DNA of the Bully Girls

Ostensibly, Izzy and Kelley belong to the same breed, or perhaps I should say breed group. Most folks on the street identify each of them as pitbull, or they cock their heads to one side, raise an eyebrow, and ask – "What kind of dog is that?"

The bully girls look nothing alike. If they represent one breed – the American Pitbull Terrier – one wonders how a breed standard would be defined. Izzy is compact and muscular, deep-chested, narrow waisted, with a small head, narrow muzzle, and comical upright pointy ears. I once told someone she was an Egyptian Pharaoh Hound as a lark – and they totally believed it. Kelly is long and lean, well-proportioned, moderate in head and muzzle with half-prick ears. Both girls have fairly classic "pitbull" markings –white toes, white chests, narrow white blazes on the face and cute little white diamonds on the back of the neck. When I look at either of them I see pitbull, but I cock my head to the side too, and wonder – who else is in there?

According to Bio-Pet's DNA test (a swab of the inside of the cheek) the answer to the mystery is as follows.
Bulldog, American Staffordshire Terrier, and Papillon

Izzy's ancestry is Bulldog, American Staffordshire terrier, and Papillon. Bulldog is believable and likely accurate. The bully breeds are called such for a reason – they are all descended one way or another from bulldogs. However, there are upwards of a dozen bulldog breeds – Olde English Bulldogges, American Bulldogs, Valley Bulldogs, French Bulldogs, Alapaha Blue Blood Bulldogs, and … well, you get the picture. So, which bulldog line is Izzy from? She appears to carry traits of the American Staffordshire terrier (Am-Staf). Strong, athletic, active, and very friendly with people; she is notably neither protective nor dog-aggressive, both traits for which the American Staffordshire terrier is famously known. Papillons are described as calm and patient; neither is a term that ever comes to mind when I set out to describe Izzy's personality. Perhaps her small round head, narrow snout, and erect ears are contributions from the Papillon line.
Bulldog, Boston and Bull terriers. Labrador,and Mastiff

Kelley turns out to be a mix of four bully breeds and a Labrador retriever. Boston terrier, Bulldog (see above), Bull terrier (we think her snout took design elements from this group), Mastiff, and Lab are the breeds who theoretically make her who she is. Kelley is strong and athletic (bulldog breeds) and she love, Love, LOVES (did I mention loves?)
to retrieve balls, toys, sticks – or any other item in a pinch. She was born to swim, smooth and efficient in the water, and she'll swim till she's hypothermic if I let her, so Labrador retriever, I think, is quite likely.

The girls' DNA results seem plausible when compared to Mr. Nicholai's. I can actually see the Mastiff or the Lab or the Bull terrier in Kelley. Isabella is most certainly largely "pitbull" – that being reflected by the Bulldog and the Am-Staf.

I'm still struggling to find signs of either Dachshund or Maltese in my big 'ole black dog. If those were his ancestors I can't see it, but I do get a chuckle out of it.

Who’s In There? DNA Breed Results

During the ten-plus years of Nicholai's life, we often wondered what breeds made up our sometimes sensitive, occasionally aggressive, always protective, soft-touch of a hundred pound dog. He looked to the casual observer – even dog-savvy ones – to be largely black Labrador retriever. However, retrieving wasn't really his shtick and while I described him as a black Lab mix myself a thousand times, I had my doubts. What breeds do you see?

Nicholai had a short coat with hints of an undercoat, a thick ruff at the neck, feathers on the back legs and a bit of brush to the tail he often held over his back with a slight curl. Then there was his goofy big pink tongue with giant black spots. Many people argued those spots to be a definitive sign of Chow, but I have personally seen many other dogs, including purebred dogs, with black markings on the tongue.

Personality and temperament seemed to rule out the Labrador retriever most people mistook him for. He wasn't affable or easy-going, didn't much like to retrieve, and was quite circumspect when it came to strangers. He loved to hunt small mammals – and eat them. He was impatient with dog parks and crowds, sensitive to moods and raised voices. He loved a den and retreated to quiet out of the way spots around our house and yard – behind the washer in the basement and under the work table in the greenhouse were his favorite hideouts. He was devoted to his people, loving, affectionate, and soft of mouth. We adored him and he adored us, but everyone else raised his suspicions and he maintained a keen sense of proprietorship over home, grounds, and family. When he was younger, I sometimes took our old three-legged dog on outings with us, hauling her in an all-terrain wagon. Nicholai would not allow any dog – no matter how friendly – to approach his Molly in her wagon.

