Dead Dog Walking

Unbound

2011-11-13T13:39:00.000-08:00

Portland's dedicated and fenced dog parks are a boon to dog owners like me. Safe from motor vehicle traffic, they provide a place where we can allow our dogs off leash to run as fast as they can and play with other dogs. If a dog is social and he or she likes to be with other canines, it can be a great experience for everyone.

The human beings at dog parks, me included, tend to stand around with chuck-its and/or lattes in hand while dogs romp. I reap satisfaction seeing my dog-friends' floppy-lipped smiles as they race to meet new canine playmates. When tongues hang to the ground, I know they've met their activity quotient - though I have not met mine. I can head home with dogs who are tired and happy.

Another kind of pleasure greets me when we leave the confines of postage-stamp parks behind and strike out into the wilder world. Free of leashes, dogs can run as fast as their legs will take them or stop to smell the roses. Okay - no roses are ever involved, nor rosy smells either. But my canines love to explore. Noses all a-twitch, they zip hither and yon whenever we find a new venue safe for hiking together.

Chances to get the exercise I need and opportunities to explore the natural world are something I could not live without. Being limited every day to the parameters of an official dog park might help me to spring a gasket or two. I wonder if dogs feel the same - a need to stretch not only legs, but eyes and minds, and in their case, noses. With a long view down the river's edge, the worries of the day can fade into the background. I like to breath hard and feel my muscles work, it brings me fully into the present moment. In the meantime, the dogs race and screech to halts, roll in smelly dead stuff, sniff out fascinating messages in holes and under logs. Soon I've cleared the cobwebs from my mind, shaken off the day's stress, and chuckled at canine antics. Like my beloved canine buddies, I can return home dog-tired.

While I'm lovin' the dog parks, I love to escape them too.

Sacajawea Dog Park

2011-11-03T11:41:00.001-07:00

First off on my tour of Portland's dedicated dog parks is Sacajawea. Located on 75^th just north of Prescott, it is less than five minutes by car from my NE Portland home. On busy mornings, it can make a quick, fun stop. Armed with a few tennis balls and chuck-it, three dogs can be, well, dog-tired, in thirty minutes or so.

Connected with tiny Sacajawea Park, the dog area is small. I walked the perimeter with time to scoop poop and toss a ball repeatedly in less than five minutes. But it is adequate to stand at one end and lob a ball as far as you can, allowing a dog to run full out to retrieve it.

As one of the newer dog parks, it has a nice two-gate system for easy entry and exit. Garbage cans are located at each exit and plastic bags are normally on hand. Someone – I don't know who – supplies water in plastic jugs and water dishes have always been present when I am there.

There is a conspicuous lack of shelter, not a tree stands inside the dog area, so no respite from pouring rain, or no shade on a sunny day. The surface is grassy, though I'm sure that by mid-January, it will be a mud mess.

Rarely crowded, it could be a nice place to take a dog who dislikes too much company. On the other hand, my social pup is a tad lonely there most days we stop by. One gentleman I've seen a few times takes advantage of the birch-bark trail outside the dog fence. He drops his dogs inside, then jogs a few laps on the trails, his dogs following along inside.

Most days, I prefer a larger area for dogs to romp and me to hike. But I am quite happy to have such a fun little play area so close to home.

Dog Park Reviews

2011-10-23T19:25:00.001-07:00

Three dogs found their way into my home and family. All are highly social, well-behaved, and friendly to man and beast. Lovely pitbulls, they can romp at a dog park with canine society with nary a raised lip. Contrary to common opinion, they are not about to "snap." The eldest has been with us for eight years without altercations. The youngest makes just about everyone who sees him chuckle with his goofy good looks and easy-going attitude. The third, the middle child, has just one focus – "throw the ball, throw the ball, throw the ball." No time for big, bad pitbull antics, she's got balls to catch.

Nicholai, my Dead Dog Walking (he now lopes through celestial fields and occasionally I think I hear him whisper in my ear), required hikes in isolated areas due to his independent and protective nature. Portland's many populated city parks held no interest for him, or for me, and so I left them largely unexplored. Now, in the company of one, two, or even all three of the bully-kids, I can investigate the relatively recent phenomenon of designated, fenced – hence safe, official off-leash recreation dog parks.

