Difficult Appreciation

Pant, pant, pant. That's what I hear and feel down to my bones. Each of those panting breaths puts me on notice that my sweet Bubba is struggling. I am ever so grateful for the moderate temperatures this week – it could instead be a heat wave and I hate to contemplate how Nicholai would cope with that.

Yesterday our friend Diane appeared at the back door at 5:25 am. She chauffeured me and the dogs, along with her two old pitbulls, for a lovely caper on the Columbia beach. Nicholai gamboled at his own pace, nosed around for garbage snacks, dipping his feet in the water but deigning to swim. While leaping over a log – a simple thing for him a few weeks ago – he slipped, and required a boost from his special person. Only too glad to give it, I was certainly sorry to have to.

He's taken a kind of "drop" this week – in energy, in ease of breathing, in – dare I say it – appetite. He's picking at his breakfast, preferring his proteins – eggs and meat – to veggies, sweet potatoes and yogurt. Of course, I will give him whatever he will eat. Yesterday, Diane and I hit the road, thanks to her willingness to drive, and trucked on out to Kookoolan Farm for fresh raw milk, chicken, and beef organ meat. Nicholai was thrilled with the free-range, grass-fed beef kidney I put in his breakfast bowl this morning.

The work required for me to stay focused on the present is now harder. I watch Nicholai for signs of increased duress and wonder what day (or middle of the night) he might take a sudden and urgent downturn. I forget to be in today – a chronic problem for me – and I worry about "the end." I know that it might be sudden – and I am not ready. I also know it could be long and drawn out, and I am no more ready for that.

I'm frustrated with this eye injury and surgery and frustrated with the inability to work and lack of income that represents in the light of increased medical needs for both me and my canine pal. I'm annoyed with my own temporary disability, quick eye fatigue, and downright lousy vision.

I am working on appreciation. We have medical insurance, and while it's not great, it will provide help with the huge bills for the eye surgery. I'm trying to be grateful. As for the restrictions, it has been a challenging week; I like to do things and I am independent to a fault. This week has helped with accepting and appreciating assistance. The quiet time with Nicholai has been an odd blessing. While it is painful to see him losing ground, I don't want to turn away from him at the end. Our culture is so weak in the areas of embracing disability, aging, and death – all seeming to fall behind a dark curtain like the one that threatened my left eye last week. I have to wonder if it's a total coincidence that at the moment Nicholai is beginning to deteriorate, I find myself so limited in my own activity, all that's left is to hang with my dying boy.

There, I've said it. It's been happening all along. Nicholai's cancer has never been in remission, but like a miracle, he's had many, many months of reprieve, and we have danced the dance of the living. Now, I am newly aware that he is a Dead Dog Walking. My heart is heavy with the knowledge.

 

Slow Like Honey

Today rolls by slow as raw honey poured from a jar in winter. Nicholai, Kelley, and I are all taking the day off. Of course, I walked with Nicholai around the neighborhood this morning and it seemed more than enough for the old boy. Later, Kelley and I went to the lot next door for a short but vigorous game of fetch. In less than twenty minutes, her tongue was hanging and her sides were heaving. The rest of the day's been spent in quiet leisure – Kelley napping with her head on my lap while I watch movies and Nicholai roving from spot to spot, searching for comfort.

There have been a couple of scares since first he was diagnosed with lymphoma in January of '09. In August, he took sick with vomiting and diarrhea. At the time, we thought it was the end, but in a couple days he was back to his energetic, scarfing meals, happy self. In December, he and Kelley ate rotten salmon on the beach and contracted a potentially lethal bacterial infection. Once again, he pulled through in time to gobble down an entire Christmas pumpkin pie all by himself.

The first seven months of 2010 have been filled with the simple elegance of early morning walks, the blessing of mountain hikes, and the fine company of my constant companion and pack-brother. The knowledge of his finite time with me has allowed me to carve out more quality time with him and give him more mindful notice when other demands of life pull me away.

