What?!

My knickers are in a twist today. The Delta Society – one of the largest and best-known organizations that registers and insures pet-therapy volunteers and their companion animals – recently announced that effective June 30, "any dog or cat from a household where raw protein food is fed, is not eligible to be a Delta Society Partner."

What?!

At first blush, the Delta Society's new position raises concerns about the safety of feeding raw food to dogs. Are raw-protein diets truly dangerous for dogs and the people who touch them? I think not, and numerous holistic veterinarians agree. Dogs have eaten raw meat for millennia, only recently switching to commercially prepared food, during which time, the incidence of cancer and other canine degenerative diseases has risen sharply.

Making a quick visit to the Delta Society's home page, I found a possible explanation for this new policy. The Delta Society displays the Purina logo with this comment: "Thank you to our incredible partner, the passionate pet lovers at Purina." One of the Delta Society's Medical Advisory Group members – Deborah S. Greco, DVM – works for Nestle Purina Petcare in Missouri. Coincidence? Hmmm!

The biggest food recall ever involved commercial pet food. The food had been knowingly contaminated with a substance that mimics protein, so that when tested it would show a higher protein content. Unfortunately, the substance used (melamine) is highly toxic to cats and dogs and caused renal failure and death in numbers large enough to institute a huge recall. In pre-cooked, commercially available food, there have been incidences of contamination with Salmonella, E. Coli, Clostridium difficile, and other bacteria – and this is safe?

The Delta Society raises the specter of bacteria ingested in raw meat crossing from dogs to humans and infecting humans with weakened immune systems. They suggest danger inherent to owners in handling meat to be fed raw to companion dogs, but are strangely silent about the dangers of those owners handling raw meat they will cook, whether to feed to their dogs, or to themselves. Is this simply an oversight, or might there possibly be an ulterior motive to the suggestion that pet owners should feed commercially prepared food to their dogs?

Nicholai is still here with me in part because of the high quality food he eats – raw veggies, raw milk yogurt, raw meat and raw meaty bones, replete with vitamins and enzymes that stimulate the immune system and help to fight aberrant bacteria when they show up, as they will from time to time whether food is cooked or raw. It's important to be careful about sources of meat; unhealthy factory farmed animals could easily produce meat that is nothing more than a soup of chemicals and bacteria gone out of control. Raw meat from healthy, grass-fed, pastured animals processed and handled with care and respect will bear little resemblance to meat produced under the ungodly circumstances of the factory farm. In that regard, I will agree with the naysayers – industrial meat is most likely unsavory and unsafe. But to paint all raw meat as dangerous is uneducated at best, and downright dishonest and purposefully misleading at worst.

Nicholai would make a terrible therapy dog. He doesn't like strangers and eschews excessive petting and handling, not the kind of guy to spend a day at an old folks' home or children's hospital. But if he were that kind of guy, I would happily withdraw as a volunteer. I'd rather have my beloved canine companion alive, than feed him Purina Dog Chow.

For more details, see the Whole Dog Journal at www.whole-dog-journal.com

Garbage

Landmines of dog poop are disgusting. Like anyone, I detest a shoe full of gooey, stinky yesterday's recycled dog food. So, I pick it up. Most of the time.

Out on the trail, Nicholai prefers – nine times out of ten – to scuttle off into the brush to do his business in private. In contrast to my in-town behavior, I do not follow him there, plastic bag over my hand like a mitt, ready to scoop his waste the minute it exits his body. I don't want to for one thing, but more than that, I figure it's better off there. Animals have been s----ing in the woods for millennia. Rain will pound the poop into the soil, sun will dry the terds, and insects will gnaw away at the foul remains. Global warming will not be compounded and no one will die from the quiet composting of a pile of dog-doo.

