The Effort, Not the Outcome

I try to do everything right – a legacy of growing up Catholic with a parochial education steeped in the concepts of right and wrong, good and evil, saintliness and sinfulness. Ensuing decades have shown me that life is filled with conflict and complexity, still I default to assessment of blame when things don't go as I would like, searching for what I could have done differently – or more specifically, better.

At the time I was diagnosed with cancer, I ate a vegetarian diet and exercise was a regular part of my life. I never smoked, used drugs, or to my knowledge was exposed to dangerous toxins. I thought I had things handled, that my lifestyle would prevent illness and keep me going strong for a long time. The cancer diagnosis rocked my world, sending me swirling into an abyss of self-recrimination, searching for where I'd gone wrong to produce such a result. I threatened to take up smoking and eating greasy burgers. Why the hell not? I thought, for all the good my supposedly healthy lifestyle had done me.

Years later, I found myself asking the same questions with Nicholai. Since the days when he was a four-pound pup, I fed him exquisite natural, organic, and home-made food. No fertilizers or pesticides defiled our lawns and garden. Nicholai had the best preventive care with lots of love and regular exercise – and still, cancer. Now, a dear friend calls to tell me her daughter has a tumor in her spinal cord, a loved one called me with news of a breast biopsy. I hear it in their words and voices too – "Where did I mess up? Why is this bad thing happening to me?"

Life is complicated. I don't know why Nicholai got cancer, or why I did, for that matter. I don't even know how to think about a seven-year-old child's tumor. I don't know why some people and dogs get malignancies, and others don't. But instead of throwing in the towel, I'm learning to live in the moment and do good for its own sake. Whether we survive or not – for in the long run we will not – what of the days and weeks and months that we have?

No longer in the pursuit of sainthood or the approval of outside forces, I eat my greens because they are imbued with the life of sun and soil. I eat them and feed them to my dog-boy not to save us from cancer, but to have beauty in this moment, this day. I limit – severely – the purchase of products that involved factory farming, animal suffering, child labor, or the wanton spewing of harmful substances onto the earth or into the air. No longer attempting to control what happens to me in the future, I simply control my daily choices. I hope for outcomes that please me: a long life, a healthy happy dog, friends and family to love and be loved by, a clean earth to live on; but as I act, I remind myself of an old twelve step adage, it's the effort, not the outcome.

Home Again

Back to the land where precipitation falls liquid from the sky.


Our overgrown secret wetland area


Love bein' home and out romping with my peeps!

Call of the Wild

They're back there somewhere!"


Catching up with Aunt Joan


Playin' around topside


Cousin Sienna


All leashed up, nowhere to run

I rose in the half light of dawn to hike up Mt. Jumbo with the dogs one last time before we all piled into the car for a nine-hour drive home; slipped into hiking clothes and padded upstairs in wool-stocking feet. Joan was dressed and making coffee as I laced my shoes and the dogs swirled in anticipation.

Out the door we all stole, into the brisk morning. Barking, spinning, and snapping, Nicholai, Izzy, Kelley, and Sienna – Joan's German shepherd – raced to the gate. The trail is immediately steep and as we humans began to huff and puff, the dogs charged back and forth, full of the scent and feel of early.

In a few hundred yards (we were still huffing) the dogs tilted noses into the air, perked ears, and scanned the horizon. Attempting to develop my scanty olfactory skills, I followed their lead and lifted my own head, sniffing the air – something, yes, mildly musky, probably deer, had passed this way. A few moments later, Nicholai and Izzy executed a mad dash off the trail in pursuit of those creatures smelled but unseen.

"Nicholai! Izzy! Hey-hey-hey!" I called to their disappearing figures. As Joan and Sienna trudged ahead and Kelley dropped a stick at my feet, looking at me expectantly, I waited for Nicholai and Izzy to return; and waited. Izzy soon sprinted back through tall gold grass and grinned up at me, tongue hanging. "A little too fast for you?" I scratched her ears. "Nicholai, come on buddy!" Nothing.

I turned to begin stepping up the slope and in a minute or two; I heard the raspy panting of my big black buddy. When he caught up to me, he looked over his shoulder. "Just couldn't catch 'em, eh?" Hiking up the hill, he turned twice more to glance back at the elusive critters in the scrubby pines.

A pack again, our four dogs leapt and dashed, seeming caught up in the wild song brought by the fresh scents on the sharp morning air. Cresting the hill, we made a wide loop around open meadows and pond. No longer huffing and puffing, my sister and I chatted, recalling the free-ranging joys of our childhood and lamenting the structured, play-dated lives of our own children. Finishing up our loop, we stood overlooking the Rattlesnake valley when we heard a cacophony of yips and yaps like a hundred geese had suddenly flocked just below us. Listening for a moment, yipes , barks, and howls sung out from the chorus of animal voices.

"Coyotes?" I suggested. "Yup," Joan nodded. As I glanced around at our dogs, I noticed Nicholai and Izzy staring across the field to our left, where one lone coyote crept by. "Nicholai …" my voice was low, "Izzy…" I warned, but it was too late. As one, they tore after their wild cousin. "Damn," I said as the three of them disappeared into the pines, "well … it's out of my hands now."