Because of the attention I have paid him, I am now able to see his cues. He's slower on walks, dilly-dallying along, often behind me. Alarmingly, he ate only half his breakfast this morning. His breath comes hard and ragged at times. The tumors in his groin (inguinal lymph nodes) are now huge; I struggle to maintain equanimity. I rather hate those tumors and wish I could make them disappear. Alas, they are not operable and our current cures can stave them off at best. Nicholai has had a fabulous run at eighteen months since diagnosis. I should not hope for more. But I do.

I'll discuss options further with his vet in the next day or two. Due to the generosity of the friend who will drive us, we'll head out to the river again tomorrow. I'll feed Nicholai pumpkin pie if I need to, then I'll work on letting go.

I think this is the beginning of the end.

 

Couch Potatoes

Stretched out long on the wood floor, curled up on the couch, dozing in the sun; so this how my dogs live while I'm away at work, or otherwise preoccupied. Today, I'm living like they do, stretching out or curling up on the couch, doing my best to follow the doctor's orders to be a "couch potato."

My eye seems to be healing, though it becomes fatigued in very short order. (As I write, a patch covers it to mitigate the strain.) The list of don'ts includes most everything I normally do – housework, work, bending, lifting, gardening, running, swimming, bicycling, hiking, carrying heavy loads (anything more than a pillow, the doctor's assistant told me when I asked for clarification). Now that the family is gone on vacation, I'd love to settle in with a good book or some bead work, but …

Meanwhile, it's
the
week; the week when Nicholai's dog-friend Maya so abruptly took her leave of earthly life two years ago. I can't help but remember how fast she went – first symptoms on Monday, dead by Friday. Then I feel nervous on this second anniversary of that shock. Without meaning to or wanting to, I find myself waiting for Nicholai to crash.

However, Nicholai's doctor seems to have worked a touch of his magic and mitigated the worst of Nicholai's panting and heat stress. Of course, I keep the house tomb-ish with curtains drawn, air conditioners sucking down energy, and doors closed. After enjoying a nice walk – a friend came to pick us up at 6 am – he's spent the day resting here, and resting there, exactly like his much younger and healthier counterpart – Kelley. Isabella is having a sleepover at another house for her fun and my ease, and I assume she's spent much of her day the exact same way.

It's awfully hard for me to just chill out and do all of this "nothing." Once again, I find taking cues from canines to be a worthy endeavor. "Just be," they demonstrate effortlessly, lounging about with neither guilt nor boredom. So far, we have meditated in the late morning sun, napped on the couch, watched Harry Potter, and shared a bite of lunch and chips and salsa. Now I'm writing, but soon, it will be back to curling up on the couch, then a bite of dinner – always a hit with the dogs – and more couch surfing.

Funny, I was so sure I'd be bored silly. Indeed, I started the day busy – walk, breakfast out, phone calls (damned insurance snafus), and a bit of office straightening, but the afternoon has opened gracefully into "being."

No Big Guns

I rose from bed this morning to complete quiet; no barking, no rush of excited dog feet ready to start the day. My partner exited earlier with the three dogs in tow and I could tiptoe downstairs, make a cup of coffee, and sit in complete peace on the back deck to watch the chickens wake up.

Mr. Nicholai's veterinary appointment went well. We're trying a new herbal formula for internal cooling, deciding it's still not time to "break out the big guns." The thing with those big guns (not standard chemo, never that for Nicholai) but heavy duty antibiotics and steroids, is that while they will stave off symptoms – push back against the lymphoma if you will – they also assault the digestive tract and the immune system, and lead to further deterioration, from which there is often no return.

The weekend's rising temperatures will challenge Nicholai and we'll see how the new formula helps his system cope with the heat. For now, he's totally happy snoozing in the cool basement, having had a lovely romp at the river.

It's a daily work of art and spirit to let Nicholai be – to hold hope for his long and healthy life and yet allow for his potential need to go at any time. At the moment, he is his happy-go-lucky, earth bound self again and I am less concerned that he may be taking his curtain call next week on the second anniversary of his friend's passing.

Along with my own healing (I now look like I got kicked in the eye with a steel-toed boot), I'm taking Nicholai's status one day at a time. I'm looking forward to a quiet weekend of movies, audio books, and laying low. I think my buddy will embrace that agenda.