On the other hand, the piles of garbage we stumble across on our walks every summer morning will not fade gracefully from view. I entered a park early this morning passing signs reminding me to "obey scoop laws." As has been true for at least the past fifteen years I have frequented the area, it wasn't dog poop that littered the trails. It wasn't dog poop that cluttered the beaches, or soiled the picnic areas, or overflowed the garbage cans. As Nicholai rooted through piles of left-over picnics, I wanted to shout. Where is the sign that says "Pick up your F___ing Trash?" Where is the sign that says Styrofoam takes 500 years to dissolve (and when it does, what exactly does it dissolve to)? Where is the sign that says pack out your plastic fast-food trays, your baby's used disposable diapers, your cans, bottles, paper plates, chicken bones, cigarette butts, and toilet paper?? Where is the sign that says plastic six-pack collars wash into rivers and seas and slowly strangle animals?

On a whale-watching trip in New Zealand, the tiny boat I rode in rounded a rock outcrop in the Kaikoura bay. On the rocks sat a young seal, its neck squeezed by a discarded six-pack collar. "He'll die," the guide said. "As he grows bigger, the collar will slowly choke him to death." "Why don't we do something?" I asked, realizing as the words left my mouth the futility. "We can't catch him. And even if we could, for every one we see, there are many more." The hazards of plastic six-pack collars are not a theory to me; in twenty years, I have not forgotten the sad eyes of the choking seal as our boat drifted past.

Dog walkers and dog friends, we need to scoop up dog poop – especially from parks, picnic areas, and my favorite – playgrounds. But, heaven help the next person who makes a comment my way about the catastrophic problem of dog poop.

I'd like to see some responsibility about trash. It would be fantastic if we could all make a whole lot less of it, but failing that, at least pick it the hell up.

Cancer and the Environment

The President's Cancer Panel last month stated in their report that public health officials have "grossly underestimated the extent of environmentally induced cancer" among the 1.5 million Americans diagnosed with the disease each year. Why am I not surprised?

While we collectively walk up the river to see what's going on, there are things we can do today to reduce our risks.

• Filter your drinking water.
  
• Cut down on stain and grease-proofing chemicals (Teflon and Scotchguard)
  
• Stay safe in the sun with hats and proper clothing, and lastly with paba-free sunscreens
  
• Eliminate factory farmed foods from your diet starting with fatty meats and dairy
  
• Eat your veggies, organic if you can
  
• Reduce your exposure to BPA; use glass, stainless, and ceramic containers, limit canned food
  
• Avoid carcinogens in cosmetics
  
• Read labels, ask questions, get educated
  

See The Environmental Working Group at http://ewg.org/healthyhometips/cancer_prevention_tips for more information.

Cancer Prevention in the Cottonwood
Comical running Kelley
Calm, chewing Izzy
Contemplative Nicholai

Upstream

In our contemporary approach to cancer, we chase treatments to the near exclusion of searching for causation. I long for deep, thoughtful, scientific exploration of ways to prevent cancer before it ever starts, eliminating the need to find a cure.

Sandra Steingraber says it eloquently in a preface to Living Downstream, an Ecologist's Personal Investigation of Cancer and the Environment.

There once was a village along a river. The people who lived there were very kind. These residents, according to parable, began noticing increasing numbers of drowning people caught up in the river's swift current. And so they went to work devising ever more elaborate technologies to resuscitate the victims. So preoccupied were these heroic villagers with rescue and treatment that they never thought to look upstream to see who was pushing the victims in.

I want to walk up that river and find out what's going on.

Cottonwood Summer Morning

Ahh, what a pleasurable early morning. Last year, all I longed for was to reach the summer, for a few sweet mornings when the air was warm, the water cool, and my favorite canine swimming buddy was by my side. I was afraid to hope too much for such a thing.
Today, the morning air was finally warm, the water cool and my favorite canine buddy still at my side. This turn of events is so beyond beating the odds that it simply has Nicholai's vet shaking his head. But I know what's keeping the old boy around, sniffing downed trees, collecting white cottonwood puffs on his graying face, plunging into the cold Columbia.