Joan and I stood, listening, waiting, and then calling. The chorus below us stilled. Finally, I saw Izzy galloping toward us, but no Nicholai, so I called out. What was he thinking? Old and weakened by cancer, he was no match for a truly wild canine. Suddenly, a wild barking voice broke the quiet, but still no sound from Nicholai. "Well," I said, sounding more cavalier than I felt about what could happen, "at least he wouldn't die from cancer."

Joan clipped a leash on Izzy and I took a deep breath and called long and high; "hey- hey-hey-hey-hey!" At last my wild man came loping out of the trees followed by the howling cries of the lone coyote.

"Calling for reinforcements, don't you think?" Joan asked. I did, and we leashed up all four dogs for the trek back to the house. We saw another coyote watching us from the brush nearby and the dogs strained at their leads. Now I understood the earlier mad dash and the backward glances. The pull of the coyote pack – whether to join or to chase off – was a summons stronger than any call to chase deer.

It was a call to the wild side.

Spring in Montana

On the trail with Aunt Joan


Hanging with my auntie under the big sky


Happy to be on the trail again


Spring showers ...

Turn Over A New Leaf

Packed with nutrients, leafy greens give Nicholai's diet a healthful boost. I can't (and don't) trust Nicholai's health to a morally bankrupt commercial food production system, so years ago, I started making food for him – and all my dogs, of course.

Dogs are quintessential omnivores, able to digest plant and animal foods. A critical component of the anticancer canine diet – conspicuously missing from commercial foods – is greens, greens, and more greens. Fresh leafy greens are best, home-grown fresh greens are even better. Fresh, raw food contains the highest concentration of live enzymes, which perform essential functions for the plants, allowing Nicholai (or any discerning omnivore) to derive more nutrition from the plant foods he eats. In addition, the proteolytic enzymes in some leafy greens are anti-inflammatory. Leafy greens lose most of their enzymes and some of their vitamins and minerals when cooked, so chopping, mincing, or pureeing makes for easy eating without destroying the valuable nutrients. When I blend up veggies for the dogs, I make sure my concoction tastes good to me and I have found over time that if I like it, the dogs will too. (Funny, because I'm quite sure I will never like green tripe but the dogs gobble it up like candy.)

A quick guide to leafy greens:

Kale: Contains a highly absorbable form of calcium, essential for bones and teeth. Loaded with beta carotene, lutein, and zeaxanthin, which can prevent cataracts.

Chard: Swiss chard is loaded with carotenoid antioxidants. Chard also contains an ideal balance of potassium and sodium for regulating an animal's electrolyte balance.

Collard greens: Contains unique nutrients that support immunity and protect against cancer, as well as being packed with vitamins, minerals, and a dose of omega-3 fatty acids.

Turnip greens: One of the best sources of vitamin K, which enables recovery from wounds and scratches.

Romaine lettuce: An excellent source of vitamin C and beta carotene. Like many other dark leafy greens,it contains potent anti-cancer compounds.

Spinach: One of the few excellent plant based sources of iron. It also contains calcium, B vitamins, lutein, magnesium, and other vitamins and minerals.

Arugula: This delicious salad green is rich in magnesium and potassium, and has a bold,nutty taste that many animals love.

Mustard greens: A great source of vitamin A, vitamin C, and vitamin K. B vitamins and minerals abound as well.

I grown these leafy friends in a backyard garden; this way, I can simply walk outdoors and snip the greens, still pulsing with the life of sun and soil. I blend them in a food processor with bits of cabbage, zucchini, carrots, a touch of beet, celery, and always apple (keeps the doctor away) and blueberries (antioxidant powerhouses). The carrot, apple, and berries sweeten up the mix, and really, it's quite tasty.

Even traveling, I find it simple to pack or purchase fresh veggies and blend them up each day. Sometimes I wonder if these humble garden greens might be Nicholai's best medicine.

On Mt. Jumbo

Inspecting the trail high above town.

"Take that, wild things! The big kahuna has passed this way."

Steeper than it looks, it gets the tongue draggin'.

Ready to cool off in a patch of snow.

I may be biased, but I think he's still got it, my handsome bubba.

The Road Less Traveled

Another glorious Montana day began frosty and cold, but warmed to a languid spring afternoon. The pond we've been hiking past started the morning covered with a slim layer of ice which Nicholai declined to break. Later, as I hiked the route for a second time with Isabella (nursing a sprained wrist, she needed a solitary hike to curb her manic tendency to overdo in the company of other dogs) the pond had thawed completely.

The hike from my sister's back door is immediately steep, challenging calf muscles, lungs, and heart. Even Nicholai pants with effort as we climb. But soon, we reach the saddle and are greeted with panoramic sweeping views.

I grew up in Montana and this landscape is second nature to me, even after twenty years in the lush Pacific Northwest. No ferns, no moss, no understory at all here, just golden brown grasses, evergreen trees and the famous Big Sky.

I hiked long before Nicholai and I will hike after him. But for the time being, he provides shape, tenor, and tone to our outings. His protective streak dictates early departures so we avoid crowds. Gone are the days of chatty stops at dog parks, replaced by solitary jaunts on paths less traveled. Nicholai's protective nature affords me confidence and the sense of safety to forge out alone.

I adore the time I spend with Izzy. She's a dog-park kind of dog, reliably friendly to man, woman, child, and beast. No need to scan the horizon for the possible approach of company. No need to duck off the main road or find an unpopulated area for recreation. Though Nicholai will work with me to accommodate city parks, city streets, and populated trails by walking pleasantly on leash and focusing on me when necessary, it's free-running, free-roaming treks I long for; the kind of cutting off the trail, climbing up the hill, straying into adventure, leash-less meanderings my Montana youth knitted into my bones and soul.

