Ground Under Foot

More gray skies and drizzle greeted us today. Nicholai, Izzy, and I tromped along the beach and environs at Kelley Point Park in North Portland. The clouds reflected my inner world, where concerns for my sister's well-being ricocheted around my guts, unable to find peace.

A visit to my chiropractor, whose gentle touch promotes harmony, brought my breath deeper, rounder, and fuller. As I walked again, this time along the Sandy River, I remembered to take more cues from Nicholai. Let the doctors and the tests proceed, let them make their assessments, measurements, and prognostications. But don't forget to feel the breath in your body, the ground underfoot, the fresh air on your face. These are measures too; measures of aliveness and assessments of connectedness to the world.

The prognosis for Nicholai was grim. Now four months past the best prognosis we had hoped for, he still ignores the dictates of his disease. I wish I could be more like him in this regard; get up each morning, chow down breakfast, revel in nature, laugh at cancer.

Oh wait; that is exactly what I do.

Recap of Nicholai’s Treatment Regimen

New readers are frequently visiting Nicholai's blog, referred by a veterinarian, a canine cancer group, or a friend, with questions about specific treatment. I hope this recap helps you understand what we're doing and how it's working.

Nicholai was diagnosed with lymphosarcoma in January of 2009. At that time it was determined that he had the multicentric form, present in many lymph nodes around the body. Lab work showed no abnormalities, indicating that if disease had spread to his organs, it was not enough to interfere with function. Still, the prognosis was guarded – three months survival at most without treatment, nine to twelve months survival possible with a chemotherapy and radiation protocol.

Knowing Nicholai, and knowing the down side of the chemo/radiation route, I opted for "aggressive alternative care." That program has garnered Nicholai sixteen months (so far) of excellent quality of life – eating and pooping brilliantly, walking and hiking with energy, bright-eyed and happy-faced. I am ecstatic. (A cure would be even better, but that it seems, is not to be …)

The Regimen:

1. Real food. Leafy greens, broccoli, cabbage, blueberries, apple, carrot, sweet potato, organic yogurt, fresh home-grown eggs, free-range (a checkered term, I know) meat with bone and a bit of organ meat, green tripe. I can't say enough about real food.
   
2. Anti-oxidant vitamins – Vitamin A, Mixed carotenoids, Vitamin C, Vitamin E, Selenium, Grape seed extract, Milk thistle, Alpha lipoic acid (I use Small Animal Antioxidant by Thorne)
   
3. Mushroom Complex – Coriolus hirsutis, Cordyceps sinensis, Maitake, Reishi, and Shitake mushrooms – great help to the immune system
   
4. Herbal tinctures – Red Clover combo and Hoxsey formula, both cancer fighting herbal formulas with long histories in the US and Canada.
   
5. Enzyme complex – help cells have healthy metabolism and do their cellular jobs
   
6. Probiotics – helps the gut stay healthy
   
7. Omega – 3 fatty acid, 1 Tbs/day – fights inflammation
   
8. Chinese herb blends as prescribed by a veterinarian trained in Chinese medicine – two different blends so far
   
9. 20 mg of natural hydrocortisone
   

Every individual and every cancer is different. It would be ideal for each animal companion to be evaluated by and work with a veterinarian versed in alternative care. It may seem hard to find the right veterinarian to work with, but the American Holistic Veterinary Medical Association (AHVMA) could help you find a referral if you don't already have someone to work with.

Every day my thoughts and good wishes are with everyone whose dog or dogs have been diagnosed with cancer. I hope for lengthy quality of life for each. More importantly, may the journey be filled with love and peaceful acceptance of the outcome.

Vulnerability

I feel vulnerable today, as surely as I feel the gray clouds wrapping cool humidity around me on this overcast day. Cancer found me a decade and a half ago, snuck up on me when I did not expect it. According to conventional wisdom, I had already been doing what I could to prevent it with exercise, a healthy diet, and a good job. My own cells turned on me it seemed, and there was nothing I could do – except decide to live the best life I could for however long I had.

Nicholai's diagnosis held a similar sense of powerlessness for me. I'd made him good food and kept our immediate environment free of toxins as much as possible; still mutating cells began to invade his body. Now my sister's breast cancer diagnosis reminds me that we are all potentially vulnerable to cancer, and finally, of course, to death. Not protected by our culture's habitual denial – "it'll never happen to me," I know that it can happen to me and mine and I must find ways to make my peace.

There is a funny silver lining to a cancer diagnosis, and that is the stripping away of denial. My beloved Nicholai only has so long with me – not the forever I would wish for; there is an expiration date to our lives, however soon or however far away.

Having cancer changed me forever. No longer was I able to put off following my heart till some later time when I was more successful, had a fat savings and retirement fund, was thinner or more popular, or met some new benchmark in my ever shifting pursuit of perfection. Fifteen years ago, I started my daily habit of walking with the dogs, which to this day grounds me no matter how life storms around me – and it certainly storms. When my adopted children seemed to need my full time attention, I sold my office and took time to be a full-time parent. When it became apparent that I needed to write, I signed up for writing workshops and classes and followed what seemed an impractical passion, but which today is one of my sources of joy and fulfillment.