As late as the mid-2000's, there weren't any such dog parks in all of Portland. There were unofficial meet-up areas where dogs and dog-owners clashed with other park users. I mostly avoided these areas. Supervising unleashed play was just too stressful. Dogs weren't safe from passing cars, cyclists weren't safe from dogs, kids weren't safe from dog-poo; frequently the whole scene felt like a lose-lose proposition. The situation erupted in 2004 when numerous dogs were poisoned in Laurelhurst Park. Resulting rhetoric on all sides was emotional and sometimes toxic, but the end result was positive – the development of designated dog-parks throughout the Metro area.

This fall, with Izzy, Kelley, and Barney by my side, I plan to visit all of Portland's dog parks. I'll dash off my own little pitbull and people review – ease of access, size, surface, amenities. On my list are Brentwood, Chimney, East Delta, Gabriel, Normandale, Sacajawea, and Wallace. If you know of another designated, fenced off-leash park in Portland please let me know. I thought I'd visit the parks in alphabetical order, but life showed me otherwise. So far, I've visited Sacajawea, Normandale, and Gabriel.

Maybe I'll see you out there.

Not Again

2011-09-06T13:41:00.000-07:00

I'm pissed at cancer again. Those sinister little cells that spin out of control, unwanted and dysfunctional in someone's body. My sister this time. Again. Already.

Being angry at cancer is silly. Just a cellular error, the malignancy doesn't have an agenda to take my sister - or anyone else - out. It only seems that way. Seems cancer returns with a vengeance, malicious, with the intent to eat my sister up, gobble her down like the legendary big bad wolf.

Originally diagnosed with breast cancer in spring of 2010, she underwent surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy, followed by estrogen blocking treatment. Just recovering from treatment, tumors struck again, in brain, in liver, in lymph nodes.

What I'm really pissed off about is the prevalence of cancer, its skyrocketing incidence in human and animal populations. Hell, while I was visiting Montana during my sister's brain surgery and immediate recovery, I could not help but notice the destruction wreaked on mountain trees by the little pine beetle. How stands of red, dead, and dying trees looked like tumors on the hills, how the disease is spreading, so like a cancer amongst the mountain pines. For centuries, there's been a balance between the mountain pine beetles and the forests, bugs culled only the weakest of trees. Now the temperatures are just a tad higher - a degree or so - and the soil a touch more acidic. The new environment shifts the scale toward the bugs, they thrive and the trees die - in groves.

Sooner or later, we're going to have to start to get it. We're using the land and water too hard and it's having deleterious effects. Sooner or later, the effects are coming to get us all, one way or the other. What's it going to take before we - each and every one of us - does something different, something serious, something to lighten the load on this old earth before it falters and finally dies? I worry that it will take too much and when we finally recognize we have to act, it could be too late.

I am using the power of the sun to dry the laundry. I rode my bike to the grocery store and to the nursery for fall lettuce, kale, and broccoli starts. These are small steps, but there is less than no excuse not to take them. To do the things I can to stem the tides of global warming, excessive power consumption and environmental degradation. I wish I had the power to eradicate cancer, and that is probably what pisses me off most. No matter what I do, it will still be here. Cancer will still threaten my family, my friends, even my dogs and wild animals.

But I must exercise the power I do have. the power to change what I can. Besides, the bike rides are lovely and the laundry smells great fresh off the line. I hope to reduce global warming and eventually save somebody somewhere from cancer.

Fifteen Minutes

2011-02-08T21:08:00.001-08:00

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

2011-02-07T21:07:00.000-08:00

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?

2011-02-07T19:53:00.001-08:00

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.

Food Reading List

2011-01-20T08:29:00.001-08:00

Food Reading List

I've found the following books informative and compelling. Read, read, read if you're concerned about your own health or the health of a family member or even your dog or cat. We are what we eat.

The Omnivore's Dilemma – Michael Pollan

In Defense of Food – Michael Pollan

Eating Meat – Jonathan Safran Foer

The Antioxidant Miracle – Lester Packer

The Better Brain Book – David Perlmutter

Anti-Cancer – David Servan-Schreiber

Detoxify or Die – Sherry Rogers

Poisoned Nation – Loretta Schwartz-Nobel

Anti-Oxidant Revolution – Kenneth Cooper

The Meat You Eat – Ken Midkiff

Natural Strategies for Cancer Patients – Russell Blaylock

The Complete Idiot's Guide to the Anti-Inflammatory Diet – Christopher Cannon

Pet Food Politics – Marion Nestle

Foods Pets Die For – Ann Martin

If this doesn't keep you busy for a while, you're either a foody like me or you have too much time on your hands. More exercise, maybe?

