It’s a Date

It's Monday morning – early. My cell phone rings. Dressed for the outdoors with coffee at the ready in a travel mug, I flip open the phone. "Hello?" I speak quietly, so as not to wake the rest of the household. "Are you ready to rumble?" comes the familiar voice. "Macko's lips are quivering and Zoe says 'Let's get this show on the road.'" "Meet you out there in half an hour." And so it's gone for the past five years, a standing date for two humans and four to five pitbull and pitbull mix dogs.

We hit the road at the crack of dawn, arrive at access to the Sandy and Columbia Rivers, and strike out on the trail replete with leashes, tennis balls, life jackets, towels, raincoats – all the necessities for down home good-time fun, regardless of the whims of season and weather. Nicholai and Izzy certainly know it's a day to meet "Auntie Diane" and her dogs, Macko and Zoe. They whine with anticipation as we near our meeting spot. Out of the car at the trailhead, Izzy jumps, barks, and spins out of control in pure excitement and joy.

Our dogs have known each other for what amounts to a very long time in dogs' lives. They are growing older together. Macko and Nicholai – once brawny young men – are now crusty old men, sniffing and marking with gusto, if occasionally on shaky legs. Zoe shows the toll of two knee surgeries and after ten minutes, even Izzy is content to trot along the trails to the river.

Once we arrive at the beach, all dogs nearly shiver with eagerness as the tennis balls are readied. Nicholai, Izzy, and Zoe are content to fetch balls from the water's edge on these cooler days; not so Macko who is a diehard swimmer. At age thirteen, with a bum knee and an enlarged heart, he wears a life vest for warmth and for floatation, but he will swim for a ball until we pull the plug – or the tennis ball, as it were.

Last spring both Diane and I crossed our fingers every day that the old boys would have summer with us. Day after day, Macko with his heart condition and Nicholai with his lymphoma trucked on. We shed raincoats and sweatshirts for swimsuits and quick-dry shorts and enjoyed many refreshing swims during the hot days of summer.

Here we are again. Spring is turning to summer – a tad reluctantly it seems this year. The boys are still here, still going, still crazy after all these years. Maybe … just maybe, we have one more blissful summer of warm sunny mornings with cool clear swimming.

One can always hope.

We’re all in the Web

When it comes to a response to the Gulf oil spill and the havoc it's wreaking on animals and the environment, I at first found it easier to push the whole issue to the edge of my mind – or better yet, all the way out; out of sight, out of mind. After all, I don't have to look at dying birds, find oil-poisoned sea turtles, or fear the loss of my fishing livelihood. And with a disaster so big, bigger than me and my ability to fix it, turning a blind eye is very tempting.

I start thinking, "What can I do?" And I realize that all the things I need to do to prevent more such spills are the same things I need to do to keep Nicholai healthy, to prevent cancer in myself and others, to raise strong children, to live to be a hundred, and to help the planet stay viable.

I need to eat locally produced food, much grown in my own garden. I need to forsake factory farmed foods – giving up all my excuses for continuing to buy them. I need to ride my bike more and drive my car less. I need to find alternatives to petrochemicals wherever they occur – in sunscreens and other lotions, in soaps and cleaners, in plastic products. I need to take a long hard look at the phrase "Reduce, Reuse, Recycle" and remember that "recycle" is the last option on the list. Instead of blithely tossing used plastic milk jugs, yogurt containers, and lotion bottles into a recycling bin, setting it on the curb, and hoping like hell it doesn't end up in the giant plastic island in the Pacific; it's time for using non-toxic glass bottles that can be washed and used over and over.

I can pray, meditate, and visualize the healing I want to come to pass, instead of turning away from the pain of seeing, the pain of knowing.

It is a web – me , Nicholai, Joan, you, the people and animals in the Gulf; what I do to the web I do to myself and what I do to myself I do to the web. Whether what I do is enough, I don't know. But I don't have to know, I just have to act – with love and with hope.

Blood on Our Hands

In the gulf region thousands of gallons of oil are oozing up through the water; bleeding from the crust of the earth where it's been wounded as surely as a woman who has been stabbed. The earth has been injured severely and is in need of urgent care.