And those walks - in spite of time constraints, gas prices, a hectic schedule, or bad weather, I find my way to the rivers, fields, and trails on the edges of the city for quality walking time in nature – no excuses.

My heart aches for the days I won't have Nicholai with me. My brave protector and constant friend, I will miss him so much when he has to go. But the certain knowledge that he will go, raw and uncoated by cultural denial, gives me the push and the permission to take time with him today. The certain knowledge that I will go helps me when guilt (recovering Catholic) and obligation threaten to take over my daily agenda.

That's when I remember no day is guaranteed except today. So I accept my fear, I honor my feelings of vulnerability and the worry that my cells may betray me once again. Cancer cells, gray skies, pounding hail or no, the day calls me to go with Nicholai on our wonderful walk.

This is the day there is, I will rejoice and be glad in it.

Florescent Green Scum

I rose this morning to pouring rain. Great, I thought to myself as I put together sweet potatoes, veggies, and fresh eggs for the dogs' breakfast, we'll be soaking wet walking in this downpour. Don't get me wrong, I think we really need the rain. Last week at a little out-of-the-way duck pond that we had recently discovered, the water level was way down and the edges of the pond were foamy. I shooed the dogs away from the water and vowed not to return until fall – and it's only April. Yesterday morning another much bigger pond that has provided many swimming opportunities over the past few years, and is home to a number of ducks, geese, herons, and other waterfowl, sported large globs of florescent green scum on the edges. My human walking friend and I noted the unnatural color of the floating stuff and frantically called the dogs away, fearing an outbreak of the toxic algae that has plagued some lakes and ponds in the Portland area recently. We made our way to the Columbia River instead, where the cool running water does not collect algae and any effects of chemical run-off are not obvious to the eye.

It's a difficult world to live in these days; pollutants are everywhere – in air and water, food and soil. Contaminants are unavoidable, so once again, I have to take a cue from Nicholai. I have to have fun when and where I can. I have to make judgments – like avoiding the florescent green stuff. But given a lull in the rain, sun breaking through the clouds, a sandy beach, cool apparently clear water, and a tennis ball in play – hey – what's to complain about. As Nickel says, "Life is good." J

What I Do Matters

Twenty years ago, I had the good fortune to work as a chiropractor in New Zealand. I traveled from there to Australia, so my first exposure to coral reefs was the coral reef – The Great Barrier Reef. Essentially a landlubbing, Rocky Mountain girl, I was excited about visiting the world's greatest reef, but nervous too. I swore that I could not be convinced to scuba dive; simple snorkeling in the wild ocean would be enough for me. (I'm always just a tad worried that some big old monster is going to sweep up from the deep, grab me by the ankles, and pull me under.)

Within three days of arriving in Cairns, I could see that a world of color, shape and mystery existed under the water's surface and it was clear simply floating on the surface would not be an adequate way to explore. Before I knew what craziness had overtaken me, I found myself deep below the ocean's surface, replete with scuba gear.

Coral is alive and bursting with brilliant reds, purples, blues, and oranges. Corals can be plate-like, branch-shaped, spiny, or spongy. Fish and eels, manta rays and octopi, squids, sharks, and sea turtles abound in healthy reef ecosystems. Coral reefs, teeming with life and vitality, captivated my imagination, and over the years, I visited them in Australia, New Zealand, Fiji, and Hawaii.

Two years ago, I was in Hawaii for a wedding. Snorkeling again after a six year absence on the north shore of Kauai, I was disturbed by the blandness of the reef and the lack of fish. There were a few humuhumunukunukuapua'a, but not much else. I wondered if it was the season or maybe a bad year. Then I saw a film explaining that like the mountain pines, the coral reefs are dying.

Record high seas temperatures triggered die-off of coral around the globe in 1998 – up to 70% in some areas. Reefs are disturbed naturally, by storms, predators and outbreaks of disease. These are normal cycles. But coral can only adapt to a 1 -2 degree change in temperature before it dies – going ghostly white in a process called coral bleaching. All around the Pacific Rim and in the Caribbean, coral bleaching has been happening faster than reefs can recover. Indonesia only has 7 % of its reefs left intact.

In addition to nature, anthropogenic causes of coral die-off include over-fishing, coral collecting (for aquariums), oil and fuel spills, runoff, sedimentation from logging, and increased temperature.

Like the boy in the movie The Sixth Sense who saw dead people, I see cancer everywhere – in ponderosa pines and coral colonies, in my dog, my sister, my friends, myself. It causes me concern and yes, sometimes, it makes me downright depressed, angry, and afraid. But that's just on my dark days.