With Nicholai, I've stood often, contemplating two roads diverging in the woods. With him, I've taken the road less traveled, and that – to borrow from Frost – has made all the difference.

What Matters

A spring day in Montana means thick cold fog rolling over the hills in the morning, intermittent breaks of sunshine, a flash snowstorm, a warm afternoon, two does and a buck in the back yard, more snow flurries.

The morning's hike started out steep – at altitude – clearly demonstrating to me that I could do more working out as I huff, huff, huffed up the trail. Top of the pass was broad and windswept with wide views of surrounding blue hills, brown valleys, and town.

Dogs were jazzed – a change of venue seems to do that for them – the scents, the sights, the very air seemed to rev them up and they zipped around. I get it, I love the change too. Here the forest is open, no dense understory, just short grass not yet recovered from winter, not yet greening up. Patches of snow and ice in shady spots, the one small pond still had ice at the edge. Nicholai found the remains of an herbivore skull (the teeth tell the story) and curled under a small, gnarled pine tree to devour it.

I wonder if this might be my main man's last trip to the Rocky Mountain state of Montana, my home state. Lately, he pants more often and snores more loudly. A few of his lymph nodes have gradually increased in size, showing me that the cancerous cells are slowly taking over. Didn't stop him from running up the steep hill, jumping into the freezing pond, racing across the open meadow, crunching down the deer (I presume) skull, or attempting to launch me into parasailing as we trekked down the slope on leash.

Contemplating the possibility of Nicholai's "last trip" is both curse and gift. Curse, because in focusing on future loss, I choose fear and sadness. Gift, because when I look at his bright eyes and eager expression in the face of that loss, I choose to do what matters. I hike with my buddies, breathe, see, smell, feel, love. Play pirates with my eight-year-old, bake chocolate chip cookies, and snooze in the warm afternoon sun curled up with canines.

Maybe this is Nicholai's last trip to Montana, likely it is. And what a blessing, he was never supposed to make it this far.

Take My Cues From Nicholai

Lancinato kale, collard greens, zucchini, gold beets, carrot, apple, and blueberry, lightly chop and toss in the food processor, press puree. Add a dollop of organic whole milk yogurt and crunchy kashi and flax cereal, and voila – breakfast! What? You may cry. What kind of breakfast is that?

Exactly the kind of delicious, fresh food I daily place in Nicholai's breakfast bowl, I would answer, the kind that has helped my canine friend survive and even thrive since his diagnosis with lymphatic cancer. Many a morning, I have looked at my coffee and scone and set them aside, choosing instead to join my dog in the consumption of real food, food to nourish the body and give joy to the soul.

When Portland author and writing teacher, Christina Katz, author of the e-zine, Prosperous Writer, asked local writers to blog about the topic "How You Stay Healthy," I decided it was right up my alley. The last year, and now (I write with a smile) the second year of Nicholai's cancer, staying healthy has garnered a top spot on my daily agenda. I opted out of noxious chemotherapy and radiation for my canine main-man, and find that every life affirming choice made for Nicholai has positive repercussions for me.

Starting with food, I aim for what is simple, local, and whole. Our garden sported more veggies last summer than ever, with broccoli, kale, zucchini, and tomatoes filling the freezer and seeing us through the winter, along with a small garden of hardy greens that toughed out the cold weather allowing the harvesting of fresh salad greens almost daily. Our colorful chickens supply us with freshest eggs, and provide lovely organic fertilizer for the berries, apples and veggies that will grace our table soon, some of which finds its way back to the hens in a circle of giving and receiving that tickles me pink.

Every morning, Nicholai wakes up joyfully enthused about a new day. I may be dragging my butt, I might prefer to make excuses for not getting out, but my good buddy prances around my feet, following everywhere I go, barking, whining, and watching me with bright anticipation. And so, because his days are numbered, I don whatever clothes are necessary to greet the weather of the day and take him for a walk. Perhaps it's he who takes me – in rain, freezing drizzle, gusting wind, proliferating pollen, or perfect pristine sunny day. I tick off the measurable health benefits of brisk walking, with spurts of running or hill climbing thrown in, like a slow steady heartbeat, low blood pressure, solid lean body mass, a moderate weight, good sleep, joint flexibility, and overall strength, but there are other rewards, less tangible though just as real.

A pair of bald eagles high in the branches of a cottonwood tree loudly conversing with each other, a surprise flock of mergansers, a coyote and her pup slipping into the brush as the sun comes up, frost on each blade of golden grass, our breath in white puffs in the bright sun of a chill winter morning, these gifts of daily hikes are for the heart and soul. Though I have a myriad of arguably excellent reasons to be stressed – a family loss of one job and its attendant health insurance, a poor economy, a son's early life traumas haunting his current actions, a beloved family dog with a death sentence diagnosis – by the small graces of each day, I find myself content instead of anxious.

Just to hedge my bets, I swallow anti-oxidant vitamins, calcium, and omega-three fatty acid supplements. I drink plenty of water, stretch, see my body-mind-spirit chiropractor, soak in the hot tub, and enjoy the wonderful company of fellow writers in classes and workshops. I work and parent, walk and write, stir the compost, grow a garden.