Number one: he's a tough old thing with something in his basic constitution that just keeps going.
Number two: he has the luxury of excellent real food, food with cancer fighting vitamins, minerals, enzymes, and anti-angiogenic factors, and plenty of exercise.
Number three: treatments prescribed by the vet work in harmony with the good diet and regular fun exercise.
Number four: his system hasn't been assaulted with toxic or overly difficult treatments that weakened his immune system.


Today, I rejoice to be reaching Summer Number 2 of living with cancer. Nicholai's lymphoma has not been defeated, still I laugh in the face of cancer and say - you gave me precious time with my old boy. Time I know is limited. Time I remember to pay attention every day. Time to hold precious and dear my dog, life and driftwood on a summer morning beach.

Dogs and Daisies

Tennis balls in the daisies
Flowers over water
Pretty girl with bouquet
Swimming fools on a daisy summer day

Raw Milk = Real Food

Clean raw milk from grass-fed cows was actually used as medicine in the early part of the last century. Today, raw milk cannot be bought or sold in twenty-two states, the sale is restricted in every other state, and federal laws prohibit interstate sales. In at least one state, even the drinking of raw milk from your own cow is illegal. How did we come so far away from nature in such a short time?

The term "raw" itself is a misnomer, implying that all milk should be cooked. Actually, all milk in its natural state – unheated and unprocessed – has been a reliable food source for thousands of years.

Early American settlers lived a farm-based life, enjoying fresh unprocessed milk. With the Industrial Revolution, cities swelled as people flocked there for jobs. The demand for whiskey and milk soared around these population centers. Soon, enterprising entrepreneurs hit upon a plan: locate distilleries and dairies adjacent to one another. The cows in the dairy operation could be fed the left over barley and hops swill from the making of spirits.

As you can easily imagine, the milk produced in this manner was less than desirable. Confined to filthy, manure-filled pens and unhealthy due to their unnatural diet, the cows produced pale, bluish milk that could not be used to produce butter or cheese. With the addition of low paid workers with poor sanitation, it was just a matter of time before milk-borne disease began to cause deaths. Rather than solve this problem with a return to cleaner and healthier husbandry practices, the dairymen of the day decided to parboil milk to kill the pathogens introduced by contamination with manure, pus, dirt, or exposure to open cuts, coughs and sneezes of the milkers. To this day, rather than produce clean uncontaminated milk, heating – or pasteurization – of milk has become the norm.

Unprocessed fresh milk from fit grass-fed cows obtained under sanitary conditions, is a beautiful whole food. Sadly, it's easier to cut corners on quality and just boil the hell out of the milk to kill any contaminants that might kill the drinkers. So what if the heating process changes the nature of proteins, destroys valuable enzymes, limits the absorption of calcium, and denatures vitamins? Unprocessed milk has all eight essential amino acids that we need, a plethora of beneficial enzymes, "good" bacteria and an assortment of bio-available vitamins and minerals, not to mention immune-globulins and antibacterial enzymes. See http://www.raw-milk-facts.com

In Oregon, the sale of raw milk is allowed, on the farms where it was produced. Those who offer it for sale may not advertise or in any way "solicit the sale of raw milk." This pretty well ensures that the best quality milk is available only to a very few.
Got milk?

Now that I have found a reliable source, our family is enjoying the fine sweet taste of real milk. Each day, I make sure the Mr. Nicholai has a half cup or so of this fresh food. And yes, I know that wolves in the wild wouldn't drink cow's milk – they don't have access to it if they wanted it. (Can you imagine?) But when I pour that fresh raw milk into Nicholai's dish, you can bet he's all about it.

Back to Fleece

It was sweet if short – that little window of sunny summer weather we had last week. Ah well … our family gave up, decided to cheat, and took off for hot springs in eastern Oregon where we enjoyed a day of mostly blue skies and mostly sunshine over the thermal pools and red hills at Kahneetah.