Old Dogs

Smiling in the face of adversity, the only way to go.

Tired eyes, after pokes and prods, tests and surgery.

I don't trust this whole picture-taking thing. What's the deal?

Enforced Stillness

Sitting here this morning, I must be quite a sight, with a gigantic patch taped over my left eye and glasses slung catywhompus across that, so my right eye can read the fine print on my small screen. My partner snuck out with the girls, the human boys are still asleep, and Nicholai and I have some quiet time to hang out together in the early morning, before I head back to the eye doctor.

Mr. Pickle's breathing is becoming more labored and he pants much of the time. I feel a swelling in his abdomen (spleen enlarging?) that hasn't been there before. We sleep under a down comforter and keep the air conditioner running; though I am aware of its energy sucking power, Nicholai relaxes, breathes easily, and sleeps well only when it's nice and cool.

The two of us will have plenty of time for chilling over the next couple of weeks. On Monday I noticed a small cloud in part of the visual field of my left eye, like the moon rising slowly from the inner corner and I could not see past it. After a strenuous bike ride home, I called an ophthalmologist (who immediately advised no strenuous activity), but more strikingly, got me in right away. Soon, I was swept off in appointments to a specialist and whisked to surgery under anesthesia. While it was fortunate that I caught it right away, it was unfortunate that the retina of my left eye sustained a horseshoe shaped tear at the edge. Left alone, the retina would surely detach as I ran, bounced, jumped, and generally did not sit still through my life. Detached retinas do not send visual images to the brain, hence the unusual doctor-office urgency.

So, now I sit here, confined to sitting and lying on one side for a couple of days. The list of don'ts for the next couple of weeks is long and daunting – no seeing clients, no walking the dogs, no jogging or running, no bicycle riding, no exercise, no bending over, no yard or garden work, no strenuous housework, no lifting, no driving. I can't fly on a plane, which means I'll miss our family's once-every-three-years reunion next week. "Can I do anything?" I asked the doc in a whiney voice. "Can I walk?" "Can you just mosey?" the doctor asked me. "I mean, stop and smell the roses, not get your heart rate up, kind of mosey?" I chuckled, not my style. "Well, I guess I have to, don't I?"

This afternoon, a friend will drive me with Nicholai to a scheduled veterinary appointment; I know he needs it; it may even be time to pull out some of the bigger guns we've been saving for "when the time comes."

Next week is the anniversary of the passing of Nicholai's best friend-dog, Maya. Last summer I held my breath all week, hoping against hope that he would not follow her path. This year, I just hope that Nicholai does what is best for him. Over the past week as I've noticed his breathing becoming raspy, I've whispered in his ear "Go find Maya! Go find Molly and Kali! Find them!" I want him to know he owes me nothing, can go whenever he needs, doesn't have to take care of me. He looks at me and cocks his head – possibly thinking, what are you talking about, they're not here, dingbat." It's true, I don't know where any of us go when we die, or if he'll actually find Kali and Molly and Maya (and Dempsey and Tierney, et al) somewhere in a heavenly field of grass and squirrels and bones to chew, but what the hell – I like to envision it. I like to think that Nicholai will go on somehow, that his spirit will endure, that all my former dog friends are happy somewhere.

These next few days, I hope to take some moseying walks with Mr. Pickle around the neighborhood, smellin' the roses and taking it easy like the gimped up pair we are.

Prayers

When Nicholai was originally diagnosed with cancer – lymphoma, sometimes called lymphosarcoma – in January 2009, I quickly hopped online to research treatments, conventional and alternative. In this way, I stumbled upon a Canine Cancer Prayer List. With lots of emotion and few thoughts, I posted Nicholai's story and requested prayers on his behalf. After scanning the long, long list of prayer requests, so many posted with breaking hearts by desperate companions, I made a mental note to include these pups and their people in my thoughts.

I'm no expert at prayer. The scripted prayers I learned as a child (Hail Mary, Our Father) ring in a hollow place for me and do not suit the current occasion. I don't know how I should pray – "Dear god, save my dog from the inevitable. Save him from the mess we've made of the world. Give him an exemption from the natural consequences, not of his actions, but of the contamination we have loosed on his home." Would that work?