I take my cues from Nicholai. Diagnosed with terminal cancer and given three to six months to live, he deigns to greet each day with happy aplomb, and has ignored dismal prognostications for fourteen months and counting (well, I'm counting, he's simply living). So, I willingly follow his lead; greet each day as if it was brand new and exciting, move, eat real food – starting with veggies for breakfast, breathe hard, see, smell, touch, hear, taste nature. Never turn down a chance to snuggle – be it with partner, child, or furry canine. And never, ever, forgo a walk.

 

 

Whose Den Is It?

Nicholai exemplifies living in the moment. Slightly thinner these days (88 pounds today at the vet), with slightly larger lymph nodes (uh-oh), he romped with abandon, joie d'vie evident as the breeze caught his ears, the east wind bringing hints of spring to the chilly morning.

We stumbled upon a new stomping ground one recent morning; we turned left instead of right, may have slipped past a couple of small signs, followed a narrow trail around a few trees, and climbed over gnarly blackberry canes. There we found a perfect pond, tucked out of sight off the beaten trail. Grass grows right to the water, un-trampled, even by the hooves of deer who obviously visit the area. We returned again this morning.

Ears tossed by the wind, Nicholai seemed perked up by the spring breeze, the lush green grass, the waterfowl, and the deer droppings. As we tromped along the uneven game trail, he suddenly dashed toward the water's edge and plunked in; apparently the bank dropped off unexpectedly. The Canadian geese honked, the lesser scaup scattered, and the Great Blue Heron cawed its prehistoric caw and flew across the marshy pond. Nicholai climbed out of the cold water and shook himself, the drops of water glinting in the morning sun. He glanced over his shoulder at me with an expression that seemed to say "I meant to do that."

Continuing around the water's edge, Nicholai and Izzy nabbed a couple of bones from the ground and hurriedly crunched them up. I noticed a large hole tucked into the bank behind where they stood chewing. As I moved closer, I saw a small skull lying in the opening, piquing my curiosity. Snapping a picture with my phone, I decided to leave it alone and go on our way. I wondered if canis latrans occupied the den and if what I saw was remains of a past dinner. As we neared the end of the pond, curiosity pulled me back, back toward the den. Maybe the skull wasn't from the prey, maybe it was a remnant of the den's former owner. On the trek back, I noticed several additional holes – all with the distinct gestalt of a wilderness home, but whose?

When I found the opening in the bank, with grass hanging over the edge, I crouched down to observe the small skeletal remains closer. If it was coyote, it was a babe when its canine soul left it to become dried bone, nothing left now but a skull. Reaching in, I picked it up to inspect. Looked like canine teeth to me, I tucked it in my pocket to bring home and study further.

Nicholai is such a domestic dog, sleeping on couches and plush bolster beds, snacking on pizza crust, benefitting from vitamins and herbs and medicines when necessary, enjoying car rides, snuggling with humans. But he has a distinct wild side – a penchant for chasing prey animals, eating skanky dead things, or occasionally killing live things to eat them – an undomesticated hint of his wild ancestors and cousins.

As I study the small skull, I wonder who it belonged to and what happened to the little critter. The photos are of the dens, the skull in the den, and a close up of the skull (on my kitchen counter). Any ideas?

The Pursuit of Grass

If you have a dog, you've probably noticed that no matter what you feed him or her, your buddy still pursues the odd snack of nice green grass, at least on occasion. That leads inquiring minds to wonder – what's up with the grass? Why do our canine friends like it so?

Theories abound, but definitive knowledge on this topic is in short supply. So, here goes with the theories and remember, they are just that.

One thought that concerns some dog owners is a nutritional deficiency is driving the dog's desire for grass. According to veterinarians, modern food is nutritionally complete, and so in theory, our dogs should not be minus any required nutrients if they eat a quality commercial dog food. I don't vote for commercial dog food, preferring instead like many people I know, to provide homemade food for my dog friends. In that food, I always provide greens, in addition to a variety of other veggies and a bit of fruit, so all nutritional components for dogs should be there as well.

Perhaps as some suggest, dogs are trying to mimic the ancient days when they were largely predatory, and are ingesting the grass they would have ingested from the stomach of prey animals, before the days of domestication. I don't know about that, they've become awfully acclimatized to pizza – do they really remember those far-flung wild days?

Perhaps eating grass is reminiscent of the ruminants dogs eat – cattle and lamb and such. Perhaps the taste or the gestalt of grass comes through meat and the dogs nibble on grass to remember the fine experience of eating grass-eaters.

Certainly, Nicholai will eat grass at times simply to throw it up. He's always done it, all of my dogs have. Sometimes, they snack on grass and keep it down, other times they barf it right back up. Does grass serve as some kind of digestive cleaner-upper that can be used discretionarily for either upper digestive tract or lower digestive tract cleansing?

Whatever the case, I trust my dogs on this. No matter what I feed them, they still eat grass. So I think they know something that we don't. Nutrients, fiber, pleasure, digestive tonic, I am happy to allow them this dietary choice. We don't put chemicals on our lawn, we grow some tall grass – which they seem to prefer – and I limit access to grass that I worry may have pesticides or herbicides on it.

If grass ingestion suddenly becomes excessive, or is accompanied by fever, bowel changes, or lack of appetite, we'll probably take a trip to the vet. Otherwise, I say have at it, dogs. You seem to know what you're doing.