Not to whine, but back in Portland the skies are gray and misty rain turns on and off. My son and I were in fleece jackets for our morning walk. The dogs were unconcerned with, even relishing, the invigorating cool. They disappeared for moments in the high grass, dogs of the savannah or the great prairies. Carefully inspecting many downtrodden spots – the ones that indicate deer traffic – they finally found the perfect place for rolling.

And roll they did. Izzy first, followed by Nicholai who delighted in the moist cool grass and savored the olfactory pleasure of a minuscule spot of something I could not distinguish by either sight or thankfully, smell. Nicholai reveled in his personal moment of pure sensory delight.

I am becoming a tad cavalier about Nicholai. We are creeping up on the eighteenth month of living with lymphoma with no signs that the end is near. I held my breath over him for months, then a year, and now – at a year and a half – I have started to relax. No timeline to be attached to, nothing to prove, just day by day going with the flow (or rolling with the punches) according to Nicholai.

I am of course, more convinced than ever of the power of real food, love, and exercise. The triad, when embraced, gives back everything it takes (time, money, and a little commitment) in spades. Every day I strive to return to nature just a little bit more and a little bit more. Nature is where life is.

 

 

To Walk Today’s Walk

It's June, and while Portland weather belies the approach of summer, indeed the solstice is mere days away. As I walked this morning with Nicholai, Kelley, and Tim – now finished with the third grade – we were under a blanket of gray, and clouds reached down from the sky with thready fingers wrapping mist and fog around the trees. Of course, we had on wool socks and raincoats, it felt like the approach of autumn, and of course we got poured on.

Somehow, some way, we were all cheerful in spite of it. Tim sang a song we've sung for years now – "I love Nicholai, yes I do …" to each of us and reminisced on the many times we've walked this way before. Nicholai and Kelley ran and sniffed, enjoying every little sight and scent, as if they'd never experienced them before. I sang back to Tim, we remarked on changes in the trail and the water levels, and remembered previous jaunts to this neck of the woods.

Not sure why I continue to be happy in an objectively depressing environment; perhaps because each day, I am reminded to stay with that single day; to walk the walk of that day alone. Each day of late, I say a prayer for the ocean which quickly becomes a prayer for us all. The ties that bind us together seem so obvious – oil spill, environmental degradation, petroleum products linked with cancer, cancer in my dog, my sister, my friend.

Facing devastation can overwhelm. Focusing on each day helps me stay hopeful, feel powerful, and remember why I care.

"I love my Nicholai, oh yes I do. I love my Nicholai, and I'll be true. When he's not with me, I'm very blue. Oh Nicholai, I love you."

Walking Shasta

Shasta belongs to a friend and client diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma several months ago. MM is thought to be an incurable cancer that arises in the bone marrow; treatments aim for management and pain relief. With multiple sites throughout the skeleton, it can create a lot of pain for the person with the disease, making certain activities – like being dragged down the street by a pulling dog, for example – on the "no-try" list.

I have a flexible schedule, so once per week I trot over to Shasta's house and take the boy for a nice walk. He's always glad to see me, and I him. Normally, we jaunt to a nearby city park, but this summer, I hope to bring Shasta along for some of our river adventures.

My heart is glad for the regular connection with a stellar person such as Shasta's human companion. I am happy to pitch in, in a small way, and feel the threads of community weaving ever stronger. I am deeply saddened at yet another cancer in my circles though, and I wonder, will it ever end?

The causes of MM are not yet understood, but correlations can be made with autoimmune disorders as well as a number of substances a person may have been involuntarily exposed to such as dioxin, Agent Orange, and certain herbicides and pesticides.

Spending time with the Springer's person has been an unexpected blessing. Still, I look forward to a day when I can weave threads of community around happier issues – perhaps growing and sharing food or developing local sources of energy.