Most days are like today. I blend veggies and yogurt for a wholesome breakfast. I take pleasure in harvesting salad greens from the backyard garden. My son and I rode our bikes to the grocery store with trailer in tow to bring home the things we needed. Forsaking the car for a day, I walked Nicholai around the neighborhood, heartened to see the number of front lawns torn up and turned to vegetable gardens, to hear the gentle cluck of hens who pecked and scratched in many back yards, and to chat with people turning over soil, tilling up a parking strip, or installing solar panels.

The coral reefs are in trouble, as are the mountain forests. So are the fish in the oceans, the animals on farms, the polar bears at the North Pole, the penguins at the south. So are we. That's why it all matters – the ride to the store, the backyard garden, tender care of chickens, neighborhood walks. Everything we do matters. I think we can save the forests and the reefs, the animals, and ourselves; we can save the world. But it starts right here, right now, today.

Recipes

Here are two recipes made from great food with good nutrients that fight cancer.

Veggie Blend (feeds three big dogs and one human)

Use organic produce if you can:
 

Collard greens – 3 med. Leaves
Swiss chard – 3 med. Leaves
Lancinato kale – 2 or 3 leaves
½ apple
½ C. blueberries
1 carrot
½ sunburst squash
1 small stalk broccoli
¼ C. each red and green cabbage
Chop vegetables lightly and place all in a food processor. Blend together till you have a light green mash.

Place veggie blend in bowls. For dogs, add 1 tsp fish oil per 20 pounds of body weight, ¼ C. organic whole milk yogurt, 1 C. steamed yams, and 1 fresh organic chicken egg, shell and all. Serve at room temp.

For human, add ¼ cup organic whole milk yogurt, and ¼ - ½ C. high fiber, low fat cereal and top with two strawberries.
Lip-smackin' good.

Chocolate Tofu Pie
Note – Soy isoflavones are a group of compounds found in soybeans. Isoflavones are phytoestrogens. In populations who have traditionally consumed soy in its natural forms (soybeans, tempeh, tofu), a protective effect has been shown for hormonally mediated cancers. In the west, (with our "bigger is better and if a little is good a lot is great" motto) isoflavones have been isolated from soybeans and concentrated into pills. These soy supplements have shown some negative effects on breast cancer treatment and are not recommended. As Michael Pollan, author of In Defense of Food, says: Eat real food.
 

That said; this recipe is good and good for you.
 

1 tub (14 oz.) firm tofu
1 stick organic butter (you know, pastured cows, no hormones or antibiotics – all that)
1 C. local honey
½ C. organic cocoa (more or less, to taste)
1 tsp organic vanilla
 

Toss ingredients into blender and puree till smooth and creamy. Place into pre-baked pie shell of your choice.

 

 

 

False Hopelessness

When Dr. David Servan-Schreiber was diagnosed with a recurrence of brain cancer, he asked his physicians what he could do to help himself, to reduce his chances of yet another recurrence and to improve his shot at a long and healthy life. He was told that there was nothing he could do, to "do whatever he wanted" in regard to diet and other lifestyle choices, it would make no difference. When I asked my medical physicians for dietary advice, they recommended Ensure (with its plethora of chemicals, dyes, and preservatives). Dog owners are often offered courses of chemotherapy and radiation which they cannot afford, and then offered no other option, except euthanasia. This myopic perspective promotes total dependence on medical intervention and creates a sense of false hopelessness.

A cancer diagnosis does not make a patient passively at the mercy of his or her doctors. Medicine may have a brilliant role to play in the recovery and survival from cancer, but the lives we lead and the lives we provide our dogs can play just as brilliant a role in recovery and long term survival.

Studies show that women who have had breast cancer, and walk thirty minutes a day, six times a week, reduce their risk of recurrence by 50%. That is personal power; that does make a difference. We take food into our bodies three times a day. Some foods promote strong immune systems and healthy biochemistry; others promote inflammation, poor circulation, and provide poor nutrition to our dividing and developing cells, increasing the likelihood of mutations and cancer development. Three times per day, by making simple food choices, we can have a profound effect on our own biology.

Caring for our dogs provides similar opportunities for empowerment. Exercise and good food are within the reach of all of us. On Tuesday of this week, Nicholai and I hit the beach on the Columbia River. It was a temperate morning and the old boy took a few swims in the cold river. I smiled, amazed that we are in our second year of daily enjoyment of the natural world since diagnosis. If I had taken the standard advice about Nicholai's care, we would have faced a long battle with chemo and radiation (no guarantee of success there, either), or the "do nothing" wait and see approach that statistics indicate would have left us without any swims on temperate spring mornings, even last year.

A cancer diagnosis is not hopeless, nor does all power lie in the hands of the great and sometimes wonderful medical industry. We can influence the outcomes for ourselves and our animal friends. And we can make our lives much better along the way.

Western Tree Die-Off – A Cancer of its Own?

Hiking the hills behind my sister's Montana house was a balm for body and soul. The strenuous hike worked muscles and bones, heart and lungs, oxygenating cells all through my body and releasing endorphins – the body's message to the brain that all is well. The gnarly pines and wide mountain vistas provided calm for my inner self, and my buddy Nicholai was ever at my side.