 

Coming Into Her Own

Such mixed emotions as I watch our sweet little foundling dog growing up. This coming into "season" or her "heat period," as my nine-year-old refers to it, is new to me. I realize that I have never been the companion to a non-sterilized dog before. Existing in a culture of well-meaning dog owners, rescuers, and shelter workers who have promulgated spaying and neutering our dogs (and cats) as a solution to the rampant killing that has gone on for decades in shelters all over the country in answer to supposed pet overpopulation, I find myself feeling a bit guilty. Though it has been relatively easy to keep Miss Kelley confined, to walk her on leash, and to clean up her occasional leakages, the very act of letting her grow to a sexually mature dog is new and mildly uncomfortable. I do remind myself, however, that if we were to save her one $3500 knee surgery, we have helped her immeasurably and are well paid to manage whatever trials and tribulations accompany getting her through her first "period."

All kinds of questions pop up for me around this issue. If spaying and neutering is the cornerstone of stemming the tide of unwanted pets, why isn't it working? Why do millions of animals still find themselves at the pound or the shelter and why are so many killed there? Don't we sterilize them to prevent this problem? Why is the No-Kill movement minimized and marginalized? Reading Redemption: The Myth of Pet Overpopulation and the No-Kill Revolution in America, really put my thinking cap in a twist. In his book, Nathan J. Winograd chronicles the history of the humane movement in the U.S., its shift to managing municipal pounds, thereby taking on the killing of so-called unwanted animals by the millions, the movement's entrenched resistance to the concept of No-Kill, and its only recent shift to trying to save more animal lives (witness especially the vitriolic opposition from major national humane organizations to Trap/Neuter/Release (TNR) programs for feral cats, until extremely recently). I maintain that we could save a boatload of animal lives and prevent tremendous animal suffering by focusing efforts on eliminating puppy-mills and backyard breeders.

On top of the medical problems that can be caused by sterilizing at the wrong time, concerns about whether this prong of our approach to curbing the tide of unwanted pets is actually working (Winograd claims that there is not so much a pet overpopulation problem as a lack of will to stop killing pets, though he is assuredly a proponent of sterilizing companion animals) niggles at my brain. I wonder too, do we sterilize our dogs for our comfort and convenience? Are we reluctant to have our "babies" growing up, preferring instead to hold them forever in a state of juvenile development? Does our society's complicated and messy relationship with sexuality play into this issue more than we know?

I intend fully to have our lovely dog spayed in time. It will help to prevent reproductive cancers for her, and frankly, we don't want puppies, or the ongoing work of preventing them, and I can't help but think that if we don't create more puppies ourselves, we'll be available to adopt the cast-offs and throwaways of others.

Currently, I am rattling about in the uncomfortable space between one way of knowing and another. Confident that no "unwanted" pups will be set forth from our homestead, I'm curious to see how Kelley grows and develops. And I am looking with new eyes at our whole approach to the problems of abandoned and stray dogs and cats (and other critters as well).

I have to admit, I'm looking for a little redemption.

Supernatural

The late morning rain and dark shadows of the thick Olympic Peninsula forest created a perfect environment for uncanny apparitions. So I thought, hiking at a brisk pace away from our cabin on the long abandoned logging road deeper and deeper into the woods. Under towering pines and cedars, a carpet of moss spread out on either side of the path and thick greenery filled the forest understory – wild blueberries, salal, ferns, and rhododendrons; lichens and mosses hung from tree branches. Heavy gray clouds precluded much light from reaching us on the forest floor. In the company of dogs I walked alone, smiling and unafraid. It'd take one of Forks Washington's famous vampires, I thought with a smile, to threaten me here.

Though I have been advised to carry a concealed weapon (I don't think so) or at least my cell phone, I walk with nothing. Instead, I have the company of big dogs whose presence gives me a sense of dancing at the edge of a wolf pack. There are Izzy and Kelley, my two pitbull girls. While I doubt that they would ever attack anyone for any reason, I know their reputation – promulgated by media hysteria and hyperbole as vicious killing machines – keeps many people at bay. There is Nicholai, and though he is two parts marshmallow, he is one part solid protector. Along with us today are an aunt's dogs, Ollie and Duke. Ollie is all marshmallow, but at one hundred and ten pounds of black lab and Rottweiler, a stranger might not make that assumption. Duke is a formidable German shepherd. He is even tempered and a friend to most, but someone who made a threat could find themselves at the wrong end of gleaming sharp white teeth and a hundred pounds of force. The gloom deepens and the drizzle grows steadier, drenching my hair. In the hush that surrounds us in the Olympic rainforest, I can almost imagine the approach of unnatural forces. But I don't worry. In this company, I'm just about supernatural myself.

Rain plasters my hair to my head, quiet seeps into my skin, shadows dance in the trees. The male dogs prance ahead, scouting and inspecting the road as we go. Kelley finds sticks to drop at my feet then stands quivering, waiting to dash after one when I toss it; Izzy follows her own drummer and examines each area that captures her interest. I sink into the cool wet air, the musty pine scent – environs gloomy enough to provide backdrop for vampires. Thanks again, dogs, for kicking my butt out the door and onto the trails once again. I love it here.

Take Me Out to the Park

When I was twenty-six years old, I worked interpreting for people who used sign language as their primary mode of communication. One day, I was called in for an urgent meeting at a local hospital in the city where I lived. There, a man younger than me – a mere twenty-two –was receiving life-changing news. He had acute lymphocytic leukemia.