In the meantime, Shasta makes a fine Tuesday walking date.

Gray

Amazing, how many days can be gray, the sky filled with fluffy dark clouds delivering rain, mist, or just cover. Even more amazing, said gray feels comforting and familiar. A gray day is a slower, quieter day than one filled with bright sunshine. An overcast day calls for a sweatshirt, a foamy tea latte, and of course, a walk with dogs.

For this morning's walk, Nicholai was particularly spirited. Saturday was a short, smell-the-roses kind of leash walk around home, and Sunday was an easy-going hike and lounge-around-the-back-yard kind of day. It's nice to see that the old boy's still got it. After a couple of kick-back days, he was ready to hit the road for real and he demonstrated his enthusiasm by howling over breakfast and pawing at my arm. "Let's get this show on the road!"

We tramped along a familiar trail, with one or two less familiar turns. Recent wetland improvements demand that we avoid one area to leave recovering wildlife in peace. From our vantage part a ways away, Nicholai and I watched some small critter swimming circles in the pond and splashing playfully. Who would do that, other than an otter? Seemed an odd environ for an otter, still … binoculars weren't among my accoutrements, so I couldn't tell. Nicholai observed carefully as I, his head cocked; I'm sure if we'd been closer, he would have made a much more detailed inspection.

The rivers are exceptionally high and the vicinity is very wet. Izzy tore through puddles and swamps, playing mad dashing games – mostly with herself. I enjoyed the cover of clouds, the lack of rain, the company of good dogs, and the solitude from human crowds. Nicholai frolicked a bit with Izzy, made careful olfactory inspection of areas we haven't seen – or smelled – for a while, tested all the waters (yep, still wet, still cold), and waited for his slower human on several occasions.

Still here, still crazy, still walking, after all this time.

Golden Morning

The arrival of summer sun had me awake early, a very long to-do list in my head – mostly "to do" with finally putting the winter garden to bed and hustling in the summer plants. Still, the siren call of the trail – any trail – rang loudest. I rousted nine-year old Tim from sleep and we fortified ourselves with coffee and baked goods then headed to the edge of the city where our unruly crew can all romp without disturbing anybody's peace.

The sky a clear blue and the sun shining brightly, we were early enough the temperature was moderate and a mild cooling breeze sweetly lapped our bare arms and legs. Spring's verdant green was already turning golden, making me hope for more refreshing rains. With grass taller than he is, Tim soon asked, "Can we turn back now?" "Just a few more minutes," I replied. It was a jungle out there, but I wanted to be sure all three dogs had an adequate romp for the day.

I scanned the field below us for any sign of old coyote. I have seen her here before, stealing into the brush as morning twilight turns to day. This morning, I suspected we were too late; though early, the summer sun was up a couple of hours before.

Izzy and Kelley raced each other up and down the trail. Nicholai trotted along at an easy pace, stopping frequently to inspect scents. When I tired of tromping through prairie-like grasses, we turned and headed for the car and our pleasing day in yard and garden.

Ends of the Leash

For years now, decades actually, I have gone more than out of my way for off leash play time with the dogs. Time we can spend together – but not bound – is precious. Dogs can sprint ahead on a puppy surge, or lag behind performing detailed olfactory inspections. If I want to jog or run, or stop for lunges or push-ups, I don't have to bear Nicholai's whining – "Let's get this show on the road." He can get his own show on the road in his time, and I can get it in mine.

At least once per week, if not twice, I like to make sure all the dogs have a change of pace. For young Kelley, it might be doggie daycare, or a couple of short but intense games of fetch. For middle aged Izzy, it might involve leash-walking in busy areas, building her tolerance to crowds (with plenty of yummy treats in a pocket). For Mr. Pickle, it now entails a meander around our local environs with plenty of time to stop and smell the roses.