All along we guessed Nicholai to be some kind of mix of pitbull – based on his mother, and Lab – based on his looks. We speculated about Akita, Chow, and Rottweiler with occasional conjecture about mastiff, bulldog, or shepherds. Here is what we found out.

When we tore open the results in anticipation, we were initially disappointed. "Send them back," I declared, "they must have switched samples." According to the test we used (Bio-Pet, accuracy unknown), the following breeds were present in Mr. Nichol-Pickle (in descending order): Rhodesian ridgeback and Dachshund; Afghan hound, Chow-chow, and Chinese Sharpei; and finally, unbelievably, Maltese.

On examination, it turns out all the breeds (except Maltese) have characteristics that really could have been our Nicholai. "Aloof," "protective," "suspicious," "territorial," and "excellent guard dog" came up with four of the six. Afghan hounds, Rhodesian ridgebacks and Dachshunds are all hunters of small animals with high prey drives. Chows have a ruff like the mane of a lion and they and Sharpeis are known for a dark purple-to-black tongue. Clearly, the Rhodesian ridgeback won hands-down in the size category, the only dog on Nicholai's genetic history list to reach 85-90 pounds. Maltese? Cute and fluffy, thrive on attention – hmm, can't see it.
I'm thinking a Maltese would have it's advantages as a lap dog.

I don't know if the test is accurate and in the end, I don't care. I care little for breed (or racial) purity. My kids were adopted from foster care and our dogs' pedigrees were built on the street – from whence they hailed. So whether Nicolai was Lab or pitbull, Rhodesian ridgeback or Maltese (??), the point was that I loved him and he loved me. We shared a moment on the journey of life.

But it's fun to speculate about the ancestors in his family tree, and perhaps gain a tad of insight to the dog I cherished.

Silent Spring

In spite of the fact Nicholai's lymphoma finally took him away, in spite of our inability to cure him, in spite of how frightening a cancer diagnosis is; I still believe the answer – the cure – for cancer lies outside of pharmaceutical approaches. It continues to befuddle me that in our mainstream treatment approaches, we add more burden and more toxins to bodies already compromised. As far as I can see, the most critical area for reducing the incidence and fatality from cancer is in prevention. And the most important part of prevention is cleaning up our nest.

Nearly fifty years ago, Rachel Carson wrote a book called Silent Spring. Carson exposed the dangers of pesticide use to the public in unprecedented numbers. "Silent Spring" referred to an eerie kind of silence like the one a gardener described to Carson about a mosquito control campaign that resulted in a mass death of song birds around her home. Those that lay scattered around her DDT contaminated birdbath had perished in a posture of grotesque convulsion: legs drawn up to their breast, mouths gaping open. Published in 1962, her book and the ensuing outcry eventually led to a ban on the use of DDT in the U.S. Sadly, much DDT had already been released into the environment and is still in use around the globe. Those born in the 40's 50's 60's and 70's have experienced exposures during their prenatal, infant, toddler, and for some, teen and young adult development.

The rapid birthrate of petrochemicals began in the 1940's and quickly overwhelmed the ability of government to oversee. In 1972 DDT was finally banned. In 1976, Congress passed the Toxic Substances Control Act (TSCA) which mandated a review of new chemicals. There was just one glitch in this system: the entire inventory – 62,000 chemicals already in use – was exempt from testing. And today, they still are. They still are.

My beloved dog just died of cancer and my dear sister (born in 1958 into a DDT-happy world) struggles against its ravage right now. After four decades, most chemicals in use in our food, clothes, cars, homes; most chemicals invading the soil, water, and the very air we breathe, have never been vetted. This has to change and we have to demand that it change.
Recycled glass instead of plastic

In honor of my Pickle, I will continue my small in-home crusade to eliminate the invasion of potentially toxic chemicals; room by room, looking at paints and plastics, cleaners and containers, air fresheners, fabrics, and ingredient labels for everything.