As a parent, I don't save my kids from the natural consequences of their poor choices. Throw your favorite toy out the window in a huff and it breaks? Tough luck, that. Leave your stuff out in the rain and it gets ruined? Bummer. Flunk a class in eighth grade and have to make it up in summer school? Your problem to deal with. Really, if I was God, and people prayed to me for salvation from cancer they created by dirtying their water, soil, air, and food with carcinogens, I'd probably say – tough luck, better choices next time.

Fortunately for us all, I'm not God. Still, I don't have faith that god – that beautiful spirit that infuses all of life – is going to rescue Nicholai, or anyone else for that matter. But perhaps the most important thing about prayer is not the response it gets. Perhaps the important thing is the change in internal thinking and feeling, and the resultant change in action. For me a prayer – a thought of gratitude or homage to that which is much bigger than me, eternal and filled with hope – changes me from negative thinking, hopelessness, and despair, to optimism and positive action. Prayers become something like this.

"Spirit of all that is, help me to love Nicholai each day he's here with me. Give him strength and me tools. Infuse us with joy and hope …

… Touch the life of our friend Pam with grace, let her know she's loved, let that love ease her pain …

… Help my sister to stay connected with beauty every day, to find strength and endless possibility in the magnificent hills and mountains around her house … "

I've gone back to the Canine Cancer Prayer list many times now to post requests for others to hold Nicholai in their prayers, whatever form they take; something is working for him, and for all I know the strength of unrelated persons' hopes, wishes, and love is the magic ingredient.

And while we're at it, here's one I'd like to see, hear, say, feel more often: "Oh, and God? Could you help us change our minds and our actions about the way we treat the earth like a garbage dump? Help us all see the magnificence in water lapping at shorelines, osprey nests high overhead, gray clouds, brilliant sunrises, fresh tomatoes, another day of breath. Help us to learn respect and give us the grace to go on living on this remarkable little blue planet.

Oh, and thanks."

How’s His Appetite?

When I take Nicholai to see his vet, a question the doctor invariably asks is, "How's his appetite?" As cancer progresses, it often wreaks havoc on the sufferer's digestive system, appetite wanes, weight is lost, and earthly time is limited. For the past eighteen months, the veterinarian has interrogated me about Nicholai's enthusiasm for meals.

Mostly, I laugh in answer to this query. Nicholai's appetite is legendary, and even in the year and half of lymphoma has included – in addition to his wholesome prepared meals – a whole bunny, an entire loaf of bread, a gourmet slice of pizza, an unknown quantity of rotting salmon, the entire foreleg of a deer carcass – hoof and all, numerous tidbits of picnic garbage scavenged on the beach, and a freshly baked pumpkin pie. And that's just what I can recall on the spur of the moment. Now Dr. J laughs too, after he shakes his head in disbelief. Most dogs dancing with cancer this long are losing their desire for food to the ravages of either cancer or its treatment. When Nicholai loses his interest in delectable gastronomic treats, we'll know his days are numbered.

So, it was with no small delight I watched as Nicholai rounded the point where the Willamette pours into the Columbia, stepping into dazzling morning sunshine. Chipper in the fresh dawn air, his tail wagged gaily. He appeared to be on a mission and in a moment, he nabbed something brown and limp from the sand. Judging from his posture, it was something good. I raced over to see if I approved – no more putrid salmon for this boy, if I can help it. With head high and tail erect, Nicholai carried his prize – a deceased rabbit – away from the sand, up to a comfortable grassy spot where he could rip the bunny to shreds and devour it in peace.

The heat is hard on Mr. Pickle, his lymph tumors are slowly growing larger, and I cannot imagine that he can really make it through another year. Therefore, I've steeled myself for his imminent decline. Apparently, that decline is not scheduled to begin today.

When Dr. Jeff asks about his appetite next week at his check up, I'll chuckle once more. Good food, planned treats, and another whole bunny, fur and all.

For the moment, I'd say his appetite is good.