Basic Fatty Acids for Eaters

2011-01-19T12:55:00.001-08:00

Essential fatty acids are so-called because they are essential to our lives. These vital fats are used by our bodies but not manufactured inside our bodies, thus we must obtain them from our food. These fats are used as building blocks for important hormones and hormone-like substances that mediate all kinds of processes. We need to acquire two basic types of fats from our diets: omega-6 fatty acids and omega-3 fatty acids.

The most common dietary sources of omega-6 fatty acids are corn, cottonseed, sunflower, safflower, peanut, soy, and canola oils. These oils provide us with linoleic acids which are converted in the body to arachidonic acid and then prostaglandin E2. Prostaglandin E2 contracts or relaxes smooth muscles (such as in blood vessels) and performs other necessary functions in the body. Too much prostaglandin E2 leads to inflammation and creates fibrosis, pain, degenerative joint disease, vascular disease, and immune system dysfunction. Prostaglandin E2 is the number two cause of free radicals in the body which facilitate the speed of aging and the development of cancers. Animals such as cows, pigs, chickens, and fish fed corn and soy as major components of their diets instead of the green food nature meant them to consume, conveniently convert the omega-6 fatty acids right into arachidonic acid so when we eat meat from them, we are one short step and a few cox enzymes away from this inflammatory molecule. Typical of our western approach, rather than fix the problem at the source, we have developed a number of cox-inhibitor drugs to stem the tide of inflammation production in our bodies and hopefully reduce the effects as well – pain and heart disease, for example.

The most common sources of dietary omega-3 fatty acids are flax, hemp, and walnut. These alpha-linoleic acids are converted in the body to eicosapenataenoic acid, or EPA. EPA is a powerful anti-inflammatory. EPA is further converted in our bodies to docosahexaenoic acid or DHA. Both EPA and DHA build brain synapses and increase the production of serotonin and dopamine. These fats help are known as the "feel good" fats because they alter our chemistry toward a pleasant mood.

It used to be that we could pretty much eat food and acquire a balance of essential fatty acids, not so anymore. We have interfered so much with the growth and production of what we like to call "food" that while it sometimes still looks like the old-fashioned real thing, it often bears little internal chemical resemblance.

According to clinical tests, most Americans have an omega-6:omega-3 fatty acid ratio of greater than 10:1 – and in many cases, much greater, while experts agree that to be healthy, we should have ratios of 3:1. To get our fats back in balance and hence lose weight, decrease or eliminate chronic pain, and lessen the chances of heart disease, cancer, arthritis, and Alzheimer's, we need to drastically cut our consumption of "6's" and radically increase our consumption of "3's." Your dog or cat should do the same to manage degenerative conditions if they already have them, or prevent them if they don't.

How to in a nutshell: Cut OUT all factory farmed meat, poultry, milk, and eggs. Find and choose instead local farmers raising animals on grass. Organic is nice, but corn and soy can be grown organically and animals fed this will still fill you full of arachidonic acid. Eat less red meat from any source. Eat less period; more calories consumed correspond with more work for the body and more free radical production, hence quicker aging and more degenerative disease. Eat a full complement of colorful veggies and some fruit every day – dark green kale, zucchini, yellow squash, red bell pepper, purple cabbage, blueberries, carrots, and sweet potatoes. Nature has given us clues – each attractive color provides a vitamin, a mineral, or an anti-oxidant we need. We don't need to know all their names; we do need to eat all those veggies.

Eat wild-caught cold water fish. No farmed fish – they live in sewer-like conditions and eat, you guessed it corn and soy meal. (Or if its shrimp farmed in China, chicken cages are stacked above the shrimp ponds; guess what the shrimp eat.)Tilapia we get is farmed – much in Central America – and has more pro-inflammatory arachidonic acid than any other meat, nearly twice that of pork and ten times higher than hamburger. You might want to give it a miss next time you eat out.