Over two hundred sea turtles and more than three hundred brown pelicans already threatened with extinction due to DDT, have been found dead in gulf waters. Untold fish, countless blue crabs, and twenty-two dolphins are among the casualties. As the oil seeps into the coastal and estuary waters of Florida and Louisiana, marsh grasses are smothered. Home to fish and to bustling shrimp colonies, the destruction of the marshes will spell destruction for these creatures.

Nicholai will die of cancer; my sister is one of countless women who face the loss of body parts (along with numerous men and children) due to cancer's malignant spread. The common thread that weaves together my aging wild canine, my single-parent sister, and the gulf coast's turtles, dolphins, birds, fish, and a few human workers is the malignancy of greed.

In Requiem by Kurt Vonnegut, he said:

When the last living thing has died on account of us,
How poetical it would be if Earth could say,
In a voice floating up
Perhaps from the floor of the Grand Canyon (or the Gulf Coast)
"It is done." People did not like it here.

I intend to spend a little time each day, praying and meditating for the soul of humans and the salvation of the world. We have blood on our hands, and we are on the brink.

In the well-worn, but ill heeded words of Chief Seattle:

All things are connected, like the blood that unites us all. Man did not weave the web of life; he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.

It's high time we did something heroic, as if we recognized our place in the web.

 

Wild Begets More Wild

Taking days off is important, so I make one day a week a day I don't take the dogs for a long walk and sometimes, not for any walk at all. It's a rest and recuperation day, like I take for myself or would suggest for any client. The day off provides time for muscles and joints to perform cellular repair and thus get stronger.

Today after a leisurely morning, followed by a few appointments, I was just finishing mixing up a lovely salad of garden fresh lettuce and collard greens, dark green and purple kale, carrots and cauliflower, when Nicholai jumped up, growled, and charged off the back porch and out the back door. In a moment, I heard a commotion of barking and whining outside of the sunroom office. Curious, I wiped my hands and crossed the room to look out the window, where I could see Nicholai crouched on the ground with a keen stare fixed at the highest branches of a small shrub. He lunged at the shrub's trunk, shaking it with both front paws. Suddenly, a squirrel tumbled down, was pounced on by the big dog, but slipped out of his grasp and darted under the deck. "Leave it!" I shouted, but my words evaporated in the air as Nicholai and Izzy, who'd been close at hand, gave pursuit. Izzy crawled under the deck and flushed the little guy out right into Nicholai's waiting jaws. A couple of vigorous shakes later, the squirrel was still, its little black eyes staring up at the gray sky.

Nicholai gingerly grasped the squirrel in his teeth and carried it to the lawn. There he set it down and studied it, nudging it with his nose. Afraid he might eat it – that would be exactly like him – I shouted. "No, Nicholai!" After moles and rabbits, fish guts, deer carcasses, and bloated dead nutria, I was worried the squirrel might be bad for him. He glanced up at me, then without a sound lay down by the side of the little dead thing and regarded me calmly, not looking like he planned to eat it, but like he claimed it as his kill, his prize.

I can't be mad at Nicholai; he just is who he is, a rabbit one day, squirrel the next. This dog makes me believe Farley Mowat's claims about wolves – they subsist mainly on small animals – rodents, even mice. Mowat himself professes to have lived on mice for a month to prove that a large animal could do it.

However close to the end it might be for Nicholai (or not), he is still a wild boy.

Who's the man?
 

Extra Calories

Wet, again.

Pouring rain accompanied us again for our early morning walk and I was glad I decided to slip the Canon into a zip lock bag and stuff it in my jacket pocket. Three minutes into our hike, Nicholai slithered into the high grass, nose twitching, apparently on a mission. A moment later he was creeping downhill, a dead bunny in his mouth.

Someone else killed the bunny; there was no chase, no pounce, no squealing. The carcass in Nicholai's mouth was bloody and he'd had no time to open it up. I wonder what happened to the predator; why didn't it finish off its prize. Nicholai didn't concern himself with these matters, reveling in the fact that no matter who started it with the bunny, he was the guy who would finish it off.

Bunny rippin' and tearin'

At his check-up and acupuncture appointment this afternoon, Nicholai weighed in at 86 pounds. That means he's down fourteen pounds from his top weight of 100 pounds, and ten pounds down since diagnosis with lymphoma a year and a half ago. In humans with cancer, there is an inverse relationship between weight loss and long term survival. Dramatic weight loss, however desired by the patient, equals reduced chances of survival, so I suppose there may be credence to Nicholai's contention that he requires more food. Today, he neatly pulled off the acquisition of his desired (required?) additional calories.
Post-bunny Strut

I hope my wild boy feels satisfied.