A Year With Kelley

One year ago today – July 17, 2009 – I drove to Kelley Point Park in North Portland extra early. I wanted to walk with Nicholai and Izzy before the three digit temperatures of that week's heat wave hit. Since it was Nicholai's last summer (J), I didn't want to let a day go by without a fun excursion of one sort or another. Pulling into the parking lot just before 6:00 a.m., I noticed a black Chevy Avalanche sitting in the middle of the lot, motor humming. Soon a door opened, a dog's feet hit the ground, its body hidden behind the door. In a moment, the door closed and the Avalanche sped away, leaving the little dog staring after it. Long story short (see Introducing the Little Sisters, Feb 20 post), the little reddish-blonde pup I wasn't going to keep, is now our sweet third dog, and bears the name of the park in which she was momentarily abandoned.

Kelley seemed to be out to create record medical expenditures in one year of life. Not including spay surgery, her veterinary bills have cruised effortlessly into the four figure column – what with several days at Dove Lewis emergency hospital just before Christmas due to salmon poisoning and most recently her wayward adventure with foxtail in the nostril. Good thing she's so damned cute!

Kelley has become a wonderful companion. She's gone from lanky and uncoordinated to rippled with well-defined muscles. She's friendly to everyone – human and beast. She can and will play all day, and then loves nothing better than to snuggle up on a warm lap.

To the louse in the black Chevy Avalanche: you didn't know what would happen to your sweet dog, just left her off like so much garbage. Well, clearly, she's the better of the two of you, and your garbage has been our gift.

We're glad to have Miss Kelley; she's been a joy for our family, if a tad expensive.

Kelley’s Foxtail Adventure

Tuesday morning, we met our walking friend out by the Sandy River. The grass and weeds along the trail are tall, dry, and golden. The tops of the grasses are turning to seed – sticky, pokey seeds that grab onto clothes and penetrate socks and shoes.

As I tossed a ball along the trail that leads to the river, Kelley bounced the ball into the grass. Diving to retrieve it, she came up sneezing … and sneezing … and sneezing. Violent sneezes that slammed her head from side to side spraying saliva all over her face. My friend and I exchanged glances. Soon Kelley pawed the side of her face and sneezed intensely again. "Oh my," I said, worry tripping into my voice. I imagined one of those poking seed heads that harass my socks slipping up her nose and lodging there.

For ten minutes, Kelley sneezed continuously and then she seemed better. We hoped she expelled whatever bothered her and we continued to the river where she swam for balls with her usual gusto, only sneezing occasionally.

Thursday morning more furious head-whipping sneezes along with a reddening area around the right nostril made it obvious that something was still amiss. By 10 am, Miss Kelley was at the vet's office. In short order, they informed us she'd need to spend the day and be put under, so the doctor could explore her sinus and remove any foreign object. $350 dollars, full anesthesia, and six hours later, we had our information. The culprit was foxtail.

A non-native invasive plant brought to North America from Europe; foxtail is a tufted upright grass with bristled seed-heads. Microscopic barbules along the surface cause the seed head to be propelled forward – usually by the movement of the carrier, in this case Kelley. Like in socks, they lodge within tissues and slowly drive inward, the barbs preventing exit. These invaders can penetrate skin and have been found in the eyes, ears, throats, lungs and other interior tissues of pets and farm animals.

We'll be avoiding that trail to the river till mid-fall. There are plenty of adventure venues we can find that won't involve another trip to the vet – I hope.

If you hike with your dog in dry weedy areas, if you find yourself pulling grassy barbs out of your shoes, pants, or socks, be sure (double sure) to check your dog thoroughly for the nasty little buggers. It could save you a nice chunk of change and save your dog mild to severe suffering.

Day of Rest

After two weeks of rolling out of bed with the sun, stumbling down the stairs, grabbing coffee and keys, and heading out to walk in the early morning cool and sunshine, I needed a day of rest. Just some sleep in time (till 6:30); then hanging out on the back deck leisurely sipping from my mug 'o joe. Hitting the trails before everyone else is a solitary joy, so much so that I have continued to do it for decades and will continue on as long as I am able. But to sit quietly and observe robins pulling worms from the lawn or preening under garden sprinklers, to greet the hens as they hop down out of their nighttime tree retreat, to watch the sun curl over the trees and spill into the vegetable garden, has its own sweetness. Since most days, I'm up, out, and on the move with barking, whining dogs, I forget the joy of stillness and quiet.