Cut, cut, cut the consumption of carbohydrates. Those you do eat, make them whole, not processed. This will dump less insulin into your system which also effects the conversion of omega-6 fatty acids into Prostaglandin E2.

Finally, when all is said and done, we still need to supplement with high quality fish oil and antioxidant vitamins. It's impossible to make good choices about food all day every day surrounded by tasty junk food. Give yourself a leg up and just swallow some darned capsules.

After two failed eye surgeries with doctors who put their hands up and shrugged, I remembered healing really is an inside job. Whether its weight or diabetes, arthritis or cancer, each of us holds the most power to change our own outcomes. For the past month and a half, I've been feeding myself as carefully as I did with Nicholai and I choke down three handfuls (and I mean full) of supplements per day. I feel great. Better yet, at my last eye appointment the doc didn't see any worrisome areas of scar tissue.

Wow. Maybe this anti-inflammatory stuff really matters. Happy eating!

Health Reform Begins at Home

2011-01-12T15:31:00.001-08:00

It's no news flash: changes in diet during the past half century have caused marked increases in the consumption of unhealthy fats and a concurrent decrease in the consumption of healthy fats. As the foods we eat and their sources have moved radically away from nature, the incidence of debilitating diseases has skyrocketed. Obesity is epidemic in the United States, with type II Diabetes sharply increasing. We almost take for granted the looming presence of arthritis, cancer, and Alzheimer's. All of these chronic degenerative diseases can be traced to the move away from a balance between omega-3 fatty acids and omega-6 fatty acids in our diets.

It's crazy really. Back in the 80's we decided to provide generous subsidies to conglomerate farmers for corn and soybeans; subsidies we pay for with our tax dollars. To maximize profits for food corporations, corn and soy (much of the bill for these commodities picked up by you and me) found their way into every cow, chicken, pig, lamb, and even salmon, tilapia, catfish, and trout grown on farms to grace our tables. Nothing is inherently wrong with corn and soy; each has a niche where it is a beautiful and perfect food. But cows and chickens, trout and salmon are meant to eat green things like grass and algae, miraculously metabolizing them into a perfect blend of proteins and balanced fatty acids – perfect for them and perfect for those up the food chain who eat them, and that would be: us.

In addition, corn and soybeans have wormed their way into every processed food and drink likely to cross our lips in a day, thanks again to – oh, that's right, us. Obsessed with price, we check the tag on a bottle of soda, a carton of milk or a plastic-wrapped, Styrofoam-nested chunk of chicken, ignoring, forgetting, or never having known we paid already to fill this food with genetically modified, chemically polluted corn and soy. And we will pay again when our health – and the health of our families, friends, neighbors, and coworkers goes down the tubes. Health care is at a crisis point with politicians and pundits fighting bitterly over how to rein in costs and still provide the world class care we are capable of to every citizen.

For me, I can't wait for politicians to make reasoned choices. I can't wait until we, the people, elect to subsidize apples and flaxseeds and organic chickens with our tax dollars instead of GMO corn. The massive imbalance between omega-6 and omega-3 fatty acids now ubiquitous in our society causes chronic states of inflammation, increasing the risk for every degenerative disease, especially arthritis, Alzheimer's, cancer, and heart disease. Yes, procuring food grown in accordance with nature currently costs a lot more at the market than purchasing processed food replicas that cause deleterious effects on body and brain. But it could – and mostly likely will – save your life. And your little dog too.

We live in world going (some would say gone) toxic. In my opinion, we simply cannot let our food go there too. And in the salvation of our very own food sources we might mend the planet as well.

Next: Biochemistry 101; The Path to and from Inflammation

Aberrant Behavior

2011-01-11T13:09:00.001-08:00

Aberrant Behavior

Weather predictions in Portland point to possible severe weather in the upcoming days. I take these predictions with more than a grain of salt because forecasts have developed a hysterical Chicken Little tone in recent years – "The sky is falling, the sky is falling!" I find it tedious to jump with alarm every time temperatures might fall below freezing, or precipitation might be heavy, or – gasp, Oh my! – there might be snow. But today, I have to wonder.