The doctors told him they had an 80-90% success rate treating this cancer, but the treatment would be brutal. Every day, I trekked to the cancer ward to provide communication enhancement services between doctors and patient. Every day the young man grew thinner, sicker, and more in pain. Each few weeks, the doctors rotated off the ward.

Since this young man was undergoing a bone-marrow transplant, a sterile environment was of utmost importance. Very few visitors were allowed and those of us who could enter his room did so after scrubbing and donning hospital scrubs and a mask. Not one bouquet of flowers or a single potted plant adorned his windowless room.

One day, toward the end of the fourth month, I jogged up the stairs to the leukemia ward, a few minutes late. Not looking forward to interpreting the doctors' visit with the patient – who was by this time skeletal, lobster red (an effect of graph vs. host disease), and writhing in pain – I stopped short with eyes wide and mouth open as I stared across the hall to an empty room, curtains pulled aside, bed stripped. I stood without moving for a moment then leaned against the wall. I'd known it was coming, still …

In a moment the head nurse rushed over, full of apologies. "I'm so sorry, I tried to call you. I didn't want you to see that alone. I waited for you to get here, but I was called away. I'm so sorry." We held hands briefly, and tears filled both our eyes. "I don't know how you do it," I whispered. She answered,

"It's really hard, but you get used to it." "I thought there was such a high success rate," I turned to her with a question on my face. "Maybe somewhere," she sighed, "but not here. We lose most of our patients. That's why the doctors only stay for three weeks," she replied, not mentioning at that moment how the nursing staff stayed week after week and month after month.

I made a promise to myself later that afternoon, almost three decades ago. When my time comes, I refuse to spend the last hours and days prisoner in a sterile windowless hospital room. Take me out to the park where I can touch grass and dirt, where the breeze blows pollen, and dust, and who knows what else, my way. Surround me with friends and family – who haven't scrubbed up and who touch me if they want to. Bring my pets – dogs, cats, even chickens, and maybe a stray dog or two – preferably ones with mange and fleas who need a little extra TLC. I don't want to leave this world cut off from it, but immersed in it – every messy, germy, imperfect bit of it.

“The Firm”

After Dr. Warner, the board-certified radiation oncologist in Washington state, lost his license to practice medicine for unconventional treatment of cancer patients, he provided consultation – as opposed to treatment – for people who continued to seek him out.

Someone I knew well had a family member suffering from cancer at the time, and treatment was not going well. I recommended a consult with Dr. Warner. The patient involved could not/would not forsake the sinking ship of chemotherapy and radiation that had become her life raft, until one day her doctors told her there was nothing more they could do. She had a few months to live they said; she should go home and get her affairs in order. At that point, with trepidation but no other options, she decided to try something new.

Over the next weeks, she gained strength and weight, felt better, spent time with her daughters, got out of the house, did things. By her report, she felt better than she had in the previous three years. Weeks stretched to months, months stretched to a year. One day, having already lived four times longer than her doctors had predicted, she took a turn for the worse. Fear gripped her, and she consulted her previous oncologists, who agreed to begin a course of aggressive "salvage" care. Her health rapidly deteriorated and her death was messy and painful. It is worthy of note that the doctors who filled her with toxic drugs and radiation until her body wall literally perforated from the inside out, knowing they could not affect a cure, retained their licenses to practice medicine. Dr. Warner, who helped her live an extra year, did not. Apparently, becoming part of the medical club – the fellowship of the AMA – is a little bit like joining The Firm (John Grisham). If you step out of line, beware.

For the rest of us, the stakes are even higher – it's our lives, our families' and friends' lives, and our beloved pets' lives. Until we demand honesty and real science, until profit is removed as a reason to pursue cures, until we face our fears of death head on, and until we demand real choices and real answers, we will remain locked in a paradigm that sentences the majority of cancer patients to expensive, painful, debilitating treatment, often followed by the death they and their doctors wanted to deny.

Me and Nicholai prefer long walks by the river, rain or shine. Yummy food and tummy rubs. Satisfied with gentle herbs and non-toxic vitamins, I don't plan to second guess what if we'd shot him full of drugs. Our road's been good. And when the time comes for him to leave his big 'ole furry, failing black body behind, I will cry my eyes out. But I'll rejoice for not having stolen each and every day between now and then, attempting to prevent the inevitable – the day his shiny black spirit takes off over the rainbow bridge.

 

 

Bucking the Status Quo

Cancer is a deadly disease. Because it is aggressive and because of high mortality rates, cancer must be treated by aggressive means, even if the cost – in terms of dollars, side effects, and overall or long-term quality of life are fantastically high. Cancer is a scary enemy and must be dealt with as such, no friendly remedies can hope to defeat such an evil foe, we must pull out the big guns; this is simply the way it is.

Or is it?

Back in the nineties, when I had just been diagnosed with cancer, I learned of an oncologist just across the river in Washington state. This seventy-five year old Board certified radiation oncologist was recommended to me because he had forsaken the status quo in cancer treatment, stating, "We have a multi-billion dollar industry that is killing people, right and left, just for financial gain. Their idea of research is to see whether two doses of this poison is better than three doses of that poison." Dr. Warner felt that a healthy person would be better prepared to deal with this disease and in the end, would simply live longer and better. He focused on helping patients find relief from stress, peace with religion and meditation, proper nutrition, exercise, and a positive attitude. He used immune stimulating drugs, hormonal agents, and when needed, the more toxic treatments to simply arrest the disease, while his other treatments continued to support them.

