February

Sunshine, daffodils, tulips, and hyacinths are popping up all over. Our camellias are blooming, standing like giant red, white, and pink rose trees, and the grass is greening up. All winter, I nursed a small garden of kale, collards, chard, and carrots, along with overwintering cauliflower and Brussels sprouts which are now shooting up in anticipation of spring.

Nicholai, Izzy, Kelley and I took a long hike this morning. Then we all settled in at home to enjoy the warm late winter day. The human family played a few rounds of croquet and then in shorts and a T-shirt, I planted mixed salad greens and spinach and put in my peas while Izzy baked in the sun on the sidewalk, Kelley brought toys to the garden for me to throw, and Nicholai lounged in the grass.

I love hangin' out in the yard and garden. Nicholai loves it too, and often will whine at me in a quiet voice and raise one front paw, asking me to come and sit with him, to rub his belly, and massage his back. This last day of February – in the warm afternoon sun – was a perfect day to do just that.

Fences for Fido

Today I am acutely aware that my dogs have a life so much richer than many other dogs. This morning my teenage son and I joined with others to build a fence for a dog who has spent her life living outside attached to an overhead cable, with a small floorless dog house made of single-layer quarter inch plywood for shelter.

This sweet Staffordshire terrier's neighbors of the past two and half years have been coming over to walk her each day, often giving her only break from life on the cable. They provided straw for the floor of her little house, to help keep her dry and warm. The man built a new dog house with four inches of insulation filled with soft, warm bedding. When they learned about a non-profit organization called Fences for Fido, they applied to get a fence built to give this girl some freedom, once and for all.

"Fences for Fido" is an all-volunteer organization that put up its first fence in May of 2009. Since then, 43 dogs have been provided with fences, and unchained. There are no paid staff and about 400 volunteers. Today's fence build was well organized; materials, supplies, and tools at the ready, making it easy for first timers like me and my son to jump in and get to work. I met a lot of new people and quickly forgot names, but I readily recall the red-rimmed gentle eyes of the neighbor as he thanked us all for being there, for giving our Saturday morning to freeing this dog. Many hands made light work, and within a few hours, it was time to gather around our little client cameras in hand, for the moment when she was released from the cable.

My dogs would die of broken hearts – if not of cold, or heat, or loneliness – if left outside day after day, limited to the range of a chain or a cable, and I think of number of coming Saturdays will find me building fences. If you are interested in helping, please go to www.fencesforfido.org and find a way to contribute.

Quality

Oncology offered Nicholai a sixty to ninety percent chance (which is it – 60 or 90?) of surviving nine to twelve months (which one, 9 or 12?) with a six month course of radiation and chemotherapy. After that, he, like the majority of dogs, would most likely suffer a recurrence and succumb to the disease. Turning the statistics around, I could see that Nicholai had as much as a forty percent chance of not living for nine months, perhaps not even outliving his treatment period. That didn't seem like a good option for a wild boy like him.

My holistic vet didn't hold out variable promises to me, instead he concurred with medical opinions that Nicholai would likely die within three months without any treatment. He felt certain that holistic support could garner an additional three months, but beyond that, he told me frankly, was a crap shoot.

I am so happy that I was able to choose an approach that I felt was best for my dog. We are blessed to have so much time together, with such great quality of life, and so little financial burden. I shudder when I think of having undertaken expensive and invasive therapy, imagining the agony I would have felt to see Nicholai suffer, especially if treatment failed. I read lots of stories about dogs with cancer, and so often the writers discuss the dog's courage, praise its bravery, and commend it for being such a trooper. Every day I'm thankful that Nicholai doesn't have to be a trooper; instead he can just troop along, having a gay old time. We didn't opt for length of life, we opted for quality – and we got both.

I'm learning to ask lots of questions, to review as much research as I can, to find out who supported the research, and then in the end, to act out of love rather than fear. It isn't easy, but it's worth it.

Do Unto Others

Driving toward home with Nicholai in the back seat, I spied a large black and white pitbull alone and collarless on the sidewalk. As is my way, I pulled over to the side of the road, ready to see if the dog needed assistance. Muscular and solid, he appeared well-fed and his coat was shiny, but he watched warily as I rolled down the window. I called out, "Hey buddy, need a hand?" I hoped my voice was light and cheerful. He regarded me with wide eyes, a slight flick of his cropped ears, and a straight tail. Right, I thought to myself, he finds me suspicious, plan B. I reached to the glove compartment and pulled out freeze-dried liver biscotti. Slowly and quietly, I opened the door, inched myself out of the car and tossed a few treats his way. He shot me the whites of his eyes and darted down the street. At that instant, a tall stocky man ran toward us and shouted in a booming baritone, "Buster! Come!" Glancing over his shoulder, the harlequin colored dog dashed down the block and the man, who I assumed to be his owner, chased after him continuing to shout, each time with more volume and more force.