These on-leash walks with my canine main-man have become quite a genial neighborhood experience. With Nicholai decked out in a colorful harness, and plastic bags stuffed in my pocket, we mosey up and down the streets, making note of recent changes: homes for sale, new garden beds (plentiful, with more springing up all the time), remodeling projects, and new construction (not so much lately). We may chat with a neighbor about roses suffering rot in the recent rains, or with another about the joys of old black labs and the trials and tribulations of young ones.

Nicholai strolls along with nary a tug on the leash. Once pooped, he waits patiently if I stop to yak. We have done this so many times by now, and he has so many opportunities to follow the beat of his own drummer, that we fall into an easy rhythm like the old canine-human couple we are. I'll get my own exercise later, so I have all the time in the world to lollygag along.

These days, Nicholai's developed a new habit. About three-quarters of the way through our stroll, he steps directly into my path, stops and stands stock still. He turns to look over his shoulder at me, whines then takes a step back, bumping his backside into me. Over time, I've learned he wants me to massage his back legs, give him a spinal adjustment (about mid-back), and most recently, he's really good with some kisses on top of the head. I, of course, threw that in myself, but my smooching does not dissuade his insistence on this moment of comforting contact.

He's my old guy. Part of what I love about him is the way we've developed our own communication and our own routines – just by being together, paying attention, and caring enough about one another across the species barrier to give a little. With Nicholai at the other end of the leash, I've got quite a partner.

Step By Step

What a difference a day makes. Acupuncture treatment yesterday combined with a shorter than usual walk resulted in a no-panting night for Nicholai and hence a restful night for a vigilant dog mom. I never cease to be amazed at the profound effect simple, inexpensive interventions can make. No sooner stated than I hear the voice of doom reminding me that one day, it will all be over and that these amazing treatments will no longer work. Right, I argue back to myself, but even if I were spending thousands of dollars on more invasive treatment, at the end, the result would be the same – a trip over the rainbow bridge. And what of all this sweet time in between? Did the vet and I not discuss just yesterday the loss of a dog for whom chemotherapy failed miserably, rendering far less happy earthly time for the dog with his humans? Damn.

I still lament the fact there's no cure for Nicholai's lymphoma. On an individual level, I work each day for peace and a Zen-like acceptance of what is. In the bigger picture, I embrace my fury at the systems that pollute every aspect of our environment on the one hand and offer us inane solutions – the loss of body parts, carcinogenic radiation, and toxic drug therapy – on the other hand.

I've begun a methodical shift in my own life toward the cleanest, simplest life I can manage. Local real food is my number one campaign. Shifting from a recycle mindset to a "reduce and reuse" mindset is number two. I plan to go through the house eliminating plastic – can you imagine? Two drawers full of Tupperware – bye, bye. I realized the other day I don't even know how to organize my veggies in the fridge without plastic bags; so here I am, growing a host of fresh food right in my own back yard and then sticking it in plastic bags. Help! Then there's lotions and soaps and creams, oh my. Bought a sweet smelling all-organic lavender body lotion, then looked at the plastic squeeze bottle; this is gonna be difficult.

The not difficult exciting part; I met a woman wild crafting local herbs for tonics and medicines and got some dandelion tincture – yeah! Got a friend experimenting with olive-oil, shea butter, calendula and lavender for body lotion, nice. I'm enjoying the look and feel of "Ball" jars for milk, yogurt, tea, juice and purchased a few nice glass containers with re-useable lids for storing left-overs. I know there're things I haven't even thought of – sunscreen for example (Okay, obviously I have thought of it, or I wouldn't mention it). Methodical process, step by step, remembering to be patient with myself and others.

Nicholai helps provide me both a righteous anger to fuel change, and a temperate peace to live each day with some amount of joy – even amidst the chaos.