Yesterday afternoon, my partner ran into the house decrying an aggressive squirrel. I glanced up from the computer and raised my eyebrows. "Attacking? Really?" I got up and went to check for this marauding miscreant myself. Indeed, a small gray squirrel sat atop the load of wood she'd been bringing to the front porch in a wheel barrow. When I cracked open the door, it turned its head toward me. Without hesitation, the creature leapt to the steps, darting toward me with the confidence of a household pet. I slammed the door shut and the fuzzy-tailed critter jumped onto the screen where it proceeded to scratch and claw. By now my partner was standing next to me, and Kelley – the dog – stood on hind legs staring over the back of the couch at the squirrel stretched across the screen. Undeterred, it searched for access.

We studied it as it tried to come through the screen – no foam around the mouth, coat and tail looked full, its eyes weren't wild or bloodshot, it appeared healthy."Could it have babies inside the house somewhere?" I mused out loud. Didn't seem likely in the dead of winter and besides, surely it hadn't come in through the front door if it did. I spoke that thought out loud just as the squirrel found an opening in the bottom of the screen and scurried through. In a moment, it was jumping on the doorknob. "Then again, maybe while we're away, it climbs through the screen door, picks the lock, turns the knob, and waltzes in." We laughed uneasily.

Realizing she (we decided it was a she because we couldn't see any evidence to the contrary) couldn't come through the front door; she dashed around the house and made an attempt at the dog door. Kim slid the door closed just in the nick of time. "Whoa! That's crazy! I've never seen a squirrel so determined to come in a house with people and a dog." Still, we both agreed the squirrel's behavior seemed less crazy than resolute. We wondered again about young ones hidden away somewhere in our house. Disappearing into the bushes in the direction of the feeder stuffed with corn and sunflower seeds, we assumed the episode was over.

We were wrong. Our wild rodent visitor snuck into the fully enclosed back porch while we weren't watching and proceeded to munch an apple in the hanging basket there. When surprised by Kim, she soared overhead and dived into a large plastic bag filled with other plastic bags. She could not be dissuaded by noise or prods from the broom, or even sniffing dogs, to vacate the spot and snuggled in, creating her own nest – or drey – among the plastic bags. She spent the night there, she is there still.

They say wild animals can sense weather events: drops in barometric pressure, shifts in the wind, or seismic rumblings all have caused observed changes in animal movements and actions. No squirrels have ever invaded our house, no matter the coming weather so I tend to feel something else must be going on with this one. The dogs demonstrate no concern about an upcoming storm. But then, why should they? The dogs assuredly are not wild – they own jackets and sleep under down comforters. Storm, shmorm – phooey, they don't care.

Probably this little gal is brain deficient. Or got kicked out of an over-crowded nest. Or has some dread disease. But if tonight a great whopping storm hits, I'll consider myself foretold and forewarned.

Needing Nutrients like Nicholai’s

2011-01-09T13:55:00.001-08:00

Caring for my dogs never falls through the cracks. I know that's not universally true – dogs languish on chains in backyards alone for twenty-four hours seven days a week, or spend tedious hours in laundry rooms and crates while their people dash from one activity to another. But in my case, and the case of many dog owners I know, dogs receive world class care while owners sometimes settle for second best.

One day at my office, I saw a Wheaten terrier the owner suspected might be suffering pain due to diminished performance on the agility course. I examined the dog and he did indeed have mild issues with spinal integrity. When I looked at the owner to discuss my findings, I saw her hunched over in the chair, her face scrunched in a frown and I had to ask, "Are you alright?" She explained she'd been in a car accident, experiencing pain and headaches for days. She'd made the effort to obtain chiropractic care for her dog but had yet to make any kind of appointment for herself. Another client described feeding her dogs the best organic homemade food while she ate processed packaged food-like products purchased from discount stores. I chuckled internally at these incidents and then provided the people with the coaching they – and I – need. Take care of yourself, or as the airlines put it – fasten your own oxygen mask before assisting others.

