Fifteen Minutes

Trotting along a beach on the Columbia River, I was struck with how easy, fun, and inexpensive it is to practice preventive medicine. There I was, in dilapidated clothing – though I had a cute knit wool hat to top off the sandy, torn, dog-drooled black pants and jacket – on a broad beach under a clear sky, breathing fresh air, enjoying the playful company of my ball-obsessed dogs. Walking briskly this morning, I reduced my risk of a heart attack or stroke by fifty percent and cut the chances of contracting breast cancer in half. I strengthened my bones, staved off Type II diabetes, and kept my weight in check.

The above statistics have been demonstrated conclusively in reliable studies published in peer reviewed medical journals. When the big wigs discuss what kinds of care should be covered in health plans, the new buzz-phrase is "evidence based medicine." Well, the evidence showing exercise preventing serious illness is unequivocal. I wonder then, why TV ads push statin drugs like Lipitor for times "when diet and exercise are not enough." There couldn't be an ulterior motive … could there?

Turns out, the evidence shows clearly the statin class of drugs does not prevent heart attacks or strokes. Did you get that? Lipitor, Zocor, Crestor, and their cousins – while they do lower cholesterol, they don't reduce the incidence of heart attacks or strokes at all. That's per the evidence. It's unclear exactly what role high cholesterol actually plays in cardiovascular disease. But I know I don't want to suffer a stroke with or without high cholesterol.

We're talking simple exercise here. Getting up off the couch and walking briskly for fifteen to thirty minutes. That's it, that's all. No equipment or special clothes needed. No jogging, grunting, or even sweating, just moving for a few minutes per day. To save our lives.

When our walk's complete, growly dogs are calm and grumpy woman feels serene. We've got strong hearts, flexible joints, and less likelihood of serious disease, but better than that, my breath comes deep and muscles feel fluid. Boredom vanquished and aggression curbed, dogs curl with noses tucked under tails and snore in bliss.

All the evidence I need.

Winding Down

Dead Dog Walking is winding down. Reluctant to say that last goodbye to my old man, arriving at a final post is hard. But slowly and surely, I am moving on; playing with Kelley and Izzy, being a mom, getting back in shape after so many many weeks of mandatory rest for eye recovery, ramping up to see more chiropractic patients/clients once again. I won't forget my dark and handsome canine man,but life is whisking me ever onward.

I am shifting my blog posts to my new Wordpress website: www.animotionchiro.com. As my process of blogging has been totally personal and organic, I don't know exactly when I'll write the very last post here. But the day is coming and coming soon. The Dead Dog is walking no more.

I would feel honored to have faithful readers and followers (and stalkers too) follow the new blog.

REINCARNATION?

Our deviant squirrel met me at the back door early this morning as I prepared to take the dogs for our daily constitutional; right at the threshold, sitting there … waiting. "Aaagh!" I cried, and jumped back. Though I find her terribly cute, I haven't forgotten the strength and determination she put into biting my finger. Our interspecies relationship took a serious hit in the trust department with that chomp. Though I could stomp her out of existence, she doesn't seem worried about that – and for good reason. It must be incredibly obvious even to a tiny squirrel brain; I am a classic care-taker chick. The chances of me doing in some cute mammal, who oddly enough seems to need me, are nearly zilch. (If one of the dogs murders the squirrel, I'll call it nature – but me, off our furry friend? I don't think so.) Codependent impulses aside, I'm awfully curious about what motivates her bizarre behavior.

A visitor recently remarked she thinks our rodent fan is Nicholai, come back from dog-heaven in another form. I imagine my ninety-five pound squirrel killing-machine of a dog reincarnated in the fuzzy body of his former prey, struggling to convince us to let him in the damn house. There is some kind of karmic poetic justice to Nicholai's return as a vulnerable member of the lower portion of the food chain. The timing is right and the squirrel is damned certain she belongs in our house. Trapped inside a wiggly fluffy-tailed tree-climbing, nut-eating, one pound fur-ball, Nicholai would be so mad; the image makes me laugh out loud.

I wish I thought there was anything to it. I miss the old guy and wish he were still here walking with me. But I remember how I could trust that canine boy – powerful jaw, sharp teeth and all, he never bit me. Much as I'd like to have my Nickle-pickle back in any form, I doubt this is it. No, this little dudette has her own thing going. What it is, I don't yet know.

But I sure am curious.