I've witnessed this human behavior toward dogs more times than I can count, even done it myself; which is amazing when you think about it, because just as in the above incident, it never works. Dogs do learn the meaning of human vocabulary, but when forced to choose between deciphering Webster's definition of verbiage or interpreting the tone and body language that delivers it, the dogs choose the latter almost every time. A short, deep, barked command to "Come" – especially delivered with anger and its attendant body tension – tells the dog in no uncertain terms to "Go."

By accident, I stumbled on calling my dogs with a series of short, high, happy staccato tones, to which any word can be applied. When fostering a litter of puppies, I was at a loss to get all five of them to come to me so I decided on a lark to call them using "Hey-hey-hey-hey-hey," fashioned after a girl in a movie calling to orphaned geese who've imprinted on her. I didn't think it would work, but it did and the whole litter followed me around the back yard like a flock of furry goslings. Since then it's been my substitute for shouting the command come, and each new dog in our household has been joyously happy to come bounding when they hear it. It can be a work of art, and require momentary mastery of self control, to subjugate the desire to shout harshly at a dog who's running off to chase a squirrel, dashing toward the street, or just frustrating the heck out of me by not doing what I want when I want (I'm the master, right?). But if I treat my dog with frustration in hopes that he will join with me, coming running happily to me, I've made a mistake. He'll most likely respond in kind and bolt away. Paradoxically, I need to step out of my anger or fear and treat my dog in the manner I want him to treat me. Then, Like Nicholai or his friend Macko in the photo above, they'll come flying, bringing their floppy-lipped love with them.

When I got back in my car and pulled away, the beefy man was still lunging after his dog, shouting "Come! Buster, get over here NOW!" In my rear view mirror, I saw Buster duck behind a fence. I wanted to tell the man that he'd get better results with a different approach, but I had to admit, his affect scared me away. Perhaps it cuts across species … "Do unto others …"

Vitamin C and Cancer

Linus Pauling was a chemist, peace activist, educator, author, and two time winner of the Nobel Peace prize. Dr. Pauling began studying the treatment of cancer using vitamin C in the 1970's. He and a colleague showed promising results providing large doses of vitamin C (10g or 10,000mg/ day) to 100 patients who had been deemed "terminal" by their medical doctors, living an average of 210 days from the start of Vitamin C therapy as compared to 50 days for a comparable group of hospitalized patients.

So hopeful and impressive were these initial results that the Mayo Clinic undertook the study of vitamin C with a group of patients diagnosed with terminal colorectal cancer. No medical treatment had been shown to be effective for this cancer, and so Mayo clinic researchers felt it was ethical to try the vitamin therapy. Though the patients felt well on the therapy, tests showed that their tumors were not receding, and in some cases, were growing, so the researchers ceased the trial, stating that they felt it was unethical to continue a treatment that was not reducing tumors. Paradoxically, they placed the patients on the medical treatment fluorouracil, the very treatment that had been repeatedly proven to be both toxic and ineffective in treating colorectal cancer.

Since Dr. Pauling's findings and the subsequent Mayo clinic trial, we are still waiting for substantive research on vitamin C and cancer to occur, but here is what I know.

Vitamin C affects the immune system, which must be functioning well to prevent or heal cancer. White blood cells (WBC's), the immune system's primary therapeutic agent, contain vitamin C. Research shows that WBC's taken from people with cancer have less vitamin C in them than those taken from healthy people.

I know that vitamin C is non-toxic and is shed by the body if taken in too high doses. Vitamin C occurs in nature but may be lacking due to poor food quality or dietary choices. I know that when I had cancer, I opted for safe, simple, cheap vitamin C and capped my dosage at the point where the "C" was being shed in diarrhea, approximately 7 – 8 g/day. I know that I continue to eat vitamin C-rich foods and take an anti-oxidant vitamin today.

And Nicholai? You can bet he takes vitamin C each day, 2 – 3 g in divided doses through the day.

Free-Range Chickens

Tonight as I chased the chickens out of the high branches of a cedar tree and into their cedar-sided, sky-lighted, screen-ventilated coop, Nicholai waited outside the run, whining for a fresh egg. As I stood on the hay-covered ground, clucking and tsk-tsk-ing for the girls, I pulled an egg from a nesting box and tossed it over the fence for him to lap up off the ground. Finally, it was quiet, and the hens made their way down, hopping from high branches to lower branches, and fluttering into their yard. I tossed a bit of feed and some grapes into the coop and they hurried in on their little chicken legs.

This is our fourth generation of chickens, and none previous to this lot has decided to "fly the coop" and take up residence in our evergreen trees. We suspect two influences. The first is the advent of free-range time in the lawn, trees, shrubs, and garden beds. Our old lab, Molly, was dedicated to the eradication of live chickens, and so the flock was confined to the coop and its adjacent run. After Molly passed away, we realized that our pitbull mixes, Nicholai and Isabella, were interested only in eggs, and had no need to chase the chickens themselves. So we started leaving the gate to the run open during the days and the hens began foraging the entire property, pecking and scratching to their delight, and nestling into little dust baths in various spots. In the summer of the second year of their yard privileges, the girls began seeking spots to roost in trees instead of returning to the safe harbor of the coop at night.

