fluids and antibiotics for a possible bacterial infection, though it couldn't be found. By Tuesday evening, she was still slipping and so we took her to the local animal ICU for more intensive care. Their diagnosis was uncertain; on their list of suspicions was lymphatic cancer. "Lymphatic cancer, what's the chance of that? My older dog has it, but it' not contagious, for heaven's sake." An image of Nicholai and Kelley disappearing from view on the beach where the seagulls had flocked came into focus. What if they had found some old rotten salmon? Certainly Nicholai would have eaten it, might have Kelley also? Had all the rotten, stinking things Nicholai had eaten over the years rendered some strange immune strength that helped him now?

According to the veterinarians, contaminated salmon carries a fluke that passes bacteria to the dog. It takes a few days for the infection to set in, but when it does it creates fever, lethargy, lack of appetite, vomiting and diarrhea, and swollen lymph nodes. Untreated, it can be fatal. Sometimes the flukes cannot be found in the dog's stool. I gave the go ahead for a biopsy of Kelley's lymph nodes and also to place a feeding tube and initiate IV fluids and antibiotics. Kelley didn't have a lot of time before it would be too late to worry about the correct diagnosis.

Over the next twenty four hours, Kelley's biopsy came back negative and treatment for presumptive salmon poisoning began. I returned to the vet with Nicholai and finally the fecal exam revealed the flukes that carry the infection, diagnosis confirmed – salmon poisoning. Sad that I had let him struggle for over a week, I was impressed by his internal fortitude. Fighting off a potentially lethal infection with little help, it appeared he was winning the battle.

Sick as a Dog

Nicholai has been eating skanky things for almost a decade now. I figure with his superior canine nose – a nose that could sniff out cancer – he won't eat anything too dangerous. For a long time, it played out exactly that way.

My birthday comes in early December. This year, the morning dawned icy cold and a layer of frost covered the garden (my poor greens huddled under a plastic cover), the lawn, and my Subaru's windshield. No matter, the sun was poking its head from behind the clouds and a long walk on the beach of the Columbia seemed a perfect way to start another year of life on this crazy planet. I herded the dogs into the car, scraped the window clear, and we were off.

The morning was spectacular with a wide blue sky and a striking view of Mt. Hood. Frost clung to each blade of yellowed grass, each tall weed, and the bare branches of the cottonwood trees, giving the landscape a twinkle. When we arrived at the beach of the Columbia River, a flock of seagulls sat on a spit of sand, the sun glinting off their white bodies and sparkling on the water. I felt like I had hiked into a National Geographic photo. I stood soaking up the vista, taking deep breaths, feeling fortunate to be here. Like Nicholai, I have had a cancer diagnosis. Like Nicholai, I have lived far past the dire predictions.

The dogs raced off to chase the seagulls into the air, ruining the pristine photo moment. They roamed the beach, sniffing who-knows-what and dropping out of sight momentarily. I have become accustomed to their wanderings, and Nicholai has trained me not to fear his culinary indiscretions; I mean, if the nutria didn't kill him, what would? After a couple of moments, I called them to me. The girls – Izzy and Kelley – soon joined me, but Nicholai stayed out of sight. I trust him, so I gave a holler – "Nicholai –Hey, hey!" and began the trek back toward the woods and trail, knowing he would follow when he was ready. Our hike was a delight, I couldn't have thought of a better start to a birthday and I didn't give another thought to what Nicholai might have been doing on the beach, out of my sight.

Two days later, I headed the opposite direction for a short early walk where the Willamette River meets the Columbia. Nicholai seemed needy, whining at me twice and hopping into the car too willingly at the end of our short jaunt. When I pulled the car into the driveway at home and opened the door, he didn't jump out as usual, just laid on the back seat. Hmm, I thought, that's odd. Maybe he was hoping to accompany me on my next errand, still . . .