I cannot, on my own, even begin to hope to purge our home of every toxin. As long as they are used anywhere, chemicals will travel via wind and rain to wherever I am – even the mountain tops and the Arctic Circle now suffer contamination from substances used hundreds, or thousands, of miles away.

But in my little corner of the world, I'll be doing my part to cleanse the nest in which I – in which we – all abide.

Eggs

Out of respect for my Dead Dog Dancing in the Sky, dear Nichol-bubba, and out of concern for all of us, I've got to comment about eggs and Salmonella. Reports of contaminated eggs have rung from the television and internet with a slightly hysterical tone. "Be afraid," they seem to me to say, "Be very afraid of your food."

The scoop: 228 million eggs were recalled for suspected Salmonella contamination. All the eggs in question were produced in Galt, Iowa by Wright County Egg. Today, in our gas-guzzling food production system, those eggs have been distributed far and wide under more than a dozen brand names – including Lucerne, Albertson's, Farm Fresh (fresh, I doubt it), and many more. And yes, we should be afraid of industrial eggs. Science shows that forcing hens to suffer inside cramped cages increases Salmonella risk compared to keeping hens in a cage-free environment. Each of the nearly 280 million caged hens cannot even spread her wings, living in less space than a sheet of paper.

This is the reason we began our home-grown chicken project about seven years ago. We wanted fresh eggs from healthy happy hens. The healthy part's a no-brainer. Who wants Salmonella or other contaminants in their food? Unhealthy hens cannot make healthy eggs, period. In addition, I firmly believe that suffering comes right up the food chain to us one way or another, just as life and beauty can come bountifully our way along with protein, vitamins, and minerals.

Nicholai seemed to hold affection for his chickens. He protected them, like he protected us, waking us at night if he heard any disturbance. For a time we kept a couple of roosters and Nicholai was all about keeping them in line (one of the guys was a bully, the other a soft-touch). One day, I heard the bird-boys fighting and rushed into the run, failing to latch the gate behind me. Nicholai followed at my heels and rushed past me, past the cowering hens, and jumped on the offender, holding him down till I arrived. Momentarily I panicked, thinking my good boy was going to murder the cocky rooster. But in a second I could see he was merely holding him down, insisting he surrender; when a hundred pound dog pounces on a bird and doesn't hurt it, you know he didn't mean to.

Nicholai quickly put two and two together and deduced that yummy eggs came out of the chicken coop, whether he knew the hens made them, I don't know. But on many a nice evening, chickens and dogs would gather around the outside table hoping for (and getting) scraps from our dinner. While Nicholai chomped his Sunday afternoon recreational meaty bones in the back yard, the hens would putz around, pecking delights from the grass nearby.

Chickens are meant to have chicken lives, not live as perpetual prisoners, suffering every day of their lives. No wonder eggs become contaminated. And labels so often tell a half-truth, if any truth at all.

But we have other options. We don't have to be afraid of food but we should be afraid of our current food system. We can do a smidge of homework, know our farmer, visit the farm, have our own chickens. We can make it different for all the dogs like Nicholai who will die untimely deaths from cancer.

We can make it different for all of us.

Three Blooms Instead of Two

Two blooms appeared on each of our tropical houseplants – two orchids and one anthureum – in the week before Nicholai died. Two blooms each. The anthureum hadn't bloomed since it was purchased years previous, the same for the luscious smelling mauve orchid. The third was an orchid I purchased immediately upon learning of Nicholai's diagnosis in 2009. After the initial flowers faded, it too remained bloomless, calling into question our family's collective green thumbs – at least when it came to delicate tropical plants.

I didn't assign particular meaning to the simultaneous appearance of two blooms on each plant (why two?), but was touched by the coincidence. It was as if life noticed the passing of my sweet boy-dog and presented a gift in remembrance – like the friends and family who sent flowers and cards.

Meanwhile, I've wondered where Nicholai's soul is; where all of us go when we die. I watch and wait for a sign or a feeling, something to tell me everything's alright, that my Nichol-bubba has made it safe and sound to … somewhere safe and sound. I want to know that he's okay, and selfishly, I want to feel him with me, at least in an ethereal way.