Worried about their safety, we initially tried to shoo the hens into the coop. For a few days, this plan succeeded, but soon the hens began to climb higher and higher into the tree, and even to seek refuge in other trees, clearly wishing to spend their nights under the moon and stars. As if inspired by Patrick Henry, their actions seemed to say "Give me liberty, or give me death!" Impressed by their drive for freedom, and outwitted anyway, we left them to roost the nights away tucked into cedar, holly, and dogwood branches, high above our heads.

When fall arrived and the nights lengthened, our worries increased, but the chickens were incorrigible. We'd go out earlier and earlier to try to tempt them or chase them into the hen house. In reply, they found more varied spots around the yard and flew, hopped, and climbed to them earlier each day. On several occasions, Nicholai woke us with an urgent alarm and we all raced out back in slippers and pj's, wielding flashlights, to find chickens a flutter, and a scatter of feathers. All chickens accounted for; I'd ruffle the scruff of Nicholai's neck. "Good dog," I'd say, wondering if the chickens had any idea how close they'd come to biting the dust.

Apparently, they had no idea. They continued to roost in the trees and one by one, the raccoons picked them off till only two remained. They've been content all winter to sleep in the coop again. But in recent days, as the weather warms and the days lengthen, they are taking to the trees again. Tonight, between Nicholai's whining and my coaxing, the girls are safe in the coop for one more night. If the ladies are not careful, the old dog with cancer is going to outlive them.

The Point

In addition to raising kids, working with animal patients, walking the dogs, and all the details there within, over the past couple of years I've been writing a book about the ways my old dog Molly taught me about life. Sounds trite, I know, but even as a plain old black lab mix dog, Molly was anything but trite and what she taught me, while nothing new, was basic, honest, and true.
Got my first ever rejection letter today after putting out what's known in the publishing world as a "query" letter. This is where you attempt to describe your concept, your book, your market, your curriculum vitae, in a page and hope that a literary agent will take interest. I knew rejection was inevitable along the route, and that it would hit me hard, that's the kind of take things personally person I am.
Raised from childhood to be a hard, no-nonsense worker and to eschew frivolous pursuits - and writing a story about my dog would certainly qualify as frivolous under the old rules - I have spent a lot of my life with my nose to the grindstone. So when I felt pulled to write the story of Molly's and my journey, it was not without skepticism about the value of spending my time in that way. But through it all, I felt the push and pull of what I like to think of as Molly's spirit, laughing good-naturedly at me from wherever in the heck dogs go when they die, spurring me on.
Still I find the old voices chattering inside my head, asking me why bother with Molly's story? Why bore people with Nicholai? What's the point of it all?
Nicholai is snoring on the couch beside me. As I'm berating myself for aimless self-indulgence, he lifts his head and turns abruptly toward me. He paws at me like he so often does when I'm upset. For a moment, I release my critical nature, stroking his head and giving him a big smooch. This is the point.
The point is long shadows in the morning sunlight on a perfect February day, frost on each individual blade of grass requiring licking off, sunshine, chickens, compost, and garden creating an uninterrupted circle, and a really dear old friend, sittin' in the green grass, just being.

Introducing the Little Sisters

My partner and I got our first dog, Kali, on purpose. From then on, I'd have to say the dogs found us. Molly chose me at the pound and Kim found Nicholai with his mother and littermates on an icy cold day in February of 2000 (see: Finding Nicholai) while walking Kali and Molly. After four more years of fostering puppies and young dogs for the Humane Society, and adopting a son, another stray mutt found her way into our home and our hearts.

It was winter again, November this time, and the weather had turned frigid when we got a call. "Dr. Mary," the voice on the line said, "my ex found a stray puppy, he won't take care of her, and I just can't keep her!" This friend was up to seven dogs – four rescues – and I doubt that anyone, least of all me, thought she should take on another. "Okay," I replied, wondering about my own sanity. "We'll take her off your hands, but just for a few days, till we can figure out other arrangements." We drove over and picked up the skinny little dog. She was mangy and covered with fleas. In the middle of that first night, I was awakened by a high-pitched whine, and on the floor by the side of the bed sat an angelic waif of a pitbull mix, begging with her eyes for warm sanctuary. I lifted the covers and she sailed effortlessly to my side, curling against me after her time on the cold November streets. In the days that followed, bolstered by warm covers and a full belly, she revealed a high drive, attention deficit-hyperactivity disordered manic personality. But she was a flawless companion for old dogs and young children alike. Today the little brindle dog with pointy ears we named Isabella (aka Izzy) – who was only supposed to stay for a few days – is still here.