Every day I made beautiful organic home-grown and homemade food for Nicholai. He had a diagnosis to stimulate both fear and attention – cancer. The "C" word drove me to harvest kale and collards and carrots from the garden rain or shine; to make sure I had a mix of attractive colored vegetables and fruits including blueberries, purple cabbage, red and yellow peppers, zucchini, yellow squash and sweet potatoes. I shunned processed grains and gathered eggs from our home-raised free-range chickens. Only the best food went down my dog's gullet with his terrible terminal diagnosis, while many a morning I slammed down a latte and a scone. His breakfast was a symphony of vitamins and minerals, antioxidants and enzymes while mine was a garage band of processed grain, sugar, and unhealthy fat. The nutritional richness of his food gave him life far past the best prognosis doctors had made. One morning it hit me. I could – and should – eat the same thing I fed him.

Since that flash of enlightenment over a year ago, my own breakfasts are mostly made of the scrumptious veggie and fruit blend. Though Nicholai passed away, the habit of grabbing a pile of vibrant produce and tossing it in a food processor then serving it up with organic, pro-biotic rich yogurt continues. For the dogs, I add sweet potato or yam and a fresh raw egg – shell and all for protein and minerals. For me, I add a sprinkle of organic granola. Some mornings, like today, everybody's breakfast is a swirl of veggies and yams sautéed in olive oil with a dash of balsamic vinegar and eggs scrambled in. We start the day with a full complement of antioxidant nutrients, healthy fats and protein which sets the tone for the day.

Food sources have become polluted in a hundred ways. Food variety has been shimmied down by a frightening dependence on corn and soy, produced with chemical assistance at every step, and leading to a deleterious lack of essential nutrients.

We can't settle for this, I can't settle for this. I want to live to a ripe and healthy old age. I want to still be kicking butt in the world when I reach seventy and beyond. I'm on a mission: I'm going to put top quality nutrients into this old machine I call my body every day. I feed myself as if – like Nicholai – my life depended on it.

And it does.

Slow

2010-12-30T12:38:00.001-08:00

Fast, fast, fast seems to be the American way. Whether it's food or cars or minutes of fame, we have developed a taste in our culture for big and speedy. This tendency lives strong in me, nurtured by a family culture of being in a hurry. When I eat with other people, I am embarrassed at the swiftness with which I clear my plate. When I hike with others, I often outstrip their speed and have come to value those who are quick-of-foot for walking companions. No matter how little I have to do, I find myself rushing through a list of tasks, as if the quickness with which I finish them is some measure of my worth.

Currently I am called to slowness by the recurrent struggle to keep my retina attached and thereby keep my vision. Attuned to speed, I've been finding the healing process irritating. Doctor's orders are to spend most of my time lying down and to refrain from exercise and heavy activity (lifting, digging in the garden, and so on), but I have places to go and things to do. My intellect can understand the need to slow down but my cells chafe at actually doing it.

In Montana, both at my sister's house and at my mom's, mountain trails lurk just outside the back door, seducing me to experience the joy of wild places. At my sister's the trail is closed to hikers allowing resident herds of elk a lower winter grazing area. At my mom's the trails are part of a city park open year around, and I cannot elude their siren call.

To hike a mountain trail in the snow and not raise one's heart rate and respiration much, one must be able to take a leisurely pace. While speed is sometimes of objective value, at other times it clearly is not. I have learned to value slow food and eschew its faster cousin, finding deepest satisfaction in eating what we have grown and prepared at home over food-like products we can procure through drive-up windows, even though a lot more short term effort is required.

I could not say no to the beauty of snowy mountain trails or the enthusiasm of canine companions about racing through sparkling powder. Charged with pacing myself, I took measured steps up the hill while dogs romped through drifts stalking deer or searching for perfect sticks. Frequently, I slowed my steps or stopped altogether. With no roses to smell, I was delighted instead by a heady pine scent, church spires rising between the evergreens, cool crisp air, and moments available to do nothing but appreciate it.

Life has been unarguably difficult these past few years and yet, still beautiful almost to a fault. With my endearing, eager, spirited pitbull girls – my Live Dogs Walking – I will continue the journey I began with my beloved Nicholai. Making the time and the moments in every day to see and feel and hear and be grateful for the magnificence of life.

One day at a time.

Slowly.

Live Dogs Walking

2010-12-27T16:47:00.001-08:00

Walks with my dog Nicholai – my Dead Dog Walking – were a thing of beauty. The looming end of our time together due to his lymphoma pressed on each day, squeezing meaning from every moment. Beauty had always been there, mindfulness always a possibility, but often I tended to race through the days of my life toward some unknown destination, missing the simple goodness right in front of me.