Photography

I have developed an obsession with taking photos. For my first two blog posts I didn't initially include pictures, thinking I would just tell Nicholai's story in words. That'd be fun and interesting, right?

Seeing my computer screen full of endless words quickly changed my mind. I can read tomes with hundreds of pages and never long for a photograph. But here, on the net, on the glowing screen, I find I have different expectations; here in cyberspace my attention span for the written word is shorter, my mind and eye anticipate being dazzled by photos and videos. Influenced by YouTube and Facebook, Google, and even reality TV, I want to see the subjects of stories – and suddenly, I knew it would be the same for my readers.

All my Montana pics were shot with a Nikon 35mm digital camera; the Rocky Mountain state was reliably dry and I didn't hesitate to tote my high-end toy along.

Many Portland environs photos come from an old Canon digital point-and-shoot. Love the Canon for its ability to slip into a pocket, both unobtrusive and protected from the elements. But it has a finicky battery that sometimes doesn't hold a charge for the length of a whole hike, and that's annoying.

Canon point-and-shoot

Every day, I have my Motorola cell phone stashed in a jacket or pants pocket. Many days, its teeny-tiny camera has been my only photographic equipment. The quality of snapshots coming from the Motorola is unimpressive at best. Still at times I pinch myself; standing on the beach at the Sandy or Columbia River, I can snap a photo of Nicholai with a tennis ball in his mouth, punch send, type in an address, and mail it to my computer at home. Later the same day, that photo might be in your living room. Voila! Pure magic if compared to the photography experiences of my childhood. I remind myself not to complain too much about this situation.

I've put up a few photos by Dennis Gillson of Pics of the Litter – such as the photo with my bio. He's done professional sittings, not only for me and Nicholai, but for our entire family – two adults, two kids, and up to four dogs. We're a regular circus when we show up there and he and his partner in photographic crime have managed to not only handle our crowd, but produce some fine photos as well. A few additional photos predate the digital revolution, glossy paper pictures finding their way to the blog via scanner magic.

Family photo by Dennis Gillson

I love my Nikon and plan to purchase a zoom lens and a sturdy compact traveling case so my digital plaything can accompany me during deleterious weather; I foresee a day coming soon when I'll be thankful for this period of intensive photographic documentation.

Plus, shooting photos is just plain fun.

 

He May Be Heavy …

In his youth, Nicholai was jet black. A diminutive dot of white adorned his chin and the toes of his left back foot. One of his puppy nicknames was Blackpaws, since all his litter mates were decked out with four fully white paws. A year and a half ago when I realized that 'ole Blackpaws wouldn't be around long enough to get old, I mourned for the gray face I would never see.

Over the past few months, Nicholai has been "getting his old on." He's slimmed down since the salmon-poisoning event of December and in the ensuing months he's lost a little muscle mass, like old dogs tend to do. We are seeing gray creep around his muzzle, spreading from what was once a little white spot under his chin.

A while back, I worried about how I would help my big boy in his golden years. What if he couldn't climb the stairs, jump onto the bed, or hop into the car? I purchased a well-built set of wooden steps to assist him getting onto our tall bed at night, and a jaunty red harness with a handle that I pictured would help me help him up a staircase, into the car, or over a curb. I still didn't know how I would lift his ninety to a hundred pound self if needed – and I still don't.

Watching Nicholai strut along the trail this morning, in the company of one human and two dog friends – our Monday morning hiking date – I mused on how delighted I am to still have his sprightly self accompany me. No need of old-age assistance so far, but I'm not writing it off either. As he nabbed a tennis ball, I noted gray brows dancing above twinkling brown eyes.

What a privilege to have a dog get old. What a joy to watch light play in the eyes as the head thins and the face grays. If I should have the honor of Nicholai's company into his advanced years, I will be happy to face the challenge of lifting my big old guy.

He may be heavy – but he's my pack-brother.

Goodnight, Sweet Princess

The adage, when it rains it pours, rings true today. In Portland, where heavy drops of rain have pummeled my head all day, it is a literal truth. In life, it seems to follow as well. While my sister was on the phone with her doctor, getting the news of her breast cancer, her elderly English Cocker Spaniel collapsed on the wood floor in a pool of urine. When is enough, enough? She mused, excusing herself from the conversation to scoop Tierney into her arms, clean her off with a towel and set her safely on the carpet.