That was it, we said firmly. No more dogs. We adopted a second boy (sounds simple, but is not), making the total: four dogs and two boys. Over the next four years, boys and dogs, work and home clamored for our attention all day, every day. Kali grew old, then Molly, and soon they left Nicholai the elder statesman of the dog pack at our house. Meeting the needs of two dogs felt simple compared with four. When Nicholai was diagnosed with lymphoma the boys were safely ensconced in school, and I was happy to have the time I needed to focus on Nicholai and his needs. I could see the day quickly coming when we would only have one dog – albeit a whirling dervish, ADHD dog – but one dog all the same.

Then came a sunny hot morning in the midst of a July heat wave. I drove Nicholai (who still wasn't dead yet) and Izzy to swim at Kelley Point Park in North Portland early in the morning before the temperature climbed too high to risk a trip in the car. On arriving, one lone vehicle – a shiny new black Chevy Avalanche – sat in the parking lot with its lights on. Must be just arriving, I thought to myself, I'll give them a moment to get going. I didn't know if they were fishing or dog-walking, either way, I'd give them space. So I slowed the car to a crawl. The passenger door of the Avalanche opened and feet hit the ground. In a moment, I could see it was a dog. Dog-walking, fine, I'll let them get on their way. Another moment passed, but no one exited the Chevy. Suddenly the truck backed out of the parking spot and turned toward the road, a small reddish dog left standing on the asphalt. After stopping for a moment, the Avalanche sped away. The dog followed for a few paces and then stood, alone in the parking lot, watching the truck disappear into the distance.

I spewed a few words after the departing truck, parked my car and hopped out, leaving Nicholai and Izzy barking inside. I crouched to the ground and called out, "Hey baby! Come, come, come!" The little red pitbull turned to me, hesitated for one second, and then bounded over with gangly legs flying and fearlessly covered my face with her wet tongue. After a moment of canine-human greeting, I let Nicholai and Izzy jump out of the car. Nicholai barked at the interloper and told her in no uncertain terms that I was his human and she should not forget it. I attempted to coax her to walk with us, but she preferred to wait in the lot, presumably for her sad excuse for human companions to return. I couldn't stop thinking about her, so after a shorter than anticipated walk and swim, our trio arrived back at the parking area. My vehicle was still the only vehicle there. With some coaxing and cajoling, I convinced the little girl to jump in the back of my Subaru; I think she may have realized we were the only show in town. I headed home without a plan.

That was July. Today we have three dogs, even though I was so sure that this year would be the year of one dog, the year of Isabella. But Nicholai decided not to die on schedule (for which I am forever grateful), and by a serendipitous confluence of amazing timing, Kelley (named for the park) was dropped – quite literally – at my feet.

Nicholai still tells Kelley with snarfs and growls and occasional whites-of-the-eyes, that he's the man, the king, the big kahuna – and he is. Mostly, she gives him his space, with just a little taunting. He is after all, the big brother.

Did You Know I Have Cancer?

"Did I tell you I have cancer?" Nicholai often asks family and friends when they're consuming food. "Did you know that my days are numbered? Pitiful, isn't it?" By this time, a stream of clear saliva has dripped on the person's shoe. "A bite of your (fill in the blank – salad, scone, pizza, ice cream) would really help a terminal dog have a better day."

Nicholai may be a tad hungrier than before he had lymphoma. His increased appetite may be stimulated by the small dose of hydrocortisone he takes, or by cancer cells hungrily consuming extra calories. Whatever the case may be, the boy is not shy about communicating his urgent need for snacks.

I love the honesty of Nicholai; no hidden motivations just pure dog-drool straight into the lap. If that doesn't convince you, then a low whine – pleading and needy. If you're still reticent to share your meal, perhaps a nudge to the fork hand or a head on your thigh could persuade you to turn over some lunch to a poor old dog whose days are numbered.

Works on me every time.

Life is Beautiful

More than fifty percent of dogs age ten or older will be diagnosed with cancer and the incidence in younger dogs is growing. We need only look around at our environment to find many of the causes – chemicals on lawns and gardens, air and water pollution, noise and light pollution, stress, and poor diet – the same culprits that create a plethora of health problems for us humans.

As individuals, we can't directly control all the factors that could cause cancer in our dogs – but we can do our part. I find that my lawn grows just fine without any toxic herbicides, pesticides, or fertilizers. We grow a big garden each year, using leaves from our many trees and poop from the chickens as compost, so we have a good supply of organic veggies and some fruit; we started our chicken flock to provide fresh, organic eggs for the dogs and found that we loved them too.

I feel a little guilty in the stress department. The adoption of our two boys from foster care has not been easy on the dogs. Nicholai, in particular, is highly attuned to human moods via obvious signals like tone of voice or stomping, but also it seems, by invisible forces. I suspect hormones (like adrenalin) and other biochemical activity clues him to a stormy affect, or a brewing temper tantrum. Over the years, he's made a couple of hiding spots where he can duck away from human conflict, but I think it has taken its toll on his sensitive nature. I attempt to compensate by making sure he has good long walks, great food, plenty of snuggles, and free time from intemperate humans.