For six hours, Nicholai lay in the back seat. Several times I went to talk to him, to offer him breakfast, to encourage him to hop out of the car and come into the house. "Come on buddy," I coaxed. He refused everything, his eyes slightly glazed. I backed the car out of the shade and into the sun, as temperatures were still low. I covered Nicholai with a blanket and then I began to panic. Was this the beginning of the end?

I called the vet's office, explained the situation, and asked for an appointment. When the veterinarian examined Nicholai the next day, he was alarmed by the increase in lymph swelling. I described Nicholai's malaise of the day before and his refusal of breakfast again. For a boy who eats everything from whole loaves of zucchini bread to still wiggling voles, refusal of food had me deeply concerned. Feeling that this sudden downturn indicated a worsening of the lymphoma and nothing else, the vet recommended a wait-and-see-approach before pursuing more draconian measures. My chest felt heavy, my stomach tight. I couldn't get my head around such a sudden change in status. How could my boy go from intrepid hiker one day, to "sick as a dog" the next? I took him home to wait and see, but something bothered me, something didn't fit. I just couldn't figure what it was.

Wild Thing

Nicholai is a wild boy. While recent advances in dog training, and dog psychology if you will, reject the notion of dogs as domesticated wolves, Nicholai makes me wonder about that like no other dog I have had in my adult life. My previous girls, Kali and Molly, were enamored of their creature comforts. Once while camping with us on the Olympic Peninsula, they opted to sit in the car rather than at the campsite with us and they looked quite insulted by the suggestion that they sit on the ground like mere dogs.

Nicholai loves to hike off leash, to roll in smelly things, and to swim in rivers. He has little patience at parks where groups of dogs mill about trying to socialize or obsess on games of fetch, and people stand with lattes in hand, looking slightly lost. When a tight schedule has precluded our normal jaunt to further reaches and we find ourselves at one of Portland's dog-parks, he whines at me saying, "Let's go, let's get this show on the road!" We have done brisk laps around our neighborhood park, pretending that we're out somewhere, hiking like the Wild Things that we are.

In accordance with his "born-to-be-wild" nature, Nicholai is enamored of eating all kinds of things that I find disgusting. Like many a dog, he nabs a good bite of poop – cat poop is a favorite, but human poop, when he can get it, well that's pretty good too. Once he found the remains of a dead and bloated nutria – a rodent that looks like a cross between a giant rat and a beaver. As he settled in the tall grass near the Sandy River to devour his prize, I came around the bend, and seeing him with that gross and hideous thing, I tried to grab it from him. He growled at me – my main man! – and scuttled into the low brush. I left him to his treasure, hoping that ingesting it would not kill him. I never saw evidence that it affected him in any way. There are voles that live underground in an area that we frequent and I have seen Nicholai nab one and swallow it, the little guy's tail still wiggling as it slipped between his lips. He's murdered squirrels more times than I can count, but I have always managed to stop him eating them, I have images of worms and disease (as if bloated nutria wouldn't cover that territory). One fine afternoon, he caught a rabbit and proceeded to devour the entire thing – plush ears, floppy feet, soft bunny tail. At once horrified – poor little bunny – and fascinated, I couldn't take my eyes off the spectacle. That afternoon as we drove along the freeway back toward home, Nicholai sat in the front seat next to me. His energy was intense, upright and alert, all whites-of-the-eyes. "You've gone over to the wild side haven't you?" I asked out loud. He turned and stared at me, shivering, filled with fresh bunny and dreams of being a fierce predator. He has finished off the deer-kills left by coyotes, crunching down entire rib cages, forelegs, back legs, and hooves.

I have taken a philosophical approach to these adventures, leaving Nicholai to his culinary delights. His scavenging and vole snacking remind me of Farley Mowat's tales of the wolves he studied in Alaska who survived on carrion and field mice. I love my dog like crazy and I recognize that he's a dog, not a furry human. I try to give him the latitude to be a dog, even when I fail to relate to his tastes and longings. For a decade, this philosophy had not gone awry. Apparently, there is an end to everything.