Though my focus was elsewhere, I couldn't help but notice something both my Montana sisters have been mentioning for a couple of years – the forest trees are dying.

All around Montana (and all the western mountains from Alaska to Mexico) trees are dying in alarming numbers. While trees have always died – a perfectly normal part of forest life – in the past few decades the numbers have more than doubled, while new growth has stayed the same. That makes a net loss of trees and it is visible to the casual observer in whole hillsides of red, dead ponderosa and lodgepole pines.

The culprit? A tiny black insect called the mountain pine beetle. This critter isn't new, in fact is native to the area. But entomologists who study the bugs have noticed major changes. While the mountain pine beetle used to have a "fly time" of two weeks in July, during which they would leave the tree they had infested, fed on and killed to find a new host, now they are active – not for two weeks, or even two months, but from May through October. Trees at higher altitudes used to be protected by colder temperatures, now the beetles swarm and kill trees even on the mountain tops.

Not surprisingly, from the late 1950's until now (the same time period that has seen dramatic increases in human cancers), Montana forests have seen an 87% increase in tree deaths from the pine beetle. The average temperature has risen more than one degree – the mountain forests have a chronic fever – giving rise to drought and an abnormal number of fires. The forest's immune system is compromised, making more and more trees – the cells of the forest body – vulnerable to pathogens. As I researched this phenomenon, I found out that trees are dying in Siberia, other parts of Russia, France, and Australia.

Symptoms have a purpose. They tell us something is wrong and give us the opportunity to change what we can to re-establish health and balance. The time has come to change.

The canaries are everywhere.

Peace is More a State of Mind than a Sequence of Events

We're back on home turf again. Back where the lazy terrain invites moseying walks. Back to tall green grass, sandy beaches, rivers, ponds, and marshes. Moseying along behind Nicholai and Izzy on our walk (Kelley is at doggie daycare), a sense of nervous anxiety pervaded me; so much to worry about.

Time to make a list of reasons to be grateful. The exercise won't eliminate sadness or worry in total, just shift the lens a bit toward peace and hope.

A dozen reasons for gratitude even when things seem lousy. (Seems like a lot, but I need the challenge.)

• Saw a solitary coyote nosing about in the grass about a hundred yards off. Stared at me, darted away, stopped and stared again.
  
• Gentle temperature, no jacket required.
  
• Watched an osprey gathering twigs for nest building.
  
• Creature comforts - a roof over our heads, food in the fridge, produce in the garden, a soft comfy bed.
  
• A twelve year old Subaru that trekked 1,200 miles with nary a glitch.
  
• Candied ginger with dark chocolate – everything about that's good.
  
• Beauty all around me. Sometimes, just as in a camera lens, beauty fades into a blurry background, depending on my focus.
  
• Primroses, tulips, azaleas, rhododendrons, flowering dogwoods.
  
• Two light brown eggs, warm to the touch.
  
• Echinacea with vitamin C
  
• Fifteen years since I had cancer, fifteen years of dogs and kids, walks and hikes, gardens and blue skies. Wow. And ...
  

Fifteen months with Nicholai, thought there'd only be three to six. Every day counts.

Dark in the Sun

Nicholai takes a philosophical approach, me ... not so much.

It was a dark day today, and I'm not talking about the weather. After an uneventful, if long, drive from Montana to Oregon yesterday (during which Nicholai spent several hours sitting on the front passenger seat with his head on my shoulder), I was met with barking dogs, an acting out child, and a tired partner. In other words, I was met head-on with the continual juggling-act-in-the-circus that is my life with traumatized children, three active dogs, chickens, garden, and work.

This morning as I struggled to integrate the emotion of the past two weeks into a hectic Sunday schedule that wouldn't even allow for a walk in nature with the dogs, a friend called with the news that her spouse is in the hospital with a suspicious ovarian mass – goddamn cancer everywhere. As I mostly listened and talked a bit, I felt the door to my emotional self firmly closing, a sense of steel at my center, so much sadness and a deep sense of vulnerability. Are we the canaries in the mine?

Nicholai has taught me so much about living in the moment, about the precious sweetness of morning rain, footsteps sinking into a sandy beach, scents on the wind, deep breath, and a quickened heart rate. Today, I struggle to find that peace. My human frontal cortex strives to interpret, find meaning, and make sense of radical increases in cancer. One woman in eight in the U. S. will have breast cancer, in my immediate circle, we are two in eight. I'm pissed, sad, lonely, and yes – afraid. Will I lose my sister to cancer, my good friend, my dear sweet Nickel-Pickle, myself??

I'm sure hope and brightness will find me again, it always has so far, no matter what. It's just that the ante on "no matter what" keeps going up. I hope I can keep up with it.

Totally Spring

Our last day in Montana – for the moment – is one full of sunshine and soft spring breezes. What a difference from the beginning of the week. Instead of starting our hike right out the back door, I popped Nicholai into the car, stopped to fill the gas tank for our long drive tomorrow, and crossed town to Pattee Canyon. The canyon has a myriad of hiking trails, and for a sunny and warm day like today, lots of tall pines, shade, patches of snow, and icy pools.