Nicholai grew up with two older female Lab mixes who were mentors, friends, and surrogate moms to him. Kali taught him to guard the perimeter and bark at every passer-by. Molly tolerated each puppy antic and adolescent faux-pas, allowing tiny and then substantial Nicholai to snuggle close whenever he felt the need. Kali died nearly five years ago and Nicholai assumed the official role of guard-dog-in-chief. When Molly died just before Christmas three years ago, Nicholai mourned for two long days, pawing my arm, leaning his head on my shoulder nuzzling my cheek with his wet nose, whining and howling at intermittent intervals all day and night. I'd say he loved her.

This morning I noticed a small third blossom on the fragrant deep pink orchid. Just one additional blossom beginning to open its petals, making three where a couple weeks ago there were only two.

Again I am reluctant to ascribe mystery and meaning where there mightn't be any. But I've been asking for a sign to know that Nicholai has arrived at his next destination, that he's safe and happy. Perhaps the flowers are helping me to understand what my rational mind cannot.

I choose to take the budding orchid as a missive from my best guy. Nichol-Pickle is safely on his journey and Kali and Molly have been there to guide him on the way.

I have three delightful, aromatic flowers as my symbol that all will be well.

House Keys

In recent weeks, I've had to locate my house key. Only a fool would have entered the house with a hundred pound black dog lunging and barking furiously at them ala Hound of the Baskervilles, so keys became a moot point and the back door was always open. When our oldest boy first came to live with us (adopted from the foster care system and hence a traumatic early life), he constructed numerous booby traps day after day in preparation for "when the bad guys come." One evening I said, "Do you think any bad guys can actually get in our house?" His eyes narrowed as he turned to glare at me. "I mean, they'd have to get past Nicholai." His eyes widened. He looked at Nicholai, then back at me, considering. "Really, B, he hears people walking by in the street. No one can get in without us knowing." Very slow to trust adults – and people in general – he regarded me again with suspicious eyes, studied Nicholai then shoved his pile of rope and sticks and duct tape and miscellaneous pieces of plastic broken stuff back into his toy bin. A wide smile spread slowly across his face.

A year later, Nicholai woke us in the middle of a summer night with furious deep-throated barking. I looked out through the guest room window to see a dark figure attempting to force open the front gate. "We're going out," I hollered to my partner, then "come on Nickle!" I glimpsed the mysterious hands begin to push the gate closed again. Nicholai bounded ahead of me when I opened the front door and charged the gate with fury. I followed behind, baffled as I watched a car back out of the neighbors' drive, slow while a young man in the street jumped in, and then speed away. The next morning I learned from a police officer visiting our neighbors that genuine bad guys had been cruising the area the night before, breaking into cars one by one and cleaning them out. Nicholai's barked warning and our charge to the street had ended their spree. Nicholai gained credibility and respect that day as a bona fide guard dog and both boys slept better knowing he was watching out for us.
Watching

Now he's gone and I have to find my house keys, lock the doors, and stop leaving my wallet or other valuables in plain sight in the car. Tim frets at night, tosses and turns, and says, "I miss my protector dog." Out on the trail all alone, I have to put my sixth sense back in gear for the girls are not protectors, they are fetch-nuts.

Everything happens as it should. I needed a guard, a protector and a quiet confidant this past decade – and life sent me one. His departure begs a question; how will life change now? I feel an opening, to what I am not sure. But my body guard has left, making me more available, and so I wonder, available to what?

Angels in the Cottonwoods

As I walked along the Columbia beach, the fetch-driven girls racing up and down the shoreline in slavish pursuit of chucked orange balls, the morning sunshine glinted off the water. I bent to retrieve yet another ball dropped at my feet and straightened to see my shadow shimmering on the beach, see-through in the dancing rays. Shifting to the left and to the right and raising my arms up and down, my shadow remained translucent in a way I've never seen before.

I swung the chuck-it in a giant arc to send the next toss careening down the beach and as I watched the ball fly, I took in the sparkle at the tops of the cottonwood trees as sunlight danced with leaves. Warmth coalesced in my chest and rose to my face, erupting in a wide smile. I saw, or almost saw, or anyway, thought, angel dogs were lying high in the trees, wide dog-smiles on their faces.

Nicholai was there, the idea of him anyway, happy to be reunited with his friends. And happy too, to see me play on the beach. Molly, my dear departed three-legged dog was there with him, laughing; at least I like to think so.