 

This is the boy, relaxing in the yard on a summer afternoon. "Summer rules and lymphoma drools," he says with a big smile. We'll see how long it lasts.

The Jacket

It's raining again. Of course it is – it's Oregon and winter, after all. This morning I forced Nicholai to wear a jacket for our morning hike out where the Sandy River runs into the Columbia. The temperature was about forty-two degrees and the rain, like now, came down steadily. While I fastened Velcro around his neck and under his belly, Nicholai gave me a tortured, whites-of-the-eyes look that said, "Do I look like a Chihuahua?" I held firm. He's got a terminal disease, so the mom in me is doing what moms do, going into protective – and some might say over-protective – mode.

I walked a few paces ahead and when I looked back, Nicholai was standing on the trail, stock-still. "Come on buddy," I called. "It's just a coat." He didn't budge, just squinted his eyes. After a moment, he took a stiff step, as if I'd tied him in a straight-jacket. I laughed out load. "Oh bubba, you're alright. Come on." I believe that Nicholai understands my intentions, or my emotions, via cues I don't know I give. If I see someone on the trail or in the woods and I wonder what they're up to, Nicholai will raise his hackles and give a low growl, even though we're not connected by a leash and I've said and done nothing (that I know of) to indicate my concern. So I knew that Nicholai would be able to read the fact that no amount of complaining or martyred looks on his part would get me to change my mind about the jacket, and I turned and headed down the trail. In a few moments, he caught up to me, moving stiffly, like he suspected that this strange new apparel was out to trip him up.

When I realized that Nicholai was entering his second winter with lymphatic cancer –against the odds – I rushed out to purchase suitable raingear. In a whole decade with this dog I have never felt compelled to put clothes on him. He has his own thick insulating coat that belies his short-haired pitbull mamma. But now, now that he is getting to be an old man and he has cancer, I worry about his immune system and I worry about running him into the ground. I'm attempting to skate what turns out to be a surprisingly thin line between ignoring his disease and caving to it. This new fleece-lined red and black water-resistant coat is my nod to the seriousness of his condition. A nod I can't give by staying home, or limiting our walks to leash walks, or rushing about for multiple medical appointments. I can keep the pelting rain off his back while we wander the trails and woods and beaches that we have come to love, that I can do.

In another ten minutes, Nicholai is trotting along, head and tail up, looking quite jaunty. Something about his blackness, the high collar standing up behind his neck, and the sweeping nature of the new garment, come together to give him the debonair flare of Count Dracula. As I think this, he turns to me with his mouth open, all pointy sharp white teeth. "You, my man, look downright dangerous." He gives me what I can only describe as a roll of the eyes and trots away ahead of me.

I love this old black dog. My heart aches, I'm counting days again. I can barely believe we've made it this far. I tell myself that it can't last. I try to prepare for the end. Meanwhile, the big old black dog is rolling his shiny new coat in the stinking poop of a Great Blue Heron, blissfully unconcerned with "the end." Great, I think to myself, the greasy, fishy stench wafting over to me. And then I smile. It is great.

One year

DEAD DOG WALKING – THE NICHOLAI BLOG

It's been one year. A year of long walks, hikes in the woods, swims at the river. A year I didn't think we had. A year since Nicholai was given between three months to live (without treatment) and twelve months to live (with chemotherapy and radiation). A year since Nicholai was diagnosed with cancer.

Nicholai is my main man, my canine buddy, my pack-brother, my friend. He's a 95-100 pound black dog (depending on how many pumpkin pies, loaves of bread, and slices of pizza he's snagged), reminiscent of the Hound of the Baskervilles. He's got some pitbull and maybe some Labrador or shepherd, maybe Rottweiler – who knows – in him. He hasn't always been an easy dog, protective of us and wary of strangers on his turf, but he has been a "best" dog, a one-of-a-kind dog.