We hit the trail – with about a dozen other folks, including mountain bikers, dog-walkers, and equestrians. After gray skies and wintery snow, people were clearly itching to get out. Plenty of trail options meant plenty of room for enjoying the nice afternoon, and Nicholai and I only met two horseback riders on our hike. A great bonus for Mr. Pickle on this jaunt was the pleasure of numerous freshly deposited piles of steaming horse-doo. So many wonderful applications for it – personal adornment, scent enhancement of course, and a quick afternoon snack – mmm-good.

Later today, I will climb the steep slope at home. After a week of stress and unpleasant news, I need a strenuous workout, while Nicholai can use a nap on the couch.

What a Difference a Day Makes

Day before yesterday at the foot of a rise ...
today on the same rise.
Day before yesterday, scouting for wildlife ...
today, marking the same territory.

What a difference ...

Day before yesterday ...
Today.
Day before yesterday ...
Today.

Solitary

Yesterday was a near blizzard; today, fifty degrees and sunshine. We needed to clear out of the house for the cleaning service, so I took the boy-dog for a civilized walk in the heart of downtown, where a river runs through it. Happy with new digs to explore, he pranced with his head erect, ears perked and tail jaunty.

Later, I did my best to sneak out of the house unnoticed for a solitary hike up the mountain. But Nicholai heard me pad softly across the floor and rushed to catch me. I turned to see disappointment on his face as I crossed the yard alone. For a moment I thought to let him join me, but the daily mountain hikes have been taxing his system a bit much I think, and so I left him behind.

I hiked higher and farther than I would have with Nicholai, and what a perfect mountain spring day – golden sun in a crystal blue sky, easily piercing thin mountain air, bouncing off clean white snow to create blinding brightness and shirt-sleeve warmth. The westerly breeze gusted cool through the pines and bold pink bitterroot flowers dared to open tiny petals amidst left-over patches of snow. As I struck off on a snowy side trail into dense pines, I wished my boy was there to enjoy it with me. But I knew he would be better for the rest.

When I arrived back at the house, Nick raced across the yard to join me, howling his disapproval. My mom told me he had whined the entire time I was gone. The sad thing is I know there will be more such days. All the more reason to treasure each one as it comes.

Snowy Hike

This is Spring?
German shepherd playing hide and seek.
Scouting for coyotes.
Sienna and Nicholai leaving "Domestic Dog" graphiti
Ahh ... this is the life.

April Storm

Yesterday was a tough day with Nicholai, lots of restlessness and raspy panting. Lots of instigation for me to do one of the things I do best – worry.

Did coyotes haunt us on our hike? I too had the uneasy sense of being watched and wondered how close and how many they might have been. As he glanced over his shoulder for the umpteenth time, I told him "Don't worry, bud. I'll make a stand with you." Coyotes don't worry me much, but with my old bubba, I wonder – would they notice he's ailing and want to take him down?

Returning from our beleaguered hike, Nick raced to the couch and began power napping. Hovering, I wondered if he felt sick. His lymph tumors are slowly growing larger, perhaps there is internal malaise that I can neither see nor touch.

In the evening, Nicholai laid in the living room with my sister and me, stress-panting as we discussed impending oncology appointments. Can he smell cancer, do the molecules of our emotion penetrate his senses, leaving him with a vague anxiety he can do nothing about?

Today, we woke to a thin sheet of snow on the ground, after coffee it was a blanket, by the time we struck out to hike, a thick down comforter covered the ground. The hush of the muffled white world signaled a new day, perhaps the calm in the eye of the storm. Raspy panting ceased, Nicholai seemed relaxed and energetic, romping and marking territory in the falling flakes with cousin Sienna. Visibility was limited, turning distant trees into ghostly shadows, the steep portions of the trail slippery; no tracks broke the unspoiled landscape before ours.

Later, my sister and I will trek to the first of many medical appointments. As heavy wet snow continues to fall on this mid-April day, I see that I control so little and what will be, will be.

It's hard, but I'm trying to take whatever comes, one beautiful day at a time.

Uneasy

Spring insists on arriving in Missoula mountain style. Blustery swirls of snow greeted Nicholai and me as we trudged up the hillside, heads bent into the wind. Hat, gloves, and cell phone tucked into my pocket, I was ready for a long and solitary trek. I even had Nicholai's jacket wrapped around the leash that I strung over my shoulder. I felt a tad silly about the jacket, it is the Wild West after all, and surely a burly black lab doesn't need an outfit. It was insurance really – like the phone. On a dark and cold Monday morning with snow falling and wind whipping, we were unlikely to encounter company in the hills. Nicholai's breath has come a little heavier the past couple of weeks and I wanted to be prepared for anything.