Maybe it was the sun's golden play or the leaves' saucy rumba in the breeze, but a cheerful gladness took me for a moment, and for the first time since Nicholai died, I felt at peace for him and for me.

Angel Nicholai, or the idea, looked happy laying near the Molly he so loved. Molly's jovial countenance reminded me I need to finish my book, which has languished for the past few months, forgotten almost, in thoughts of cancer, fears of loss, and great sadness. I saw, or thought I saw, or felt anyway, a glimmer of other old dog-friends, now angels, in the trees.

Thank you, Mary Oliver for the images of angels in trees. This morning they were – I think – all around me.

Angels and Trees

We're still talking about Nicholai around here, especially the youngest and me. We miss our "bubba" and can't help wondering about the nature of life after death – specifically, where is Nicholai now, and what is he doing?

For my part, I tend to be a Doubting Thomas. (For those of you who didn't grow up Catholic, Thomas was the apostle who didn't believe Jesus had risen by hearing the tale, he needed to put his own hands in the wounds. He was a scientific, see-for-yourself, proof kind of guy.) I don't imagine how there's a heaven that a)can fit all the souls who come and go over millennia, b)isn't incredibly boring – an eternity of harp strumming?, and c)has never been able to be found or shown or measured or … well, you can see how I am. I told Tim I doubted Nicholai existed as his dog-self but in see-through ghost form; I figure he's more particles of light or energy, maybe the impulse for a new life to be formed.

Tim's response was there's a lot more to outer space than the sky we can see from earth; he figures space goes on for infinity like all the souls, so heaven is out there with plenty of room for everyone. He is sure – without any proof – Nicholai is with Molly and Kali and his other departed dog friends and they are all waiting for us. His red-eyed certainty made me teary, I responded at least if Nicholai is hanging out in verdant celestial fields, he is no longer bothered by annoying tumors or difficult breath, he's vigorous and having a great time (I hope).

An acquaintance from outrigger canoe paddling days is currently struggling with pancreatic cancer. Thanks to her for sharing this poem by Mary Oliver, it touches just the right spot in my questioning, healing heart.

About Angels and About Trees by Mary Oliver

 

Where do angels

fly in the firmament,

and how many can dance

on the head of a pin?

 

Well, I don't' care

about that pin dance.

what I know is that

they rest, sometimes,

in the tops of the trees

 

and you can see them,

or almost see them

or, anyway, think: what a

wonderful idea.

 

I have lost as you and

others have possibly lost a

beloved one,

and wonder, where are they now?

 

The trees, anyway, are

miraculous, full of

angels (ideas); even

empty they are a

good place to look, to put

the heart at rest – all those

leaves breathing the air, so

 

peaceful and diligent, and certainly

ready to be

the resting place of

strange, winged creatures

that we, in this world, have loved.

Stardust in a Midnight Sky

There's nothing for it at this point, I have to acknowledge: my dog is dead and no longer walking. How I tense at this admission, how I long to avoid it, how I want to hold onto Mr. Pickle through this blog. I feel my fingers curling tight around its edges, clutching with all my might, reluctant to ease my grip lest the last vestige of my buddy evaporate like morning fog dissipates in sun.

At break of day tomorrow I plan to slip out to our old haunt by the Sandy River, a smattering of ashes in my pocket. Nicholai and I spent numerous hours on many days, in and out of months and seasons, over the better part of six years, seeking refuge on the abandoned roads and trails in this area. Together we hiked and ran, waded and swam, listened to eagles call, watched coyotes slip into brush, met each other's eyes, shared a love of walking on the wild side.

I will largely retire this walking route now that my main man is not by my side. The girls are happy to romp at nearer spots or hike with me at Forest Park or on Gorge trails, and I long to do so. In addition, the once forgotten area Nicholai and I found to roam has recently been "improved" with asphalt biking trails and no-dogs-allowed wetlands areas. Funny, how timing works.

But I must return there at least once more with a bit of Nicholai in hand. And once there, I must open my clasping fingers and let his ashes fly. He was a wild thing and I will feel some peace knowing I have let a bit of him float on the breeze and come to rest in some of his, and my, most favorite spots.