Approaching fourteen years of age, Tierney suffered from mysterious episodes of collapse and confusion. Seizures, strokes, and minor heart attacks could be neither definitively ruled in or out. Beset by congestive heart failure, her overworked cardiovascular system was helped by a diuretic and cardiac medicine. Another drug for cognitive function, along with good food and antioxidants, kept a spark in Tierney's eyes most days. Still, more and more frequently, Joan – or me or my mom – would find Tierney stuck on the wood floor, swimming all four legs in a losing attempt to regain her footing.

Day before yesterday, I got a call from my sister. "Well," she said, "Tierney has gone missing – just missing." She searched every closet, under every bed, every nook and cranny – no sign at all of Tierney. In her youth,Tierney hiked every mountain trail with the gusto and stamina of a big dog and she exerted power over each of Joan's German Shepherds. But in the last year she had become weak and vulnerable, and the nearness of the coyotes sprang to both our minds immediately; a little old disoriented English Cocker would be little more than a snack. Helpless to do anything useful, I wished Joan good luck and our family here all said a prayer to St. Anthony – the patron saint of lost and stolen articles and travelers.

The next day, a Good Samaritan who had found Tierney confused and stumbling by the side of the road, turned her in to the Missoula Humane Society. By the time Joan was able to get there, the light was fading and the spark was gone from Tierney's eyes.

"It was her time," Joan said bravely.

"I'm glad the coyotes didn't get her, and that you have closure. I know it was her time, still, I'm so sorry for your loss."

Tierney used to lord it over all the big dogs. She had Nicholai watching her out of the corners of his eyes, and cowering under furniture in the initial years of their "cousin-hood." She was never quite an actual dog – more a Princess to be doted on by humans and a Queen to be honored and obeyed by mere mortal dogs.

We all knew Tierney's days were numbered. Still, the aching sadness that comes on the very last day cannot be rationalized away. The Princess is no more, and she will be missed.

Goodnight, sweet Princess.

More Green Than Pink

Cancer Compatriots, Nicholai and his Aunt Joan

Thanks so much to those of you who follow my rants here on Dead Dog Walking. I will continue to write the blog at least as long as I have Mr. Pickle, it's my commitment to witnessing his process and making sure stories of survival with cancer have a venue to be known in the wider world. I appreciate each and every reader, and each and every comment you provide.

That said; I hope no one is disappointed by the wandering nature of my ramblings. One day I'm spouting off about lack of real cancer prevention efforts, another I'm ranting about the food production system, still another I'm waxing on about the glories of running. Please bear with me as I muse on the issues that flood my mind and heart as I walk Nicholai's last mile – or two … or three – with him.

So, on to the whole pink ribbon thing. Perusing the Komen Foundation's web site, I was discouraged to see that information about prevention of breast cancer focuses almost entirely on risk factors women don't control, such as age, gender (no kidding), genetic or family history – remember this is only 5% of cases, national origin, breast density, blood estrogen levels, age of onset of menses, etc. There is small mention on the role of exercise and alcohol consumption. This focus on demographic factors would leave women to feel nearly powerless to influence our risk or outcome. In the Foundation's early years, the vast majority of funding was slated for understanding the biology of breast cancer – which in itself is not a bad goal. In the past two years, the bulk of funding continues to be for biology, early detection, diagnosis, and treatment, with only 25% of funding dedicated to causation, prevention, and survival outcomes.

I'm in favor of research for cures, but tend to think pharmaceutical companies that stand to earn billions with drug sales might be expected to fund the bulk of this research. I want to see effective treatments that cause the least harm and suffering in their application, I'm all for cures. But more than pharmaceutical cures, I have a vision.

I envision of a world clean and healthy for us all; a world in which we don't have to lose our body parts as a result of what we've eaten, touched, breathed, or drunk. A world where we can rest easy about consumption of animal foods, knowing all animal lived lives of grace, health, and beauty. I dream of a world where most cancer can be prevented and where we hold governments and corporations accountable, demanding that they not contaminate our bodies and our environment. I want to see a world where one in four of all dogs and one in two dogs over age ten will not die of cancer, but live long, crossing the rainbow bridge only when their aged hearts finally beat their last.