Everything I need to do to create a healthy environment for the dogs turns out to be what I need to do to create a healthy environment for myself, my kids, and well … for the whole world. Daily it becomes more apparent that we are all connected and each action comes back around to us. I wish that my efforts had prevented Nicholai's cancer, but alas, they have not. But I wonder, if not for the health supporting lifestyle that he has, would he still be alive? Still kicking? Still showing me on a fabulous February day that life is beautiful?

Hubba-hubba

I make no claim to understand all the motivations behind each and every action and emotion of my dogs. I have enough trouble figuring out my own motivations and those of my human companions, though tomes have been written on the psychology of human behavior and words abound to describe what we feel and why we feel it. But I see that dogs clearly communicate their emotional states and in my experience, it requires no special training to figure it out. All you have to do is pay attention.

A couple of Christmases ago, we had a big family gathering at my mother's home in Montana. Nicholai was with us and one afternoon, my brother came to sit in the family room with a large muffin, which he placed on the end table next to where he sat. Peripherally, I noticed Nicholai park himself in front of Joe. After a couple of minutes, Joe turned to me. "He's staring at me; what does he want?" he asked with a mildly nervous chuckle. I looked up from my book and observed for a few seconds and smiling said, "Watch him, it's obvious." Joe – a scientist – watched Nicholai's face for less than a minute. Nicholai looked straight at Joe, raised one eyebrow and flicked his eyes to Joe's left, then returned his gaze softly to Joe's face. He repeated this tiny gesture a couple more times and Joe laughed. "Oh, he wants a bite of my muffin." Calmly and efficiently, Nicholai had communicated to my non-dog owning brother exactly what he wanted.

Nicholai is particularly attuned to people and to reading our cues. He watches faces, listens to tone of voice, and uses a multitude of methods to get his own points across. He uses subtle facial expression and eye movements, but he also talks up a storm, for the benefit of us wordy humans. In the mornings, after breakfast, while I am finishing my coffee, Nicholai grows impatient with waiting, comes to sit next to my chair, and takes up a one-sided conversation. His comments consist entirely of jumbled sounds that add up to something approximating "hubba-hubba" and maybe a little Scooby-Doo-ish "rubba-rubba." It's the best he can do with the equipment he's got for articulation, but I know what he's saying. "Let's get this show on the road, time's a-wastin.' Get your keys and let's go. This is the day we have, let's make the best of it!"

Anthropomorphizing?

Over the past decade and a half, I've been paying a lot of attention to animals, especially dogs – living with them and working with them. In the process, I read a lot, trying to create better relationships with my own dogs and provide better help to my clients with their dogs through improved understanding of the health, training, and social needs of our canine companions.

Repeatedly, the subject of anthropomorphism comes up; with the inference that to engage in this behavior – to ascribe human motivations or feelings to animal actions – is one of the seven deadly sins. Writers or scientists who purport to ascertain the meanings of animal behaviors , especially ascribing emotion to them, have been labeled immature, overly sensitive, and biased by their own emotion. This leaves everyone who wants to be taken seriously on the subject of animals overly cautious, lest they be seen as ruled by their subjective heart, instead of controlled by their supposedly objective head.

I think the main reason dogs and people have forged a ten-thousand-year-old bond of companionship is born of the very fact that the canid family is much like us in several ways. Even though we humans can't pin our ears back to our heads and the whites of our eyes always show, we understand these expressions because we're wired to use facial expression and body language to communicate. We humans prattle endlessly with our mouths, shaping our teeth, tongues, and lips into words and dogs are not so good at that (though god knows, Nicholai tries); still, pitch and tone of voice tell things about our emotional state and can give comfort or raise alarm. We humans have the upper hand in manipulation of tools due to the wonderful opposable thumb, but canines can smell early disease states, changes in hormone levels, or the approach of dinner – two valleys over. While we differ, canines and humans found each other, and stayed together, because it serves us both. We are similar as much as we are different, we fit.

What if humans had tried to form working relationships with field mice? Mice are cute little mammalian creatures, but if I tried to share my life with one, I would forever be at risk of crushing the life out of it with one misstep. If I wanted cues about its state of being, I'd have to grab my glasses, huddle down on the floor, and attempt to make sense of its rapidly twitching nose and tiny darting eyes. If I tried to take one on a walk (and I didn't step on it) the poor little mouse would be forever ducking into holes for cover from the very hawks I so admire.

Deer are aesthetically pleasing with soft eyes, wet noses, and large ears, but as prey animals they are necessarily flighty and elusive. While I see myself as kind and gentle, and for a long time identified with the stealthy does, I belong to a predatory species and the deer is at risk from me and my kind, setting up a natural barrier between us.

And imagine if for some reason, we'd aligned with the lowly housefly. If I could get past a housefly's alien appearance and the fact that it starts out as a maggot, I would have only fifteen days before my six-legged companion bit the dust.

Canines make good human companions. They are good in size, shape, and speed of movement. They can walk by our sides and curl up by us at night. We can both enjoy a good steak, a slice of pizza, or fresh blackberries off the vine. Sometimes, when we humans ascribe motivations or emotional states to our companion animals – "That's my dog's happy face," or "He's scared of you," – we're not anthropomorphizing. Hard wired from birth to read those cues, we don't have to. We know.