During the time I was negotiating what treatment I would and would not undergo, Dr. Warner was fighting with the Washington state Medical Board for his license for violating standards of practice and prescribing unconventional care. The board resorted to last minute changes of date and venue for hearings because hundreds of Dr. Warner's patients flocked to the meetings to testify to the quality of his care. Soon a group of patients and their family members formed a hotline to distribute last minute information on the whereabouts of the hearings. In addition to sudden changes in venue, the board also brought in experts who stated that patients simply could not be considered qualified to know it they were receiving appropriate treatment. Many of Dr. Warner's patients at this time were people who had been told by other doctors to go home and get their affairs in order; there was nothing more that treatment could reasonably expect to accomplish. With Dr. Warner, they were outliving prognoses and enjoying some months of reasonable quality of life. In a paradigm that promulgated no survival without rigorous medical treatment, the medical establishment didn't actually want to hear from – or even see – these patients whose very life attested that something else might be possible.

By 1996, the Washington medical board finally succeeded in removing Dr. Warner's license. The move not only put doctors on notice about the need to stick with the status quo regardless of effectiveness, this action sent a message to cancer patients that deviation from the cancer treatment cookbook, no matter how poor the recipes, was not permissible. It placed the stamp of approval on a set of assumptions based partly in facts (cancer is an aggressive and often fatal disease, we haven't found a cure yet), partly in outright conflict of interest (medical treatment is fantastically lucrative), partly in bias and misinformation (alternative treatments are unscientific, unfounded, not potent enough), and largely in fear (cancer patients and families fear for their lives, doctors fear for their licenses and reputations).

Dr. Warner passed away nearly ten years ago. I was saddened by his passing, wondering who I would ever find with the courage to advise, counsel, and provide treatment to me, should I need it in the future. I won't want some fearful doctor without the guts to tell the truth as he or she sees it, the strength to act in accordance with what research shows rather than what convention dictates and just the damn balls to do the right thing instead of the popular, lucrative thing.

With Nicholai, I am deeply grateful to have a doctor with the balls to buck the status quo. I am ever so thankful he doesn't practice in fear of professional retribution for providing unconventional cancer care, or abandon Nicholai to aggressive treatments doomed to failure, as the Washington Medical Board did to Dr. Warner's patients, or the Mayo clinic did to their vitamin C study patients.

It's not an easy road, the road of critically evaluating the status quo, leaving it behind when reason would demand it, and truth telling. But in my opinion, it's the only road really worth traveling.

 

 

Neutered Nicholai

Sitting in front of my computer, my eyes were starting to glaze over. Reading everything I could find on the effects of neutering dogs, pros and cons, benefits and risks, I was rapidly tiring of the lack of unbiased information on either side. Like so many issues, what we already think colors the "facts" we so often blithely tout as truths. As if to hammer this point home, a salesman knocked on the door (Do we need new vinyl windows?). Nicholai – a neutered male dog – charged the door in his typical "protect the homestead" mode. Lunging and barking, hackles up, he looked formidable. The salesman stepped off the porch. I laughed out loud.

Neutering male dogs supposedly cures them of roaming (90% success rate). Seems true, Nicholai doesn't roam. Aggression toward other dogs should be reduced (60% success); Nicholai will posture and face-off with other male dogs, the vast majority of whom are also neutered, but never fight – maybe that is due to lack of testosterone. One of the reasons we had him neutered, in addition to preventing unwanted pets, was to quell any tendency toward aggression, dominance, or fighting. But Nicholai sure is a guarder, protector, and a "don't step one more foot on my property, mister" kind of guy.

Preventing unwanted pregnancies is a good reason to spay and neuter, though I do have to wonder if as a society, we put puppy mills and irresponsible breeders out of business we might solve the pet overpopulation problem .

Here's the deal. Everything I read is conclusive that early spaying and neutering (before sexual maturity) increases the incidence of torn cruciate ligaments in the knees of dogs. Hip dysplasia – especially in large dogs – is dramatically increased. These are not inconsequential problems. Nicholai's knee surgeries cost over $6,000.00. In addition, there is evidence that cancer risk is increased by the metal implants used in many orthopedic surgeries. I shudder when I stop and think of the dramatic health problems that may have been iatrogenically introduced in Nicholai. We've had the resources to care for the issues; dogs whose owners can't afford these procedures either suffer or are euthanized. This is not cool.

I worry too that people will see neutering as a panacea for behavior problems, when it is not. A bored dog, a neglected dog, a fearful dog, an untrained dog, a dog whose people hoped to get it fixed and then resume their busy lives, these dogs' problems will not be resolved by a simple snip-snip. The people may be sorely disappointed when the dog still misbehaves.

Until quite recently, I was as big a proponent as anyone of spaying and neutering dogs before they reached maturity. If I saw an unneutered male dog on the street, I vocally questioned the manhood of his human counterpart. Now, quite honestly, I have to wonder if the reluctant human males may have been onto something more than their testosterone-driven egos all along. Is it so wrong to allow a dog to grow as nature and his or her physiology intended? Couldn't we alter them a touch later and allow them to grow up as healthy as they can be?

Early Spay and Neuter – Is It a Good Thing?