I respect the visibility the Susan G. Komen Foundation has given to breast cancer, but still the number of breast cancer sufferers rises. Early detection efforts have made modest, though real, gains in survival, and this is critical. Still, real efforts at prevention are so minimal as to be mostly lip service.

With all respect, in the struggle against the dominion of cancer, I will be embracing and espousing more green than pink.

Running

Kelley and I enjoyed a run in Forest Park today, just the two of us. Nicholai, Izzy and me had walked early in the morning as we usually do; in the afternoon with work finished, I hopped into the car and made the trek to Northwest Portland and Leif Ericson Drive.

Running was at one time non-newsworthy in my life. I've run the Hood-to-Coast twice and the Twin Cities Marathon, along with a plethora of other events including the Turkey Trot, Shamrock Run, Race for the Cure and a favorite of mine – the midnight New Year's run. Running has been a fitness strategy, stress release, and spiritual pursuit at various times. But the cautionary tale I've told myself for the past decade involves advancing middle-age, an old foot injury, and other whispers of the actual and potential dangers of my once beloved sport.

Nicholai does not worry about how old he is – approximately seventy in human years. He doesn't tell himself, or me, a story about what old dogs don't do. He doesn't whine about lymphoma, or fearfully focus on the disease and its likely outcome. He doesn't opt out of our daily walk citing his aging and slightly arthritic knees, each of which required surgery five and six years ago. Nicholai is clearly glad to be alive; enjoying it while he still has the privilege.

I'm grateful to be in my fifth decade; it could have been otherwise. Today, my soul longed for physical release; my sister faces a challenge that reminds me to celebrate daily joys while I can – pounding rain and sloppy mud; bouquets of bracken ferns, sword ferns and maidenhair ferns all dripping wet; heart pounding in the chest; the vigorous shake of a wet muddy dog in an enclosed vehicle.

Today as I cruised up old familiar trails with Kelley at my side, the story of my aged infirmity rinsed off by the downpour, I felt ageless. I was simply present on the curving, climbing road. I may have looked slightly nutty – middle-aged woman, slightly overweight, hair plastered to her head, lumbering along with a goofy smile on her face. But I felt fantastic. Maybe you really are only as old as you feel. Maybe there really is something to this "living in the moment" concept.

Is this how Nicholai feels?

An Ounce of Prevention

Misuse of the term prevention as it relates to cancer is one of my pet peeves. How often I have heard statements about the importance of breast self-exams and mammograms for the "prevention" of breast cancer; colonoscopies for people over age fifty or who have an increased risk of colon cancer, pap smears, prostate exams, and blah, blah, blah. Don't get me wrong. I'm all for helping each and every one of us who may already have cancer to find it as early as possible. But I would never mistake the methodologies of early detection for prevention.

Real efforts toward prevention require real efforts to eliminate the causes of cancers – and not just the causes inside individuals (such as inherited genetic defects, spontaneous DNA mutations, weak immune systems), but every bit as important, the causes outside individuals, the myriad known and suspected carcinogens all around us.

To actually prevent cancer – breast cancer, prostate cancer, colon cancer, testicular cancer, and all the others – we need to remove the many known environmental risk factors contributing to the ridiculous increases in the incidence of cancer in the past three decades. Seems simple, right? A no-brainer?
Formaldehyde? Really?

Carcinogens are present in every sector of our lives. They are in the air, water, milk, food. They line the metal cans for food products, make the plastic that forms sippy cups and water bottles, make baby shampoo and sunscreen, body lotion, and lipstick. Cancer causing agents make up laundry soap and window cleaners, air fresheners and baby wipes. Sixty-one percent of bath products for children tested in 2009 had formaldehyde as an ingredient. Is that necessary?

I know that Nicholai is a bit pissed off about this state of affairs. He'd like to know that his yogurt is free of recombinant bovine growth hormone; his water has no chlorine residues or prescription drug leftovers. He'd like to know that his meat is free of pesticide and herbicide residues, hormones, and other nasty contaminants. He thinks alkylphenols, aromatic amines, benzene, PCB's, bisphenol-A (BPA), and synthetic estrogens have no place in his life. And formaldehyde, really?

As long as we buy it, though, they will make and sell it. Start today eliminating toxins from your life and our environment. My sister sent me an excellent link http://www.breastcancerfund.org/ , all about environmental causes of breast cancer, tips on prevention, and lots of savvy and helpful product information. Check it out.