Oops! Darned egg slipped out of my hand. Lucky thing it's an almost perfect food - protein, enzymes, and between egg and shell, just the right mineral balance for canine cuisine.

Enzymes

Mother Nature put a lot of enzymes into the food that we – and our dogs – would be eating if we ate food from nature anymore. For more on this, please read Michael Pollan, if you haven't already. The Omnivore's Dilemma and In Defense of Food are on my favorite books list for their clear, often humorous, and sometimes shocking exploration of where our twenty-first century food comes from.

Enzymes are proteins that help chemical reactions within cells to proceed efficiently, in other words, the enzymes help the cells do their work. And since our bodies are made of cells, we need enzymes so that all our parts – livers and guts, hearts and lungs, brains and nerves, muscles and skin and hair – can work appropriately.

Cancer cells have been shown to have a sticky, protective coating, making it difficult for the body's immune cells to enter and do their job of deconstructing the malfunctioning cell and cleaning up its debris. Enzymes – especially proteolytic enzymes – help to break through this coating, weakening it and exposing the cell to the actions of the immune system.

Raw foods are full of enzymes which help the food to be digested easily, hence the raw veggies and meat that I provide for Nicholai (and the other two dogs) every day. In addition to the raw food replete with nature's compliment of nutrients, I give Nicholai a multi-enzyme supplement several times per day, separate from meals. The purpose of this is to allow his body the fullest use of these enzymes in assisting his immune cells in their effort to clean up aberrant and dysfunctional cells – which the cancer cells are, by definition.

Facing Nicholai's cancer, I wish I had more solid research to back me up in these natural treatments. But for now, the big money is focused on pharmaceutical (and far more profitable) approaches to finding treatments for cancer. Personally, I have to wonder if there might be a slight lack of motivation to find any real cures. As long as cancer is around, there is a boatload of money to be made in the diagnosis and treatment of this disease.

The Messenger

What if we began thinking of cancer, not as the enemy, but as the messenger? In our current paradigm, we wage war on cancer, fight battles against it, attempt to "beat this thing." Those with cancer are said to "win" or "lose" their battles, putting them in the unenviable position of having to fight – sometimes viciously – themselves.

We do the same with pain in our culture – vilify it, see it as a gnarly monster to be eradicated, sometimes at incredible cost. We shoot the messenger.

I've experienced pain, and I've had cancer, so I have felt their sting – up close and personal. I've also felt the incredible sting of trying to wage war on a part of myself. I used some tools of eradication and rejected others. I found that my greatest success in attaining health came in finding ways to love, honor, and nurture body and soul – with simple good food, kind and loving relationships, tender, unconditional dog-love, clean water, an open and peaceful mind.

When my canine-buddy was diagnosed with cancer, I could not wage war on him. And so, we have wrapped Nicholai in treatments from the arms of Mother Nature. Sometimes, I feel incredibly lonely on this journey, as I did when I met cancer in my own body. Surrounded by loud voices telling me to stay afraid, to hate the cancer cells, to kill them by any means, it can be hard to put one foot in front of the other, seeking to find healing not only in the outcome, but in the process.

I watch Nicholai. His eyes are bright, his tail wags, and his gait is jaunty. He calls me to join him in the perfect joy of a rainy morning hike. His cancer is a part of him, and loving him, I will seek to listen to the messenger that has appeared as bumps and lumps in his lymph system, perhaps as a canary in the mine, to tell me things are out of balance.

With cancer, as with anything, the questions we ask influence the answers we find. What might happen in cancer prevention, research, and treatment if we asked, not how do we rid ourselves of this scourge, but how do we love ourselves into wholeness?

FINDING NICHOLAI

On Saturday, February 12, 2000, my partner braved pouring rain and temperatures hovering just above freezing, to take our two lab mix dogs for a walk at Kelley Point Park in North Portland while I was busy seeing clients at my chiropractic office. Midday, Kim called me, sounding distraught – something about puppies, skinny red momma dog, freezing rain.

"Slow down," I said, "What happened?" She related the story of being approached solicitously by an emaciated reddish-colored pitbull as she was loading our dogs into the car, ready to head home. Nervous about this unknown pitbull, she hurried to shove the labs into the van. By the time she slammed the door, the skinny, shivering dog was slinking away, tail between her legs.