Few posts on Dead Dog Walking remain. Nicholai is now a Dead Dog – shimmering particles of stardust dancing in a midnight sky. Though my heart still aches at his absence, I must let him go.

One Week

What a difference a week makes.

Last week - sweet Nicholai.

This week - flowers and reminders that we are not alone with our grief.

Patience

Patience is not my strong suit, never has been. I'm working on it, and perhaps I'm making progress, but damn it – not fast enough! So, it's no surprise that in less than a week since my great dog-friend passed away, I begin to niggle with discomfort at my unfinished grief.

In fact, I suspect the grieving hasn't really started yet. I remember when our old dog Molly died three years ago. At fifteen, she had lived a glorious long life. As with Nicholai, we thought her time would be up long before it was. She died one cold December day, suddenly – if you can say a fifteen year old dog dies suddenly – and I spent the next week crying my eyes out at the loss.

With Nicholai's death, I am surprised at the lack of tears. Instead I feel mostly a disconcerting hardness, a stone inside where the fountain should begin. I don't know what to make of it.

I think I'm angry, furious even. Cancer finally stole my pack-brother from me and I'm pissed; pissed that he ever had to get it in the first place, pissed that so damned many dogs – and people – contract cancer these days. Did I mention cancer is the leading cause of death for all dogs over the age of two? For half of all dogs ten and over? That breast cancer, prostate cancer, testicular cancer, colon cancer, brain cancer – are skyrocketing? I'm mad, mad, MAD, about this (in case you hadn't noticed).

In the end, it's just that no matter what I did, I couldn't save my good boy from an untimely end. Yes, I worked hard and gave him the best possible life. As dogs go, he was pretty damn lucky all around. But I can picture a better world.

One with clean air and soil. One where grass everywhere is safe for dogs to step on without fear of chemical contamination. A world with clean rivers – imagine that. A Willamette River safe to swim in with a canine friend, to dip a cup in and take a sip. A world where food is always full of life and never tells lies.

In that world, I'd still have to lose Nicholai one day. But not today, not so soon.

Molly lived her whole life and when she died, nothing was left but the crying. Part of Nicholai's life was stolen and now I'm stuck in Kubler-Ross's second stage of grief – anger. Knowing doesn't help dissolve the cold stone in my gut. And so, it's back to patience.

This too shall pass.

Blooming

When I first learned Nicholai had cancer, I purchased an orchid to celebrate his living and to mourn his imminent passing. The blooms were delicately beautiful, giving shape, color, and texture to my feelings for my canine friend. As time marched on - and on - each delicate orchid grew brown, dry, and finally fell, till I was left looking at scrawny, naked stems. After a week, the bloomless plant depressed me - harbinger of things to come - and I removed it from my daily sight.


Last week, two lovely flowers opened, one on each stem and I see buds for several more. An anthurium that hasn't blossomed in years shot up two bright red flowers and yet another orchid delighted us with two more blossoms, each as fragrant as a tropical breeze.



I don't know that I ascribe particular meaning to the sudden emergence of flowers on our reluctant tropical plants. But I notice, and I appreciate. Death is almost unbearably sad and life is almost unbearably beautiful - every dog, and every blossom.

Companion

Walking with just the girls constitutes a whole new world of experience. Both have strong bully breed looks, striking fear into a few hearts on that basis alone. Both are utterly friendly; if any of my dogs was going to bite someone, it wouldn't be either of them, it would have been Nicholai. On more than one occasion, he put unknown men who appeared suddenly on the trail on a firm "stay!" with lunging body posture and bared teeth. He never actually bit them; however, to a man they obeyed his unmistakable command and stood stock still until I could retrieve him. (As a sidebar, Nicholai never impeded women in this way, and the men he stopped were never the ones with dogs, or even fishing poles. I admit I found them a tad cagey myself, and one apologized for his sudden emergence from the bushes.)

Today, my heart ached for my hiking companion. As I wandered wide grassy lawns and beaches on the Willamette and Columbia, chucking ball after ball for the fetch-obsessed girls, I found myself longing for company, someone to chat weather or dogs with. I realized I felt lonely and it was a foreign sensation for a morning trek with dogs.