Passing through the brush at the start of our hike, Nicholai seemed wary. He kept sniffing the air, glancing left and right, looking over his shoulder. As we crested the first rise, he tossed another cautionary glance behind us. And then I remembered. "Oh yeah, bud," I said to him out loud. "This is where the coyotes were last time we were here." Dark skies and early morning, I realized they could be tucked just out of sight a stone's throw away.

I don't know if it was coyotes or if he was feeling malaise, but Nicholai stuck to my side and kept watch around us our whole hike. I cut it shorter than I'd planned, because my buddy's uneasiness started creeping under my skin. I've never worried about coyotes (or lions and tigers and bears – oh my) out hiking or running all alone, always independent and tough.

But now, with Nicholai, I need to negotiate the territory of advancing age and slowly progressing cancer. Nickel-Pickle has always been my partner and protector. This morning I felt him asking reassurance from me, and I wondered – is this how the end begins?

Good for Body and Soul

Snow on every horizon this morning, eventually on us too.

Wrong way, kids. The elks have that territory til June.

Inspecting, always inspecting.

My sister hit on it yesterday. Returning from a two hour hike up into the mountains while I hung out with her four-year-old, she exclaimed, "The view up there was – expansive! I've really got to figure out a way to get back to that. I mean, I can work out on the elliptical machine for exercise, but that was for my soul."

I know exactly what she means. Fifteen years ago, when I was dealing with my own cancer, walks and hikes with my dogs of the time (Molly and Kali) connected me to the steady rhythm of life and infused me with a sense of hope and beauty. This past year, walks with Nicholai have been, and continue to be, a constant source of mindfulness, of living connected to the world, to nature, to life itself.

Exercise reduces the rate of cancer recurrence by as much as 50-60% in some cancers. There are numerous mechanisms by which exercise improves overall health. First, it reduces the amount of adipose tissue (fat), the principle storage site of carcinogen toxins in the body. Physical exercise modifies hormonal balance, reducing excess estrogen and testosterone that stimulate the growth of certain cancers. Exercise reduces blood sugar and high blood sugar feeds tumors. Physical activity even acts directly on the substances responsible for inflammation. Physical exercise has a direct effect on the immune system, seemingly protecting it against the stress of bad news. Finally, as my sister stated, it's good for the soul. For all I know, it may be as a big a reason that Mr. Pickle still lives and thrives as anything else we do.

Dr. David Servan-Schreiber, MD, PhD, wrote in Anticancer – A New Way of Life, about his own journey with brain cancer and everything he learned in his effort to survive. His medical doctors never advised him on diet, nutrition, exercise, or stress reduction, so he figured it out himself. Over thirteen months of chemotherapy he ran every morning with his dog. He states: I was very lucky to have a dog. Not everyone so easily finds their way to the kind of exercise that suits them best. When I woke up with nausea, and sometimes with fear in my gut, he came and put his head on my knees. I patted him gently until I felt better. Then he would stretch with half-closed eyes, as if yoga came naturally to him. He would look at me, tilting his head to the side toward the street. That meant that it was time to go running together.

I confess that there are mornings when I am tired from lack of sleep, rain is pouring, or I have ten million things on my to-do list. If Nicholai didn't whine, yowl, and yammer at me, dancing at my feet, I might be tempted to skip my daily workout. And that would be a huge mistake – for my body, and for my soul.

Sleepless in Missoula

No specific thoughts plagued me during the late hours of night and the wee hours of the morning, still I tossed and turned with endless restlessness. No position felt comfortable, I could not let myself drift off to sleep. It was as if the community of trillions of cells that make up "me," swirled in a general anxious response to the big "C," expressing the vulnerability I feel about cancer in my dog, cancer in my sister. I control what I can – good food, few chemicals in the house or the grounds, filtered water, the best attitude I can muster. Still …

Nicholai is not a bed-sleeping kind of guy. He likes to stretch out at night, and doesn't want to be kicked or nudged, or overly snuggled, so he finds his comfort on the cool floor or a comfy large dog bed. However, when I rose at one a. m. to chase down a warm glass of milk, he padded behind me to the kitchen, hoping I know, for a swig of milk for him. Whatever his motivation, I found his presence a comfort. Returning to the bedroom, he hopped onto the tall bed, and snuggled there until my restless movements shooed him off to find his own space again.

Today, tired muscles, droopy eyes, and a quiet affect are remnant of my sleepless night. I plod slowly through coffee, breakfast, reading, and shower. Mr. Pickle follows me everywhere; he is my shadow, my bodyguard. As I stand precisely folding clean clothes and making neat piles on the bed – pants, shirts, undies, socks – he lies quiet on his bolster bed, regarding me. After a few moments, he rolls to his side, lifts his back leg, paws the air with his front foot and whines at me. I know this invitation/command. "Stop what you are doing, come and be with me, pet my belly." With a small chuckle, I leave the laundry behind and join my guy on the floor.