"Wait," Kim had called. Just at that moment, she noticed three tiny black heads poking out of the grass at the edge of a clump of blackberry bushes and nettles. She looked at the pitbull, teats hanging, and looked at the pups. "Those are your babies, aren't they?" she crooned. The puppies were beginning to slide back into the brush. If they disappeared into the dense thorns, there'd be no getting them out. She made an instant decision to grab the babies while she could, not knowing how the mother dog would respond. In a step and a reach, she had all three puppies scooped into her arms, and crouching back to the ground, she showed them to the pitbull. The weary little dog crept toward her, sniffed each pup's face then gently licked Kim's hand. In a moment, a stranger's voice called from across the parking lot. "Hey! You got some puppies over there? Well, there's two more over here." In a few minutes, the good Samaritans had gathered all five pups and the mother dog, loaded them into Kim's van and Kim had driven them to the Humane Society. Now she was distraught because the Humane Society couldn't keep them; as strays they had to be remanded to the county shelter, and the prognosis for stray pitbulls and pitbull puppies was not good. So, by later afternoon, I had signed the paperwork to foster the dog and puppies at our house.

Nicholai is one of those five abandoned puppies. We never planned to keep him; he simply insisted that we must, crying as though being murdered when we tried to turn him over to Humane Society staff to be put up for adoption. Today, with the lens of hindsight, I am inclined to believe that all things happen for a reason.

Gazing into Nicholai's ten-year-old eyes, I can still see a rapt, attentive five-pound puppy eager for connection and ready for adventures. I can still place a cracker or a piece of cheese between my lips to have it removed with velvety softness – lips brushing lips – by my now ninety-pound friend.

While I have been traversing the plains of middle age, Nicholai's been busy traversing an entire lifetime. Once my adorable and adoring baby, he became my protector and hiking buddy. When I wasn't looking, he stepped over a threshold to become my salt and pepper gentleman, with gray speckles over his eyebrows and a handsome gray-white muzzle. If miracles happen and grace continues on the journey with us, he'll be my tottering old man.

On this anniversary of finding Nicholai, I send a shout out to his littermate Kindred, who is holding on well with a cancer of his own. I think of the other three pups, and hope against hope they landed on their feet and are coming into their senior years with all the grace and fortitude that these two boys have shown.

 

 

The world According to Smell

Canines in Clothes

Thirty-seven degrees and pouring down rain, it was another beautiful February day in Oregon. The dismal weather guaranteed us a solitary hike, since apparently, most people stay home on days like these. I simply deck myself out in rain pants, a turtleneck shirt, a light-weight insulated jacket, a rain coat, my fleece-lined sou'wester hat, a pair of gloves, and I'm good to go; rain simply cannot keep me off the trail.

Until recently, I figured dogs were adequately decked out in nature's garment – all-weather fur – and I found sweaters and other doggie-wear a tad silly. Then Izzy came into my life and I realized that not all dogs come with everything they need in the coverage department. Izzy is a pitbull mix we found on the street and nursed from a mangy, flea-bitten underweight pup, to a robust healthy dog. But Izzy's coat at its best is a sad excuse for protection from the elements.

Izzy's hair is so short that she is susceptible to heat exhaustion and sunburn. On hot summer days, we've learned to put sunscreen on her neck and tummy or she'll burn. She wilts long before black Nicholai does and I've discovered putting her in a wet T-shirt keeps her cool when the summer temperatures soar into the upper eighties or the nineties. Izzy loves the fleece sweater with sleeves that I made for her this winter, standing with her neck extended while I slip the turtleneck over her head and lifting each front leg so that I can slip them, one at a time, into the sleeves.

Previously, I always thought that dog clothes were for Chihuahuas who rode around in purses. Now, my own Izzy has a small wardrobe to help her through inclement weather. Kelley, whom I found – a story for another day – at Kelley Point Park in North Portland last summer, is similar to Izzy, and so she too, has a fleece sweater for the coldest cold weather.

This is the first year I have forced Mr. Nicholai into other-than-fur garments. His birthday coat is lush – thick around the neck and with a plush undercoat – as if a shepherd was hiding somewhere in his lineage. For most of a decade, I have found his natural coat sufficient to protect him from the elements. But this year, the year of cancer, I have put my dear old bubba in a jacket. Now, on cold and rainy days, he readily accepts his raincoat, either appreciating the warmth and dryness, or resigning himself to his human's relentless interference.

Today, I'm sure we cut quite the striking image in our bright, reflective rain wear against a backdrop of muted browns and grays. Coyotes may have been chuckling from their hiding spots. But we were out there – the only ones – hiking, sniffing, running, living; because we can, because every day counts, because we have raingear.

Coyote Brethren

In pursuit of fresh air and leash-free exercise, Nicholai and I head to the periphery of the metro area most days. There we enjoy solitude and a brush with the natural world.

Hitting the trail early in the mornings, it's not uncommon for us to grab glimpses – or whiffs - of the area's elusive inhabitants. Using his nose, Mr. Nick inspects the trail, often burying his snout in a clump of grass, nearly sucking it into his nostrils. On occasion, he will find it necessary to smell from various angles, scratch the area, and finally pee on top of it. When I see this, I imagine he is saying to local coyotes, "Take that! I am Domestic Dog and I claim this trail."

I have spotted coyotes in the dawn light, dashing under thick brush or slipping quietly into the trees. Nicholai has given chase on a few of these occasions, but quickly abandons pursuit. One gray morning, I watched two coyotes – one large and one small – slip across an open field and disappear into the cottonwoods. Nicholai gave no indication he was aware of the wild canid company. With my inferior nose, I can only assume the wily pair was downwind.