In fact, I wasn't alone; Izzy and Kelley were both with me. Izzy spun in circles barking for each toss of the ball. Kelley watched my face and shoulder for signs of intention to reach out to the ball she'd deposited near me and quivered in anticipation of racing off full bore to retrieve it. Soon Izzy, now six years old, tired of chasing her ball and began her regular ritual of chomping on it, saliva soon spilling out of her mouth and foaming over her face, eyes glazing over, obsessively masticating the ball into oblivion. Kelley, still under two years old, could apparently play at retrieving longer than I have either time or patience to stay at the park and raced across land or hurtled into the water for pitch after pitch.

Standing on the shore of the Columbia river so recently visited with Nicholai, I could picture him trotting ahead of me with head and tail held high, scanning the horizon for interlopers, checking each piece of driftwood, sniffing here, marking there, nabbing a bite of abandoned garbage over there; always checking back in with me, meeting my eyes and bumping my hand until I'd pet him. He'd scrutinize my face with a curious expression and often we'd negotiate next steps via head nods and eye movements. I never felt lonely.

As Izzy hunkered down with her full attention on the ball between her paws, spit flying, and Kelley stared at my right shoulder for the first hint of the next toss, the tears spilled out. I love the girls, both super-sweet dogs who fly in the face of breed stereotypes, but they are a little more like kids than companions.

Nicholai was my friend. I miss him.

Where Nicholai Isn't

Love From the Start

Silky little tummy, sweet puppy breath, steady focused gaze; we imprinted on each other like geese. Only four weeks old when we found him abandoned with the rest of his litter, the hand feeding, cleaning, and hours spent in puppy snuggling and play forged a deep bond that seamlessly crossed the species barrier.

Nicholai and I were attached at the hip. Literally, when he was young, I attached him to a leash that fastened around my waist as a bonding "whither thou goest, I go too" kind of training. Wildly successful in that Nicholai paid devoted attention to my whereabouts ever after, I found it worked in reverse as well. I liked his company as much as he appeared to like mine. He rode frequent shotgun on errands, accompanied me to work where he always had a place to hang out, and became not just my dog, but my canine friend.

A dog is a special kind of friend, never critical of clothes, weight, hair style, car, or job. A friend who is always willing to go where you want to go when you want to go there. A friend who tolerates all your moods without complaint. A friend who is always glad to see you.

I loved Nicholai because in addition to all those attributes, he asserted himself too. He insisted on going with me (and succeeded too, except in the case when weather contraindicated), making me feel valued and loved, whatever it actually meant to him.

Nicholai had opinions about our activities. Never slavishly devoted, he made it known that repeatedly chasing balls, or Frisbees, or anything else was an activity best saved for other dogs. Neither was he particularly fond of hanging out at dog parks, milling about and socializing. He'd soon whine at me and with a toss of his head, indicate his opinion that we should hit the road in search of wilder places to roam. He pushed me out of the city for long hikes, something I too craved but often didn't allow time for. For the better part of a decade, the need to "walk the dog" gave me the permission I needed to honor my own wild side.

Being with his Mary mattered to Nicholai right up to the last. On Wednesday, after two conversations with his vet, after his refusal of breakfast, after he struggled to stand, after it became obvious no more days were left, after the appointment had been made, I left to walk to a neighborhood store for a bouquet of roses. As I walked out the gate, Nicholai struggled to his feet and tottered to the fence. "Take me," his eyes begged, still bright in his tired face, "take me."

As I looked at my old man, with his breath heavy, his jaws swollen with tumors, and graying muzzle, I could still see the soul of the adoring puppy, the wild adolescent, and the independent canine partner I loved.

It was love from the start, and love till the end.

To Blog or Not To Blog

I started writing Dead Dog Walking in January, after Nicholai reached one full year of living with lymphoma. No one thought he could make it that far, one year was considered possible to hope for with a full course of chemotherapy and radiation. For a senior dog to reach a year's survival with nothing but good food, herbs, acupuncture, and some vitamins was wild and crazy – and very, very good. I wanted to share the story of his great fortune not to suffer from either his disease or his treatment for an entire blessed year. I thought I'd be writing for a few weeks, maybe a couple of months at most. That we garnered over seven more months including daily walks in the woods, trips to Montana with hikes in the mountains, a fabulous appetite up to the last day (he ate a great dinner on Tuesday); that we will remember him as our protector and hiking buddy and not as a sick old dog, is nothing short of amazing.