I know the drill and so I stroke his chest and belly. He pushes against me – not away, but into – with his front leg, and then relaxes on his side. I think we're finished and start to get up and my good buddy pulls at my arm with his "arm." "Okay," I say out loud, and stretch out on the floor with my head on the bolster, my hands curled in front of my face. Nicholai lets out a big sigh, plops back onto his side, places his front paw precisely in my outstretched palm, and begins to snore. For the first time in a week, I begin to let go of planning, helping, supporting, cooking; give big sisterhood a rest. For the first time since I heard the news "invasive ductal cancer," I stop a moment and tears fill my eyes while my great friend holds my hand.

How did he know and whatever will I do without him?

Whistling Past the Graveyard

Out the door, across the yard, over the split-rail fence, and up the hill we went, just Mr. Pickle and me. (Dog owners, you know you do it too – Nicholai becomes Nickel-Pickle, becomes the Pickle-head, becomes Mr. Pickle). Cold this morning back in Montana, our breath comes in white puffs, the wind is sharp on my face, and another dusting of snow covers the trail.

As time goes by, I pinch myself, we're well into April and my furry black companion still trots up the steep slope, tail held high, prancing, and proud. We're a couple of survivors, my old man and me, and that makes me oddly happy while we hike in the stark beauty of a chill mountain morning, even in the face of a sibling's cancer diagnosis.

A friend sent me an article from the New York Times: (http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/03/31/an-insomniacs-best-friend/), where the author speaks of her well-loved dog, Chief. Diagnosed with lung cancer in January of 2009, and treated with surgery and chemotherapy, Chief didn't make it past September. The author says she's haunted by memories and haunted by regrets, asking herself late at night, "Was it worth it?" Having spent $15,000 on Chief's treatment, she describes "whistling past the graveyard," writing checks as she went. Her regret is clear when she speaks of us dog owners flinging cash like idiots, crazy in our love for our dogs.

To be hiking under clear blue skies with Nickel-Pickle is clearly a blessing. We, too – both of us – are "whistling past the graveyard," but the checks I write for vitamins and herbs are small, the days we have are many, Nicholai still hops on the bed at night, rolls to his side and lifts his leg for a tummy rub. When I wake to the gentle snoring of my buddy –who also is my comfort when worries pop my eyes wide open in the middle of the night – I thank my lucky stars that he is with me, I feel a surge of gratitude toward Nicholai's holistic vet, and I mentally sing praise to clean, real food. Still, I understand why she did it.

She did it for love.

Health Problems of Commercial Dog Food

Most commercially produced dog food exists, not to make your dog healthy, but to sell the left over waste products of the human food industry for a profit. Never forget this. Today a few companies have responded to the groundswell of outrage about dog food made with known contaminants, floor sweepings, diseased animals, and even rendered dogs and cats killed in shelters, by producing dog food from organic (very few) and human-grade ingredients (a few more).The problems have not been eliminated, however, and it is likely that any cheap supermarket brand of dog food is still rife with the above listed ingredients. The rest of this discussion will pertain to the problems associated with even the best quality kibbles and canned dog food. For my purposes, the rest don't deserve our consideration – just say no.

Kibble and canned food has lost nutritional value. The ingredients are either harvested or killed, transported, processed and packaged; by the time it reaches you, it is old and has been exposed to oxidation and high temperatures. Enzymes, vitamins, and anti-oxidants – the very things that give food its health value – are removed or destroyed.

All-purpose dog food is a poor product. Different dogs will have different needs during various times of their lives. Most of the food is high in carbohydrates (though now, finally, you can find grain-free) because it is less expensive to make. It makes sense that one formula will not serve a dog well for his or her whole life.

When you feed a commercial food to your dog, you lose control. Even in the high-end food market, terms have been co-opted (such as "natural", "free-range," "organic"). As the demand for these products has grown, so has the scale of production, pushing for ever cheaper and more efficient means of getting these products to us at the highest profit. The "organic" chicken or beef in dog food can easily come from animals who stood cramped into postage-stamp size spaces, eating corn and soy and never seeing a blade of grass. They are "naturally" deficient in omega-3 fatty acids, so those will have to be added artificially later (or just left out). The veggies may be organic – but fresh? I don't think so.

Most dog foods are not tested properly. The melamine contamination in 2007 demonstrates this with alarming clarity. When melamine – a residue from the production of plastic resin plates – was added to dog food to artificially boost protein content, testing did not catch this adulteration, dying cats and dogs caught the problem. I hope that companies who produce "organic" foods would never knowingly add an adulterant to the product and that high testing standards would catch it. But in purchasing and feeding their product to my canines, I would give up that control.

Eating kibble, canned food, and even freeze-dried and then reconstituted food, provides for poor dental hygiene. Dogs who crunch down bones have naturally clean smelling, fresh breath and gleaming white teeth right into old age. No diet of cereal-like food or soft food can provide this benefit.

For Nicholai, I see no substitute to the fresh veggies, the eggs plucked out of the nest that morning, and raw meat with bones. Today, fifteen months since his diagnosis with cancer, he still hikes daily, jumps on and off the bed, dances for his breakfast, and has glimmering white teeth and a shiny black coat. He did get cancer on a whole foods diet, but in our current environment, cancer is not one hundred percent avoidable.