Foster Brother

Nicholai was a stand-up foster brother when he was a young punk and our family fostered a litter of eight fuzzy husky mix pups for the Oregon Humane Society. He'd follow me down to the basement where we set up the puppy nursery. Stepping with care, Nicholai would nuzzle each pup and sniff them all from head to toe.

When I packed the puppies into his retired laundry-basket baby-bed and carried the youngsters out to the back yard, he followed along with his nose in the air and his tail tick-tocking back and forth. In the yard, he allowed the puppies to climb on him and chew his legs and ears. He brought his favorite toy – a purple and red crab with different squeakers in each of its eight fuzzy legs – and dropped it in the midst of the playing puppies. "Check this out!" He stood back waiting for their response. The puppies didn't pick up the toy so he did and squeaked it for effect, then dropped it again in their midst. "It's my best toy!" he tried to show them. They nosed around the crab, uncertain, so Nicholai snapped it up, squeaked it, shook it, and tossed it in the air. Finally, a couple of the pups got the idea and came to play with Nicholai and his special toy.

When they were finished playing with the crab, they laid out in the yard and chewed on sticks. I could almost hear Nicholai saying, "Why, when I was your age …" while rapt puppies gazed up at his every move.

We fostered several more dogs over the years, and each time, Nicholai accepted their presence in our house, if reluctantly at first. As the self-appointed watchdog, I know it was sometimes against his better judgment, but he took it in stride. I appreciated his flexibility.

The Smell of Rain

Walking toward the Columbia River early this morning, the old dirt road we traveled was dry and I could still see my own footprints from yesterday. The sky was partly sunny and with the temperature hovering in the mid-fifties, I had elected to leave my jacket in the car.

Nicholai, Izzy, and I enjoyed a pleasant trip along the trail and beach, while in the distance gray clouds gathered. As we made our way up a sandy trail, a sudden pattering on the leaves of branches overhead alerted me the clouds had moved our way, and in just a moment we were pelted with warm spring rain.

Immediately, I was immersed in a smell at once familiar and yet not understood – the smell of rain. Sweet and earthy, slightly musky, my nostrils delighted in the piquant scent. As the raindrops pounded our heads, I began to trot along at an easy run, but it was hopeless – we were going to get drenched.

As we all jogged along the trail, Izzy out front heading for the cover of the car and Nicholai loping at my side, I sucked in more of that sweet fresh-rain aroma, and for the first time, I wondered why it smelled that way.

It turns out there's a bacteria in the soil – actinomycetes – common all over the world. Actinomycetes produce spores when the soil is dry. The wetness and force of falling rain kick the tiny spores into the air where the moisture acts as an aerosol – just like an aerosol room freshener. We breathe the spores carried in the moist air and – voila – the fresh smell of rain that is universally experienced all around the world.

Our jog toward the car took us past a huge deposit of river rock where a second welcome scent accosted my nostrils – the smell of rain-washed rocks. The river delta area is dense with plants –towering cottonwood trees, wild roses, red-osier dogwood, ferns, and grasses taller than I am. All of these plants manufacture volatile oils in their leaves and flowers which are released and collect on rocks. Rain washes the rocks, mixing with the plant oils, and alchemizing them to the gaseous perfume which wafted to my nose.

By the time we reached the car, my hair was plastered to my head, Nicholai's thick fur was dripping and Isabella was more than ready to jump into the sanctuary of the vehicle. The soaking didn't matter to me; I was high on spring rain scents.

 

Still Happy After All This Time

Happy as a clam, smiling from ear to ear, butt-wiggling, tail-wagging, delight; ah-h-h, the joys of being greeted by a dog friend. After nine long hours on the road, Izzy and I pulled into the driveway tired as could be – that stuck-in-the-car, sat-too-long-in-one-position, not-enough-fresh-air kind of tired. As we opened the back gate dragging our road-weary butts, Nicholai smothered us in wiggles and whines, sniffs and slurps, and thumping tail wags, leaving no room for erroneous interpretation; he was glad to see us.

This morning's walk lacked huffing and puffing up steep trails and attendant dramatic mountain views. Instead it was filled with the sweet smells of dewy grass and moist soil, the cries of parent geese sheltering fuzzy goslings, splashing in the cool waters of the Columbia, and dramatic river views.