Old dogs with lymphoma need days off too, days to lounge on the couch in morning stillness, days to lie in a south-facing back yard before mid-morning sun cooks it, days to take it easy. If asked, Nicholai would probably tell you that these occasional days off from walks are unnecessary, that every day is a good day to hit the road. But I see the value of these intermittent breaks from the routine in his jauntier steps, freer hip action, and decreased panting the following day. My experience as a chiropractor –and just as an aging human – leads me to believe in the recuperative power of rest – and so we do.

As I write this morning, the sun is just breaching the tall trees and tripping into the office. Robins and sparrows chirp and bathe, squirrels dance from limb to limb on the way to corn and sunflower seeds in a feeder on our fence, and my dear old Nickel-pickle lounges peacefully nearby. Tomorrow morning, we'll be up and out with the dawn again, for today … rest.

Tumor Size

Nicholai's lymph tumors grow steadily, if slowly, larger as time goes by. It's hard for me to see this, to acknowledge that our treatment methods are not managing to cure him of this disease; I would so like to see him cured. The lumps on his neck have required lengthening his collars so as not to put undue stress on what are clearly already stressed body parts. Nodes in Nicholai's groin are big as goose eggs and I wonder if they cause him discomfort – he doesn't show it in any way that I can see.

In treating cancer, patients and doctors alike like to get rid of tumors. When getting rid of them is not a reasonable option, we try to shrink them. I get this; I want to shrink Nicholai's tumors very badly. The thing is, shrinking tumors is not always associated with longevity or reductions in recurrences of the disease. We diminish the tumor – usually via radiation or chemotherapy – only to have it return, sometimes with a vengeance. Often the cancer will show up elsewhere, having managed to spread to distant body parts even via a shrunken tumor.

Back when Linus Pauling did his vitamin C studies, he found that people with advanced cancer – people oncology had given up on – survived longer and better than those on traditional oncology protocols by administering high doses of vitamin C; living an average of five times longer than their hospitalized counterparts. When the Mayo clinic undertook studying the role of vitamin C in cancer treatment, they were able to monitor tumor sizes because they had vast resources for diagnostic tests that Dr. Pauling did not have available.

The Mayo clinic was able to determine via imaging studies that tumors were not decreasing in size. Though patients had less pain, more energy, and generally felt better on the high vitamin C doses, their tumors did not diminish and in some cases continued to grow. Alarmed by this finding, the researchers discontinued the study – even though patients died sooner without the vitamin C, so compelling is the tumor-shrinking paradigm.
Waiting for dinner, looking like Joker with those swollen nodes

In spite of his massive tumors, Nicholai eats heartily, poops well (yes, still inspecting), and dances in the morning to express his anticipation of going with me on our walk-hike-swim. The recent heat has made him pant excessively, waking me in the wee hours once or twice, and in the dark of night I wonder if the mere size of the cancerous growths is the cause of his distress.

I have to remind myself that shrinking tumors is mostly unrelated to survival. Nicholai has beaten his odds and the tumors have never disappeared. As intuitive as it seems to focus efforts on eliminating tumors and as much as I want it to happen, perhaps it is the wrong place to focus.

Buzz-zzz

Mosquito Heaven

Zzzzzzz … swat, slap … zzzzzz. I haven't had so much trouble with mosquitoes since I lived in Minnesota. There, mosquitoes threaten to carry away your first born if you don't hand over a pint of blood; as a result of this training, I've found the bothersome bugs to be a non-problem here in Oregon. Until this year, that is.

Apparently one of this diverse family of bloodsuckers is called a floodwater mosquito, and she can lay eggs that won't hatch for years until sated by a drink of water. That drink was well supplied by the late spring rains that had Portlanders whining so recently.

I was born into a post World War II era excited about aggressive chemical responses to problems like mosquitoes. DDT had been in wide use for malaria control during the war, and it received a plum civilian post in the US agriculture industry. Folks one to two decades older than I, report playing games chasing pesticide trucks, seeing who could stay in the cloud of bug spray the longest.

