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.