At the Vet

My bubba had a rough night last night – or I, at least, had a rough night listening to his raspy breathing. He's doing more of that now; pant, pant, panting – as if it were a hundred degrees which is certainly not the case. Until last night, however, he's always been able to relax and go straight to sleep. At two in the morning – after tossing fitfully while Nicholai puffed and wheezed – I found myself sitting on the floor, gently probing his belly with my fingers, searching for signs of an abdominal mass or swelling, breathing a with relief at not finding any. While I massaged his back and "held his hand," he drifted off to what finally sounded like a peaceful sleep.

Today at the vet's office, I shared my concern that Nicholai seems to be making a downhill turn. His lymph tumors are large, his breathing frequently harsh and rasping. Fortunately, there's been no abatement in Nicholai's appetite, but that wouldn't signal a downturn that would signal the end. In the past few days, he's developed a rash on his tummy and I wonder if his overworked immune system is breaking down. God knows I've worried seriously about a "downhill turn" about ten times by now, and each time has turned out to be a glitch, and not the final downward slide to death I steel myself against.

While Nicholai stares at a bag of fish and venison treats, willing one of us to pop a few in his mouth, the vet says the rash looks like a staph infection so we'll put the boy on antibiotics. I find this a good plan; my old bubba's immune system is doing double – or triple – duty keeping him alive. If irritants in grass where we walk (I worry that it was sprayed) or the river waters have breached the skin's security systems, I want to give him a helping hand.

Vet laments another case of lymphoma he's been trying to turn around. The dog underwent a course of chemo and radiation that wasn't working so the owners turned to alternative medicine. But with a system weakened by both cancer and treatment, it was just too late. I reminded him to celebrate Nicholai, for even if he died tomorrow, his life to date has been a giant success.

I think it's time for another prayer request on the Canine Cancer Prayer list. Something is working, and I'm not going to pooh-pooh any part of it; diet, exercise, Chinese herbs, western herbs, mushrooms, prayers, and now a course of antibiotics.

Oh, and a helluva lot of love. Makes for quite the treatment plan.

Unbelievable

We have arrived at summer again. Unbelievable on the one hand because the cool and rainy weather of late had begun to make me wonder if Oregon skipped summer altogether, heading straight from spring to fall. Unbelievable on the other hand because at this time last summer, I was hoping against hope that my good buddy Nicholai would have a few nice summer days just swimming and hanging out. Week by tenuous week, I would dare to set my sights a tad further, and then one day it was Halloween, then Christmas and New Year's and a whole 'nother year. This time last year, imagining and wishing for summer swimming this year was completely inconceivable.

To be honest, I see Nicholai starting to slow down. His swollen lymph tumors seem to be getting the upper hand. He's lost weight – and for a pie eating boy – that's saying something. I wonder how long he can continue to not only beat the odds, but smash them. How long can a ten-year-old dog live in our polluted world with cancer and keep on trucking? I guess I'm about to find out.

Yesterday and today, with a little help from that golden orb in the sky we've seen so little of recently, Nicholai and our walking buddies enjoyed the first real swims of the year. Nicholai won't retrieve tennis balls on land for love or money – or even tasty treats – but toss that same ball into a lake or river in nice enough weather, and he's on it. When he's had enough of swimming, he loves nothing more than to nab a gooey green ball, steal into the grass with it, and rip it to shreds.

Whatever happens this summer, I have been truly blessed to have this time.

Real Costs

Okay, my day today was not so perfect.

I started out by getting up on the wrong side of the bed after inadequate sleep, putting me at an attitude disadvantage right from the start. The dogs were raring to go until I opened the door to pouring rain, at which all three of them did abrupt turnabouts, not even venturing off the porch.

After a cup of coffee, I dashed to the car with Nicholai, leaving the girls at home, for a long drive to my new-found on-farm store for fresh raw milk, yogurt, eggs, kombucha tea and perhaps some chicken. Happily, two friends wished to purchase some of this delightful fresh food, making the trip a tad more ecological and economical. The rain poured so that my wipers on their fastest speed could barely keep up. Visibility was fair to poor and the roads were perfect for hydroplaning, illustrating one of the downsides of direct farm purchasing – rain or shine, you have to get there.