Returning home, Nicholai demonstrated his commitment to daily happiness by grabbing his favorite green plush toy from his basement hideout. There's nothing better than lying on the back porch on a sunny morning after a good walk, arm around a furry friend, waitin' for food.

I don't know if you've noticed, but I have. It's nearly summertime with Nicholai – again. There's nothing better than watching my dog-buddy lying on the back porch, arm around a furry friend, waiting for food – still happy after all this time.

 

Izzy and Me

This trip to Montana, in addition to its primary focus of providing support for my sister around her mastectomy and initial recovery, ha s been a nice one-on-one bonding time with Isabella.

Isabella (aka Isabella-pooh, Izzy, Izzy-pooh-pooh, and Miss Pooh) is a feisty but friendly brindle pitbull. She came to us fresh off the streets, underweight and mangy, but full of pep, energy, and joie de vie. Six years later, she's as energetic as ever; I'm pretty sure she could be accurately diagnosed Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disordered, or ADHD. Izzy is reliably friendly to man, woman, child, and beast however, and she's a pleasure to have with me on the road.

During the long day we spent at the hospital with my sister – checking in, waiting (endless waiting) during prep and then during surgery and recovery – Isabella waited patiently in my car. She had a fleece sweater for the morning, a blanket to cozy up with and fresh water. Intermittently, I took her for walks around the hospital neighborhood, which she both needed and enjoyed; and I appreciated her willingness to mostly lay low for the day. That requires a little determination for a girls-just-wanna-have-fun kind of gal.

Each of the other days we've been here, Izzy and I have headed up into the Mount Jumbo wilderness for long and strenuous hikes. While I climb to heights for mind-clearing good views, Isabella-pooh darts out and back in pursuit of ground squirrels and birds. She has given serious, but doomed, chase to several deer. They can easily outrun her but she gives it her all, pouring herself into long, stretched-out strides, flying across the meadows and hillsides in pursuit of the swifter quarry.

Today, Izzy and I trekked the local trails for three hours. We met mountain bikers, runners, and other folks with dogs – black labs, yellow labs, and chocolate labs. When I returned home, I asked my sister if Missoula has an unwritten rule about Labrador retrievers. She laughed and said there is a standing joke that anytime someone moves to Missoula, the city issues them a Labrador retriever. If today is any indication, it must be true.

Regardless of Lab requirements, regardless of cancer battles, Izzy and I have gotten ourselves dog-tired every single day.

And beauty is all around us.

The Laundry Basket

Our three-legged black lab, Molly, was ever tolerant of young Nicholai's desire for closeness. Left to my own interpretation of both dogs' behavior, I would say that Nicholai adored Molly and she accepted him, though sometimes with reservations. Molly loved to lounge on the couch, stretching her three hard working legs into the air giving them a break from gravity; and on occasion, Nicholai's snuggling cramped her style. Never growling, barking, or raising her lips at him, Molly would sometimes cast a long suffering expression my way, often accompanied by a big sigh. "Oh, the things I put up with," she seemed to be telling me, as she inched away from the pup to get more personal space.

Nicholai persisted in jumping, climbing, and surreptitiously crawling onto the couch to be by his adopted mother figure. Noting how much he desired closeness and how much Molly wanted to relax unencumbered, my partner and I hit on an idea.

We brought a plastic laundry basket up from the basement and filled it with a small soft bed. The plan was that we could move Nicholai's "crib" near to wherever Molly chose to lay her head, since there were two couches and a recliner, each of which Molly would choose as the perfect nap spot at different times.

The laundry basket plan worked brilliantly. Nicholai was content snuggled into his cozy spot. As long as we kept it in proximity with Molly, everyone was happy.

Nicholai and Molly

Nicholai came to us at an unusually young age. He and his litter had been left in the freezing rain in a North Portland park (see Finding Nicholai, February posts), and were discovered while on a walk with our then middle-aged labs – Kali and Molly. Raising Nicholai from such a young age meant that he was with us during a very early window of his development. Studies have shown that exposure of puppies to people within their first five weeks influences how they will respond to people their whole lives.

Nicholai and his littermates were a mere four-weeks old – "and not a day over" – according to the vet who cared for them. At this stage puppies need to socialize with dogs, such as their littermates and adult dogs, to learn how to be a dog. For the most confident and comfortable relationships with people, they need human contact during this time as well.