DDT is considered a carcinogen. Studies in humans have implicated this pesticide in cancers of the liver, pancreas, and breast, with some evidence that it causes leukemia, lymphoma, and testicular cancers. A neurotoxin, it is also implicated in developmental problems in children, reproductive problems for men and women, low birth weights and infant deaths, and endocrine disruption, including thyroid disorders. For a long time, the relationship between DDT and breast cancer was unclear. Some women with exposure had high incidences of breast cancer, some did not. In 2007, a well-designed study showed that timing of exposure is critical – women exposed to DDT before puberty had a five-fold increase in breast cancer incidence over women born at least 14 years before the widespread agricultural use of DDT burst onto the American scene in the early 1940's.

DDT is a persistent organic pollutant that collects in soil and is magnified in the food chain. Though it was banned for use in the US in 1972 it is still in use around the world; in 2005 a study showed that all human blood samples tested in the US still show residues of DDT.

The punch line?

Mosquitoes (and other pests) effectively develop resistance. So much so that use at low doses can actually increase deaths from malaria by a rebound effect. DDT has been abandoned by the World Health Organization as a method of controlling the disease.

I'm happy to pull out my citronella-soybean-peppermint-cedar-lemongrass-geranium insect repellent. This morning I covered my legs in the fine pungent spray and gave a few quick squirts to the dogs. We were all fine, and as far as anyone knows, we did not increase our risk of cancer by repelling the bugs.

Quality and Quantity

Yesterday an acquaintance of ours stopped by the house for a visit. She hadn't been by in a couple of years and when she came through the gate, all three dogs mauled her in greeting. As she reached down to scratch Nicholai around his neck, she looked at me in surprise. "What's all that?" she asked.

"Tumors," I replied. "He has cancer."

"Ooh, I'm sorry," she replied in a hushed, apologetic tone.
Chilling at the river with giant lymph nodes

"Yeah," I said, as Nicholai sniffed her pants and she ran a hand down his back. "It's pretty pitiful. He was diagnosed with lymphoma and given three months to live. In January. Of 2009." Her mouth popped open and her eyes widened. "But, that … that's …"

"I know, eighteen months. Nothing but a good diet and natural medicine. Who knew?" Goofy, drooly happy, cancer be damned

On first hearing and coping with Nicholai's diagnosis, we wanted to make the cancer just go away and leave us alone. Investigating treatment options for Nicholai, we quickly realized what we valued most for him – and for us – was having quality time, not quantity. Of course we wished for a cure, wanting Nicholai to live out his whole life. I mourned the gray face and arthritic joints I would never see. Our whole family wanted Nicholai to live as long as possible, but we were able to let that go with relative ease. Our greater goal – even the kids' – involved a happy dog accompanying us on walks and swims, a dog who was eating enthusiastically and not suffering needlessly. If we could only have that for a short time, so be it. Quality time won out over the pursuit of quantity time.

The unexpected thing is, we got both. It would appear that the daily pursuit of happiness, comfort, and joy actually adds to health and may prolong life, even in the absence of treatment we have come to think of as mandatory for cancer. What might transpire if we changed our thinking about cancer treatment radically? Would all cancer patients see more quality and quantity time?
Quality time, with a gently held long view

Summer Clothes

I used to look with disdain at people who dressed their dogs in outfits. "How ridiculous," I would think as I'd watch a poodle prance by in a sweater. Cooing over doggie clothing was – in my opinion – for eccentric little old ladies, obsessive dog-show folks, and the Paris Hilton set. People with real dogs – big dogs, working dogs – people like me, would not stoop to such silly doting behavior.

Sometimes our judgments come back to bite us in the butt.