When I arrived, preparations were ongoing for a cheese-making class. I would very much like to take the class some day, but today it meant a crowded store, difficulty accessing the freezer, and no yogurtL. When I could get a moment with the owner, she said that with recent cold and wet weather, the cows had not been producing as much milk and with the cheese classes, there'd been no time to make yogurt. There I was, tired and crabby, wet, having driven for an hour, and not able to get what I wanted. I felt like having a temper tantrum.

I realized sadly how far removed I have become from the rhythms of nature. Twenty-four hour supermarkets with produce and products flown and trucked from around the world have led me to believe that I should get whatever I want whenever I want it. Asparagus in January? No problem? Bananas and oranges for Christmas? You betcha. Boneless, skinless chicken breasts any day of the week any week of the year? For me, anything. I have become accustomed to this kind of access and though I have become educated to the hidden costs – which are many and daunting and include the gulf oil spill – I am still habituated to easy access to a wide variety of products without having to accept the full cost.

After a few quiet moments on the store's front porch in the rain, I dealt with my disappointment and made my peace with the situation. I could purchase beautiful milk, eggs, and tea. Perhaps this week, I could make my own yogurt.

I delivered farm-fresh food to both friends; letting myself in to one house, petting the dogs, and packing goodies in the fridge. I met my other friend (in PJ's and robe) in the driveway, where we discussed the politics of food over a box of milk and eggs, and I felt the threads of community growing stronger.

Bumped by minor difficulties, but still undaunted, I plan to continue seeking food directly from local farmers. I realize now that I will have to plan better, cooperate with others more, and flex my desires with changes in season, weather, fuel cost, and community-wide needs. Is this so much to ask? After all, when it comes down to it, it's not just BP's fault, or predatory corporations in general's fault, or the government's fault about the disastrous oil spill. It's all of us. We want what we want when we want it, and we don't want to pay the cost. Well, guess what? The costs will be paid … one way or the other.

If we're gonna pay, Nicholai and I both vote for yummy farm fresh raw milk.

 

Deep Green

Everywhere I look these days it's evident that our salvation as a planetary community of people, animals, and plants mandates a return to that which is natural. Natural medicine – like that which is keeping Nicholai ticking; natural food – like we grow in our gardens or purchase from local farmers like Chrissie and Koorosh at Kookoolan; natural power – like Timmy and me getting our butts onto our bikes to ride to the store for groceries. Recent forays into Forest Park for runs feel like a metaphor for my soul's longing to return to the deep green heart of nature.

Izzy and I struck off up Leif Erickson Drive, with deep ravines and tall trees as our companions. We traveled up, up, up the long and winding road. Nothing here reminds me of the stark, wide open beauty of the hills and trails in Montana. Here, green is all around and with so much recent rain, water drips down stony hillsides, runs in rivulets along the road, collects in pools beside the trail.

Choosing a side trail, we climbed the hilly terrain away from the road, surrounded by ferns of every imagining. Tree trunks were covered in moss and the trail was thick and muddy. Sweat dripped from my brow into my eyes – I am out of running shape and the humidity must have been near a hundred percent. Since I decided two weeks ago that I am neither too old nor too broken to run any more, aside from needing to increase my endurance, I feel surprisingly fit and suffer no ill effects from pounding out a few miles – amazing the power of the mind.

As Izzy and I splashed through mud, we soaked up the spirit of nature holed up in the hills and ravines. Ah, this is the life, I thought as I mostly plodded and intermittently flew along, just me, Izzy, trees, and ground under my feet. Well, ground under my $150 running shoes. As nature calls me from every conceivable direction to come home, I wonder how the ground would feel under my actual feet. It's the siren song of the deep green glen, the deep green soul of earth; calling me ever deeper, ever greener.

What's next, barefoot running?