Last January, I noticed swelling under his jaw. As my fingers probed in curiosity, I could feel nodules from the size of marbles to the size of a giant jawbreaker. I took a tense breath, those nodules couldn't be good. Grabbing my book of canine anatomy, I went straight to the page on lymph nodes. Using the anatomical charts as guides, I could feel little swellings in multiple locations on Nicholai. Panic started to grip me; no garden variety malaise causes lymph nodes around the body to swell. My first thought, my only thought, was cancer.

My veterinarian fit us in that week, and his immediate assessment when seeing and feeling the swellings under Nicholai's jaw, at the back of his knees, and around his shoulders concurred with my worst fear. He performed a needle biopsy and said he'd get back to me with the pathology results. As I listened to him I acted calm, but I felt woosy, as if the room drifted away from me a bit, or I from it. Biopsy, pathology, lymphoma . . . these were not words I wanted to hear associated with my canine main man.

Nicholai enjoys hikes in wild places, rolling in stinking dead things, swimming, and chasing deer. He shares my disdain for postage-stamp city dog-parks, and whines at me with impatience when I have tried to pass off a stop at one as a real walk. I couldn't picture him at weekly chemotherapy appointments, restless and annoyed at poking needles and prodding hands. The treatment would buy him an indeterminate amount of time in remission – if it worked – but would not affect a cure. In a worst case scenario, the chemical assault on his immune system would weaken him and shorten his quality time. Doctors assured me that this scenario, while possible, was not likely, but I had been up close and personal with such promises before – but I digress.

I opted for a middle route – "aggressive" alternative care, according to the vet I chose to work with. This "aggressive" care consisted of a home-made diet (already doing it), anti-oxidant vitamins, herbal tinctures, a mushroom complex, digestive enzymes, and a small dose of natural hydrocortisone (analogous to a very small dose of prednisone). This regimen was painless for Nicholai and painless for our family's pocketbook. More importantly, the treatment aimed to enhance immune function rather than tear it down.

In the initial weeks, Nicholai remained asymptomatic, all his vital signs and blood tests indicating normal function, and his energy and appetite unabated. I however, insisted on being gripped with anxiety and sadness. I hoped for a few pristine spring days, but would not let my vision of Nicholai peek past the appearance of daffodils and tulips. Soon spring gave way to summer, Nicholai continued to be robust, and I set my sights on hot weather swims and Olympic Peninsula vacations. The garden thrived, the temperatures soared over a hundred, and Nicholai kept on trucking. When the nights began to cool and the daylight to shorten, I told the vet we needed to see Halloween. Though I felt overjoyed about the summer with Nicholai, I did not really expect to get through the fall with my pack-brother still well, or even alive.

Halloween came and went. I began to threaten my vet with "writing something up" when Nicholai arrived at the one-year mark. I thought that people should have hope about their dogs diagnosed with cancer, and be informed about alternative care. I know some will say that the treatment we have given Nicholai has had no effect; it's just luck, or the "natural history" of his disease that he has survived the year. But you can be sure – I am – that if he had received standard medical treatment for cancer and survived, the doctors would take full credit, and we would all give it to them (and their magical pharmaceutical drugs).

This blog is a tribute to Nicholai, to his strength and fortitude; a salute to my dedication to provide him the best quality of life that a guardian can give; a nod to Nicholai's veterinarian for his courage to treat serious disease with non-pharmaceutical medicine. It's the story of our time together and the lessons that I am learning from my canine buddy. Nicholai is simply living – he doesn't give a damn if his days are numbered as long as they're good days; he's not counting. I'm the one who's counting, who focuses on the finite nature of our relationship, who wastes time worrying about the future, who calls my dog "Dead" before he is.

I don't know how long Nicholai will make it. His litter-mate has just been diagnosed with another kind of cancer; this month, they turn ten years old. In February, it will be a decade since Nicholai and the rest of his litter of four- week-old pups were found abandoned in the freezing rain in a Portland park. I've already learned a boatload from my big black mutt. Over the next weeks – and fortune willing, months – I will chronicle the remainder of our story.