Coyotes have my respect. Vilified as varmints and pests, pushed out of their habitat, and hunted with impunity, they are survivors. Attempts to exterminate them have forced the naturally adaptable critters to become even more flexible. I read that coyotes eat primarily – not livestock (though they will when they can) – but rodents, rabbits, carrion, fruits, and even insects. Having observed Nicholai eat all but the insects, I have no doubt that his untamed brothers are even more adept at filling empty bellies with similar fare.

Finding deer carcasses picked nearly clean, I imagine that a pair, or a small group, of coyotes took it down and enjoyed a feast the night before. Nicholai will devour the leftovers – ribs, spines, and legs, right down to the hooves; domestic brother to these crafty canines.

Last month in southeast Oregon, a couple hosted a coyote killing event they called a Coyote Derby – "most dead coyotes (just bring in sets of ears) wins!" Sadly, this kind of event is not uncommon in the west, where predators are reviled as evil and where humans deign to play God and upset the natural order where predator and prey exist in balance.

I love to know that Nicholai's wild brethren are out there, licking each other's faces, slurping down voles, slipping ripe blackberries off the vine. I salute their perseverance, and I chuckle in the mornings, sure that they've left notes for Nicholai. "Watch out Domestic Dog – I am Coyote, and I survive."

Medicinal Mushrooms

Seeking treatment for Nicholai's lymphoma, my top concern has always been his daily welfare rather than his longevity. Perhaps if I had been told that a difficult and expensive course of treatment – such as chemotherapy and radiation – were likely to affect a cure, I might have weighted the benefits over the costs. But as it was, the chemo/radiation route promised only probable remission with likely recurrence, making the short term side effects, long term health problems, and economic burden tip the scales away from this "standard of care."

With the help of a holistic veterinarian, a treatment plan was shaped. It included Western herbs (herbs from this part of the world), a natural diet, digestive enzymes, anti-oxidant vitamins, natural hydrocortisone, and a mushroom complex. Familiar with all of the components except the mushroom complex, I set out to do a little learning and found myself diving into the world of mycology.

Mycology is the study of fungi, and mushrooms are the reproductive structure of a fungus, so first I discovered that I was treating my dog with the same family that creates slime mold – still; maybe it's a good thing, as its kissing cousin, penicillin, has been a great boon to medicine.

Cancer Research UK published a study that demonstrated notable positive effects of mushrooms in the prevention and treatment of cancer. While bigger studies need to be conducted to more accurately define the effects of mushrooms, the doses necessary, and any possible negative effects, this initial study showed great promise for the therapy.

The UK study showed that mushrooms appear to enhance the normal actions of the immune system. In the lab, they can be seen to stimulate interferons, interleukins, and to marshal the activity of t-lymphocytes and macrophages. These immune players fight off bacteria, viruses, and tumor cells.

Nicholai takes a daily dose of dried mushroom complex, combined into capsules. The complex is made of Coriolus hursutis, Cordyceps, Maitake, Reishi, and Shiitake mushrooms. Together these members of the fungi family help to boost immune cell action, inhibit tumor activity, combat infections, and reduce inflammation.

I'm no expert on mushroom therapy. What I know is Nicholai's still plugging along, well past anyone's expectations that he would even be here. I know when he and Kelley contracted salmon poisoning; it was Nicholai – the older and arguably sicker dog – who fared better. What I know is I will continue to provide him this simple and non-toxic care. In fact, impressed at his robustness and the promise of these mycological wonders, I too, have begun to swallow a few capsules each day.

It's interesting to note that often when a new pharmaceutical drug is pioneered and shows this kind of promise, it can be sped through the approval process and marketed widely. The lowly fungus, with so much to recommend it, languishes in the background, waiting for wider discovery. One has to wonder about motivations.

One Day at a Time

I've been feeling slightly uneasy this week. Nicholai's continued good health seems just too good to be true. Since his last checkup revealed an increase in the size of his lymph tumors, I can't seem to let go of worry. Torn between not wanting to lose him and not wanting to see him suffer, I forget to see him as he is, to just be here.

Today we had a kicked-back kind of day. I've been making conscious efforts to give Nicholai days off from strenuous exercise, and he seems not to suffer from it. He enjoys short walks around the neighborhood, sniffing with extraordinary attention – perhaps keeping up with local news and happenings. At ten years old, I think these easy days would be important to his well-being even if he didn't have cancer. Older joints and muscles need more recovery time – I know that from first-hand experience.

This evening he is snuggled contentedly in his corner bolster bed, snoring loudly as I write about him. During the day, he checked the chickens with me, accompanied me and Tim on errands, sauntered around our northeast neighborhood, and ate with gusto. To all appearances, he isn't dead yet.

I just have to accept that days will come when he won't be well, and I can be there with him on those days. First, though, I have to be here with him on these days. One day at a time.