The sensation of a finely tuned focus felt familiar from the months after I was diagnosed with cancer in 1995. Life's distractions fell from view and the acute blueness of an autumn sky or the exquisite gold of a leaf floating to the ground on a fall breeze gained my full attention. My office still needed to be tended, bills paid, meals fixed. But under the threat of impending demise, I allowed my appreciation to linger on the multitude of plain joys gracing every day, waiting only for me to notice. Time passed, it became clear that my demise was indeed not imminent, and the tendency to hurry through a day's activities in pursuit of an elusive new and improved future seduced me again. When my beloved dog was diagnosed with cancer and predicted to live only a few months, the precious nature of each day's simple pleasures came to the foreground another time.

Now Nicholai is dead and my touchstone to the temporal nature of our existence is gone. I find it terribly difficult to slow down and appreciate life's many gifts without the threat of death hanging over my head. Walking the pitbull duo – while enjoyable – falls often into the category of chore instead of sacred opportunity. Both they and I need exercise so we walk and, check, another item crossed off the to-do list. I'm on to the next item.

No day is ever guaranteed but the day in front of us; still it seems that innumerable walks, hikes, and adventures await me, Izzy, and Kelley. Thus, I allow my attention to wander, hurrying once again through miracles of drenching rain or crystal blue skies. Izzy barks maniacally for my attention and Kelley stares me down, quivering with the anticipation of a thrown ball and daring me to forget my to-do lists and just play.

My challenge over the coming months will be to come fully to the present. Though my dogs are young, their ability to live in the present is one of the greatest gifts they bring to me. So, even though Izzy and Kelley's moments don't seem stolen right out of the grim reaper's hand and thus somehow more precious, I hope to allow their passionate focus on "now" to seep into my very veins.

So, it's time for wool socks and hiking shoes, warm shirt and hat. The trail is calling.

Montana Christmas Eve

2010-12-25T10:39:00.001-08:00

Last spring, I had the mixed pleasure of making three trips to Montana to see my sister. Mixed because while Montana is a beautiful place replete with hiking trails and I love my sister, she had just been diagnosed with breast cancer and I would have preferred to be visiting under other circumstances. For those trips, my buddy Nicholai accompanied me.

Back in Montana now, I retrace steps I took with Nicholai the last time we were here. Mr. Pickle stayed pretty much glued to my side and we hiked and walked together as I shared in numerous blog posts. But even when I went to the bathroom, Nicholai followed me there, camping out on the rug while I showered. I'll never know if he perceived the approach of the grim reaper and vulnerability drove him to my side, or if he simply chose closeness to his primary person out of preference, much as I chose closeness to my primary dog-friend. Perhaps he knew as well as I our time together was finite and wanted the most out of our relationship.

These Montana steps are the last ones waiting to be experienced for the first time without Nicholai. Our trips here together during the mountain spring were laden with poignant moments. Both Joan and I watched Nicholai make the most of every day while we contemplated the ravages of cancer. Nicholai's robustness so many months after his predicted demise infused weary humans with hope and a sense of empowerment. Along with Nicholai, we chowed down anti-oxidant packed veggies and hiked relentlessly, soaking up the song of the hills until our souls were filled.

Staring down the potential loss of Nicholai, I wondered what life would be like without him. I didn't know how I would proceed without a daily dose of my contemplative companion.

This morning I rose to a cold Christmas Eve day – sky, hills, and horizon all blue and white. While my sister ran with Kelley, I (still on activity restriction after eye surgery) walked with Izzy who was decked out in a red fleece jacket. A cold white moon hung in the wintery sky and a biting wind whipped around my face. I proceeded with one foot in front of the other.

I wish Nicholai was still here to enjoy life with me. But, no matter what happens, I find each day delivers at least one moment of beauty.

Commitment

2010-12-20T13:47:00.001-08:00

After more than nine months writing daily posts, neglecting the blog these past two months leaves me feeling vaguely irresponsible. Nicholai was my touchstone, my daily walking meditation; without his presence I find myself sucked into the swirling vortex of a busy life. I miss the solid ground provided by paying attention with my big black dog. Perhaps now, off work due to another eye surgery, I will find quiet time for reflection during the dark days of winter.