Use high-end, organic foods for your canine companions if you must, but leave the others on the shelf. If we don't buy 'em they won't make 'em and everybody will be the better for it.

 

 

Commercial Food – Bad for the Soul

What if your beloved lab mix, "Shadow," got out of the yard one day and went on walkabout? What if instead of a good Samaritan, someone picked him up and took him off to a place where eating dogs was considered normal (such places do exist)? What if someone pulled out all of Shadow's teeth without anesthetic (too costly) to keep him from biting, and stuffed him into a small cage, in a room full of cages filled with the smells of urine, feces, and fear, where the wire cut his feet until they became infected? When he howled in loneliness and pain, wondering perhaps, what he'd done to deserve such treatment, what if someone shoved an electric prod through the cage to shut him up? After this and more, followed by a brutal slaughter, what if he ended up on your dinner plate, in a can of Dinty Moore Stew?

The story above sounds far-fetched only because we live with dogs named Shadow, and Buddy, and Lucky, and Nicholai. We know them, see in their eyes fear and friendliness, and know from their wiggling butts and thumping tails, excitement, anticipation, and welcome. We love them and we don't think of them as food. Because of their proximity, we have not forgotten who they are.

I live with chickens in my backyard. They're colorful and curious; they have preferences and clear delights – corn on the cob, Caesar salad, wild bird seed. When our hen, Hazel, was broody – sitting for weeks on eggs that refused to hatch – we purchased six baby chicks from a local feed store, seduced Hazel off her nest with wild bird seed, and replaced the tired unfertile eggs with the fluffy chicks. Hearing tiny peeps from the nesting box, Hazel poked her head in. She snapped her head back, chicken fashion, tilting from one side to the other, then peered back in, already clucking softly. Then slow and cautious, she stepped into the nest and took the babies under her wings. For weeks she was mother hen to these orphans, preening and protecting. We heard a particular vocalization we termed her "good food cluck," that she used to draw the chicks' attention to particularly delectable tidbits. Clearly, Hazel had communication with and compassion for the chicks in her charge. Several years later, when the baby chicks were grown, Hazel was taken by a raccoon in the early morning hours. We heard a vocalization we had never heard from any of our hens or roosters before; a long, loud cry – a caaawww– as the baby-chicks-turned-hens appeared to announce, and maybe even to mourn, the disappearance of their momma.

Once, we knew chickens, today we have all but totally forgotten.

All chicken meat and chicken products – including dog food – purchased at supermarkets comes from factory farmed chickens. Engineered for grotesque breast development, the Cornish-cross birds quickly outgrow their legs which often break under their weight. They must be slaughtered young, before they fall on their faces, no longer able to stand, or keel over from a heart attack. They live in less space than the screen you are reading and must be fed a continual supply of antibiotics, just to stay alive long enough to get killed for our tables. They are stomped on, thrown, crushed, and suffocated during transport, dragged through electrical water baths to be rendered immobile (but still conscious), run through an automatic throat slitter, unless it misses the throat, slashing them elsewhere, in which case the back-up "kill-men" slit their throat. There are numerous reports of bird missed by both auto and back-up slitters going live into the scalding water bath. This is the norm, it is not exceptional. It is the rule. Ninety-nine percent of all chickens sold for meat in America (99% of turkeys, 95% of pigs, 78% of cattle) live and die like this. I have spared the worst details, it's not pretty.

If, like me, you shop at an upscale natural food store, you may think your chicken purchases are exempt. They are not. The term free-range has been hijacked and means only one thing – the chickens were not in a cage. Most – even organic –are the mutant Cornish-cross variety and they never see the light of day and never forage for bugs and grass as they were meant to do. Large production farms utilize conventional (read horrific) slaughterhouses due to considerations of cost, convenience, and availability.

We must remember who our food is; that our chicken – or beef, or pork, or lamb – came from a living animal. Factory farming wants us to forget – and for the most part we have. When you or I stand at the meat counter demanding boneless, skinless, organic, free-range chicken breasts two time per week, we've forgotten that the breast came from a whole chicken – one who lived and died a squalid life so that their overgrown breast could grace our table. We ask the industrial farmer to produce chicken for us as if it were a widget; we want it cheap, available 365 days of the year, and we only want the part we want, eschewing responsibility for the rest.

Industrialized pork production, beef production, lamb production, and even fish farming and catching are rife with cruelty and abuses of land, water, and animals. I am concerned about the myriad health problems created by these practices – lack of essential nutrients and contamination with toxins. But one thing more than any other drives my return to beans, rice, and tofu; and that's my soul.

I've looked into the eyes of animals – my dogs, the odd pig, horses, cows, and sheep. I've seen sentience in all of them. When I look at my plate and consider constant suffering on every level by the pig who made my bacon, or the chicken who tottered around with broken legs, no amount of health claims (if there were any) could convince me that I need that bacon or that chicken breast.