Izzy in her sun protection T-shirt
Drool face, after cooling in the water
Mr. Pickle in his "Cooling Jacket"

Hot Dogs

Wasn't it a mere moment ago we were all whining about the cold and rain?? Is there no middle ground in Portland this year? Jeesh. 100 degrees today, heat snaking up from asphalt and pavement in visible waves and the air hot to breathe. Not complaining, just sayin'.
Keeping the dogs cool, especially Nicholai, is critical on these hot, hot days. We purchased our first window air conditioning unit some years back, when my sister's old dog was coming to visit. Worried that with his heart condition he wouldn't survive the relentless heat wave, we fashioned a plan to keep one room dark and cool. Dempsey was comfortable during his visit, and we found ourselves huddled in the temperate living room with him.
While the pitbull girls seek heat like cats and sunbathe until they are very nearly cooked, Nicholai seeks cooler spots - a memory foam bed tucked into the dark under the piano or a bolster bed in the naturally cool basement.
We rose super early this morning to enjoy a few quiet moments chilling in the comfortable morning air, me with coffee in hand. Then it was off to the river before the temperatures climbed. A Great Blue heron basked in the dawn sunshine while the dogs frolicked below.

Another day tumbles by; raspberries and blueberries ripen, tomatoes form on the vine, the hens huddle under the shade of the mimosa tree. And Nicholai?

Still breathing, still smiling.

Threads of Community

Arriving at a north Portland park early this morning, I watched as an older man gathered trash in a large bag while his shepherd mix dog meandered about the parking area. Initially irritated waiting to unload my dogs, (I can be annoyingly short tempered when things aren't going my way) I realized he wasn't picking up his trash; he was performing a service – general clean up of a public area. As he carried his load to the garbage can, memory tumbled in, and though he is thinner and grayer now, I recognized an old familiar face.

I used to see Mike and his wife years ago, long before we found Nicholai, when our now departed girl-dogs were manic young pups. Mike and Sandy walked a variety of dogs over the years and we knew each other first by dogs, then by sight, and finally by name. For two summers, we came to the park daily with a garbage bag each, to clean up picnic areas and beaches left littered by afternoon picnickers.

Years have passed and we have all gotten noticeably older. Sandy stays home due to arthritis, Mike comes only sporadically, and countless
days over that past five years have seen me trekking elsewhere with my unruly crew. Numerous dogs have flown over the rainbow bridge between us; we have cried and hugged each other over dogs lost to age, infirmity, and cancer.

In his act of picking up someone else's garbage, I recognized a man whose last name I don't even know, but who is so much more than an acquaintance. This is a friend with whom the ties are so loose as to never know if I will see him again, but so plain and true as to laugh at canine antics, to work together to keep an area we care about clean, to share separate but common heartbreak when our companions leave us.

I hadn't seen Mike in a coon's age, didn't know if I ever would, didn't worry about it. Like with dogs, our relationship is a hundred percent in the moment with no strings attached, which is part of the beauty.

My dog-walking life contains a few people like Mike. People I only see at the river's edge or on the trail, our dogs racing about or following demurely at our feet. People whose daily life I know little about. Still, by the simple act of returning to the same place to walk with our dogs, day after day, week after week, and year after year, we create a tapestry of community.

My life is enriched by these vibrant threads that weave connection, but do not bind.

 

Ahh … Summer

Rolling out of bed with the sun, imbibing coffee, and hitting the river's edge by six a.m. Finding untracked sand and sunlight glistening off gently lapping waves. Little or no company in the wee hours, making for perfect running, romping, garbage inspecting, ball-chasing, swimming fun-in-the-sun.

To say I am happy to have Nicholai accompany me on these July jaunts is to overuse the fine art of understatement. I revel in the wonder of his companionship this far out. Perhaps by the end of the week or next week at the latest, the water will have warmed sufficiently for me to take the plunge. That is Nicholai's favorite way to swim – with his Mary. If we have a second post-diagnosis summer swimming together, it will be some crazy kind of blessing.

I am holding my breath this July, wondering if the heat will knock Nicholai back, or if time will simply run out; wondering if he'll need to fly over the rainbow bridge in search of Maya, or a host of departed dog family and friends – Molly, Kali, Dempsey, or Teirney. Wondering what week, what day things will change – will it be a quick decline or slow.

I remind myself to stick with the dog. The dog knows what the human doesn't. It simply doesn't matter what day and what week and what time the end comes. Worrying about it puts a pall on today. Today the sun shone bright and the company was impeccable. No day but today.

Ahhh … summer.