So, what to do now? My passion to change the landscape of our lives leaving us all vulnerable to the ravages of cancer is unabated. Cancer is now the leading cause of death in all American dogs over the age of two. That's insane, but it is the natural consequence of pouring carcinogenic chemicals into our air, water, soil, and food. Even with Nicholai gone and my heart in pieces, I no more believe solutions to cancer will come from pouring more chemicals into sick individuals than I believe in Easter Bunny (actually, there's hope for Easter Bunny.) The pharmaceutical response has been failing for decades. It's time to wake up.

Will I continue to blog? I don't know. For now, I intend to post memories of Mr. Nickel Pickle as a way to tape my heart back together, though it feels a little self-indulgent. Blogs by nature are somewhat self-indulgent, and yet they allow us to keep in touch with one another and to share stories of real life.

Missing my "Bubba" feels like a stone under my solar plexus; I don't cry much, just feel heavy and cold. Losing a family member – even a canine one – changes everything. I'm in the process of grief and of reconfiguring what life means now, in its new shape.

August 4, 2010; The Last Day

Struggling for breath, struggling for comfort
A moment of respite

I really don't wanna go to this appointment

Peace comes with price

I will always love you, Mr. Pickle. Farewell.

The Walk Home

To hold too tightly would be the wrong thing. I know this, know my old boy-dog so well, I'm barely tempted to cling when the time comes to let go.

My promise to Nicholai is to walk with him on his last paces home. It's a hard walk, a journey that requires presence of the soul, a journey that demands continued attendance. There are moments I want to look away from the hard work of dying, just get it over with. But we have come too far and shared too much; it is both my burden and my honor to stay with him till the end.

Breath is raspy, biscuits are turned down, and he struggles to his feet, pushing with a mighty effort to raise his suddenly weakened back end. His eyes are tired. We are in the final chapter.

Garth Stein, Art of Racing in the Rain; "… after a dog dies, his soul is released into the world around us. His soul is released to run in the world, run through the fields, enjoy the earth, the wind, the rivers, the rain, the sun, the –

When a dog dies, his soul is released to run until he is ready to be reborn. I remember."

Still Kicking

As the calendar rolled over to August, and Nicholai rolls into his nineteenth month of living with lymphoma, I've never been so glad for cool overcast mornings like this one. Thanks to my friend Diane for driving, me and the dog-kids, Nicholai included, all made it out to the beaches this morning. While Kelley swam repeated laps chasing a ball into the river's edge and Izzy barked and chewed on sticks, Nicholai meandered along the water's edge, comfortable in the moderate temperature and taking copious side trips to explore the remains of picnics, still hoping for a bite of some yucky thing.

When Nicholai was initially diagnosed in January of '09, I experienced a period of grief and panic. His death felt imminent and every little sneeze or shift of mood seemed to signal the looming reaper. As time went by and Nicholai weathered changing seasons, a foot surgery, and salmon poisoning, the weight of his cancer diagnosis began to lift. Images of impending doom faded into the background of my mind, and I began to laugh at cancer.

Today, cancer is laughing back. After eighteen months of slowly descending the illness stairway, Nicholai has taken a sudden elevator ride to a lower floor. There is no mistaking the enlarged tumors and his constant panting breath. I undergo clutches of emotion as I did when I first learned he had lymphoma and understood the end of his earthly road to be just around the corner. Nicholai has to remind me to be conscious of the gifts of moments as they pass. Today, there is appetite and enthusiasm for walking, sniffing, dipping in the water, visiting with friends, and enjoying a special treat.

My dear buddy stays near at hand these days. I'm still recuperating from surgery and not able to see clients and have moved a comfy dog mattress into my office so he can relax while I write, or check my email, or catch up on paperwork. For a break, I massage his back and hips, stoke his belly, bury my nose in his fur. This morning the smells of river-water and grass, blackberry blossoms and old dog mingle sweetly in my nostrils. Nicholai's coat is soft and shiny, shimmering hints of his red-colored mother amongst the midnight black. He reaches out a front paw to me and we hold "hands."

Something tells me the nineteenth month might be the last. However, I'll be careful not to write Nicholai's story before it's done. Instead we'll just keep on trucking, taking each day as it arrives.