I'm in the midst of a palm-smacking-the-forehead moment of enlightenment. After two decades of blithely altering my companion animals with the theory that it's "good for them," I am questioning this practice, and with good reason.

Over the past few decades, the call to spay and neuter dogs and cats has become an imperative. Sanctioned by licensing agencies, approved by veterinarians, sanctified by humane organizations, and honored by trainers and behaviorists as the way to achieve a happy, well-adjusted pet, any owner choosing to keep a pet intact can be met with fines, lectures, blame, even outrage. Humans have decided nature made a great mistake creating animals with the ability to procreate, and we – in our infinite wisdom – have "fixed" it.

The paradigm of early spay and neuter is deep and wide. Imagine not altering your next dog and think of it as a good thing, and you'll see what I mean. You'll risk downright vilification from some quarters (until very recently me included) but let's look at the scientific evidence. (This is sounding eerily familiar to me, like the war on cancer, see Paradigm).

Dogs who are spayed and neutered before reaching maturity have a doubled risk of osteosarcoma, a common bone cancer with a poor prognosis. They have a two-and-a-half to five times higher risk of hemangiosarcoma, another common deadly malignancy. Altered dogs have increased rates of hypothyroidism, obesity, diabetes, urinary incontinence, and chronic urinary tract infections. In return, they are protected from the relatively small incidence of reproductive tumors, since these organs are removed.

Altering dogs during their growth phase, up to twenty-four months for some breeds, can have a profound effect on bones and joints. Bones normally close their growth plates at different times, allowing each bone to grow just the amount of time it needs for a perfectly proportioned animal. Spaying and neutering sends a hormonal message saying "this dog is still a pup – keep growing." At the time that message comes, the bones with closed growth plates can't grow any more, but the others now delay closing and continue to grow out of proportion, resulting in untenable stresses on cartilage and tendons. Lower leg bones (tibia) often outgrow upper leg bones (femurs) causing a too steep angle at the knee and resulting in an eventual tear of the cruciate ligament. The hip bone and the thigh bone often become disproportionate. Studies show that altered dogs are twice as likely to experience ruptured cruciate ligaments, and seven times more likely to develop age adjusted hip dysplasia. Both of these conditions cause pain and disability for the animals and cost thousands of dollars for their people to treat.

Nicholai was neutered when he was six months old. As he continued to grow, we noticed his back legs becoming lanky and his back end shot up higher than the front. By middle age, Nicholai had torn the cruciate ligaments in both knees, and evaluation showed that the angles of his knee joints were incorrect. Nicholai underwent surgery on both of his knees to rectify the instability caused by the torn ligaments.

When we adopted Izzy, we of course had her spayed right away. Indoctrinated in the compassionate thinking of humane organizations toward reduction of unwanted pets, we never gave a thought to the health repercussions of spaying and neutering a dog before it went through puberty and became an adult naturally. Meanwhile, I saw more and more dogs in my work with knee problems and soon, Izzy too came up with a torn ligament in her knee.

When Kelley was abandoned in a park, and I picked her up, she hadn't been spayed. Today, she has come into her first season, my first dog to be allowed this gift and blessing of nature. We're being careful about keeping her on leash, keeping her home from doggie daycare, cleaning up drops of blood that escape her flowered panty. I am hopeful that she will grow the way nature intended her to, strong and beautiful, powerful and fully female. When she is an adult, not a mere teen, when her skeleton has reached maturity, and her body has gone through the cycles nature meant it to have, we'll get her spayed.

It has become clear to me while studying human nutrition over the past two decades, that every time we humans decide to improve on nature (isolating one vitamin – oops it needs cofactors; eliminating saturated fats – oops, polyunsaturated fats increase cancer) we find that nature had it right all along. Perhaps this is one more instance where humans playing god just doesn't work out.

More on this later, meanwhile, I invite your comments and input.

 

 

Early Morning Outing

Another beautiful walk at the river, long shadows in the morning sun, shoots of green grass working through dry wheaten stalks and old brown leaves, and a late raccoon waddling across the field in search of a sip of water before bedding down for the day. Waterfowl are populating the wetland areas, choosing mates and nesting areas. Last spring and early summer, we watched ducklings and goslings as they grew from little fluff-balls to full-fledged flying creatures.

The sun cut across the trails and fields from its perch low in the sky and I had the sense that we were startling the area's residents by our extra early presence. The scent of deer hung heavily enough in the air for me to pick it up once or twice. Nicholai's nose was high as he probed the breeze for information, deigning once or twice to dash into the tall brush, in search of the elusive ruminants.

Though Nicholai's ribs are showing a bit these days and he's lost a tad of musculature – part age and part cancer – his coat shimmered in the morning sun and he danced with glee about the deer he chased, the one that got away. With a sudden burst of speed, he and Izzy gave momentary chase to the tardy raccoon. It jumped into the pond and hissed furiously at the two of them. They pulled up short, considered the masked mammal, and loped back to me – a good choice as a raccoon can make a worthy opponent for a dog. The morning's peace was maintained.

As we hiked away from the rivers and wetlands and toward our easy-going Sunday in the city, we met Labrador retrievers, Australian shepherds, Basset hounds, an Akita mix, a husky, and a Bernese mountain dog, all out with their humans for a Sunday morning stroll.

A-h-h-h, what a start to a day.

Spent a beautiful hour half snoozing on the deck, with my arm curled around a big old dog. What a simple delight – both the warm afternoon and the blessing of a still living buddy.