From the beginning, Nicholai sought the company of our older black lab, Molly. We never could figure out what drew him to her and not to the other dog – a yellow lab mix. Perhaps he saw the resemblance; she was a black dog like he was. More likely, her warm and accepting personality felt safe and welcoming. Whatever it was, puppy Nicholai followed her everywhere. He could always be found snuggled near her as she relaxed on the couch. Occasionally, Molly would shoot us a look analogous to a roll of the eyes – "Does this pup need to be with me all the time?" Still, she tolerated his closeness, never growling or showing her teeth, but always allowing the little guy her safe harbor.

Nicholai's contact with Molly and being lovingly handled by us from a tender age rendered him deeply bonded to his family – human and animal. While he worries about strangers, there is never any doubt about his love and connection to his "pack," humans, new dogs, and even chickens, included.

Song of the Soul

While I miss Nicholai, I am enjoying our all-girl time in Missoula. I was happy today to set off on a strenuous hike to the top of Mt. Jumbo with Izzy and Sienna as my compatriots. Younger and stronger than Mr. Pickle, I felt confident in the girls' ability to make the climb without overtaxing their systems.

As we wended our way through forested trails to the summit, I experienced a progressive lightness of being. Occasional breaks of sun warmed my shoulders, the pounding hooves of unseen deer fleeing our approach reminded me that we were not alone, the rich scent of pine delighted my nostrils, and gusts of wind chilled the sweat gathering on my brow. As if all of nature were rising up singing, a sense of contented satisfaction about belonging to all this wafted over me as sure as did the sun, the pine, and the breeze.

Mt. Jumbo's bald summit afforded views of white-capped blue mountains ringing the Bitterroot Valley in every direction. Curtains of white precipitation hung in the distance to the southeast, with clear sunny skies in the north. Joy was all around and within me, from exercise-induced endorphins stimulating a cellular sense of well-being, to the nature-induced song-of-the-soul lightening my steps. I hike because I can – I have two good legs and a strong heart and lungs, and I like the natural opiates my body makes when I work hard.

My soul finds its home in nature. Under wide skies with dogs at my side, surrounded by all creation – plants, animals, air, and earth – I find peace in the face of cancer; I find satisfaction in my own life. Perhaps on the mountain top, I find my own way to God.

A Good “Bad Boy”

Hanging out in Montana providing support for my healing sister, I am without my canine guy. Nicholai is happy at home, per reports from that front.

During this week without Mr. Pickle, I find myself reminiscing about his youth. As I made the long drive from Oregon to Montana, I missed his "Bad-Boy" attitude, the protective partner streak he has that gives me added confidence at remote gas stations and rest stops. He has mellowed with age and gotten a touch more easy-going about strangers (though not if they approach the car uninvitedJ). As a young punk, he tolerated no interlopers.

Even friends seemed like intruders to him, so we worked hard to acclimatize him to welcome guests. We invited friends to come to our house, knock on the door, feed treats to Nicholai once he stopped barking and lunging, meander through the house, exit the back door, and then start it all over again. We served h'ors d'oeuvres on a card table outside. It was great fun, and took the edge off his protective streak.

Not long after, a small group of petty thieves made their way through the neighborhood, breaking into cars and cleaning them out. At one in the morning, Nicholai set to deep-throated serious barking, rousing me from sleep. "What is it buddy?" "Woof!" was his only reply. As I peered out the second floor window, I could see that someone was opening the front gate. "Come on Nicholai, let's go!" My voice carried through the open window along with Nicholai's gruff woofs, and the gate began to close as quickly as it had opened. Nicholai and I raced outside (possibly not the best idea) to see some men jump into a car and speed away. I stood in the middle of the street with Nicholai for a minute or two, trying to make sense of what had happened. It wasn't until the next morning when a police cruiser pulled up at the neighbor's house, that I got the full story about what had taken place. The stealing spree ended with Nicholai's threatening bark and determined charge to the front yard.

After that, my enthusiasm for trying to train the protection out of him waned. In the ensuing years, he and I learned to work together; he learned to trust my lead about strangers (mostly), and I learned to take a strong lead when it was mine to take (as in a short leash on busy trails). Even today, as Nicholai ages and I have more concerns about his ability to take care of himself (say, for example when he takes off after a coyote), I appreciate his desire to be my personal body guard.

Montana

Washington and Idaho ...