When last I checked in here, we were in the midst of a struggle with our female pitbull dogs. Nicholai died, leaving a hole in the canine chain of command. Seven year old Isabella should have ascended gracefully to the position of Queen Dog and young Kelley should have acquiesced with gracious deference. Instead, Isabella swirled into hyperactive mode, barking insanely about each of the day's activities. She barked to induce us to get up in the morning, to open the door, to serve biscuits before breakfast, to go to the park, to throw a ball, to feed her bites of our meals. Often, it seemed, she just barked on general principle. With ears laid back, Kelley crept surreptitiously onto laps where she watched Izzy spin in circles making her demands. When Isabella's high-pitched frenetic barking became too much to bear, Kelley lit into her canine 'sister' with teeth and claws blazing. After three of these episodes where neither of the girls gave an ounce of ground and blood was drawn, I felt a sense of dread. Pitbull fanciers recommend just one dog of each gender to a household. A bit cockily perhaps, we had presumed we could mandate a peaceful existence between the girls despite any genetic whispers to the contrary lingering in their DNA.

We struck out in search of solutions that would allow us to keep both dogs. Some changes were simple – taking each dog on her own walk for instance. Requiring a little self-control from Izzy – while not simple, per se – was straightforward. We insisted (sometimes with a water filled squirt bottle in hand) that Izzy sit without barking before we opened the door, handed out biscuits, or tossed a ball. Izzy's eyes were wide and she trembled with the effort of containing her manic energy, but she did it.

Our veterinarian prescribed a Chinese herbal formula to pacify Isabella's wild physiology and a pheromone dispenser still metes out molecules of a chemical substance normally produced by dogs to send a calming signal to other animals in the area. These measures garnered a tentative accord between the girls. Still, we felt on edge and wondered when the next melee would occur.

I contacted a specialist in dog training and behavior who connected me with an animal communicator. Skeptical at best about the merits of animal communication (who does it, with what training, certification, or credentials, and how in the heck does it really work?), I felt we had nothing to lose.

According to the communicator, Isabella sees herself as separate from any canine pack hierarchy; she does not wish to be an 'alpha' dog. Izzy is just a girl who wants to have fun, and when the fun is over, she wants a warm lap to snuggle on without competition. No surprise there. The communicator told us Kelley felt uncertain about her place in our family. Nicholai's sudden departure left her uneasy; she didn't know what role she was to fulfill – was it Guard dog, playmate, or little sister? Was she meant to bark at visitors, to keep Izzy in line, or to protect the perimeter? We chatted for a while about roles and expectations then the communicator suddenly said, "Kelley doesn't know if you want to keep her."

I don't know if an animal communicator really talks to animals at all; perhaps if skillful, she simply pulls insights and feelings from the person she communicates with – in this case, me. But I chuckled in spite of myself. The communicator certainly hit on a truth about me. I found Kelley one fateful morning at Kelley Point Park and brought her home without thinking. Since then, we just kept her day after day without making a real decision; it took months for us to simply get her spayed. In a way, she'd been on unspoken probation all this time.

When I hung up the phone, I sat by Kelley. She looked up at me with her big brown eyes and I pictured the day she crept carefully across the parking lot toward me, just tossed out by her previous people. "I have loved you since that moment," I telegraphed to her with all my attention. I told her what a good dog she is and how much I value her. "I want you to stay forever. But to do that, you must find peace with Izzy."

Something is working: Izzy curtails – just barely – her frenzied behavior, perhaps she's helped by the herbs she takes or the pheromone signals. Kelley demonstrates numerous acts of gracious deference at the same time relaxing into her role as the much loved baby of the family. The girls are living side by side in peaceful harmony.

I don't know if the animal communicator nailed it for the dogs, but she sure nailed it for commitment-phobic me. Perhaps Kelley can relax now that she knows she's home for good. Without plan "B" which entails getting rid of Kelley, I am free to focus, not on if things work, but how they work. And for the first time since she moved in with us, both Kelley and I are free to love each other with abandon.

That may be the key to the peaceful kingdom.

Love under the Comforter

2010-10-28T10:18:00.001-07:00

It was five o'clock in the morning. My room in a Minnesota friend's house was chilly, the fleece sheets and down comforter warm. But my bladder was chiding me about too many cups of chamomile tea late into the night and urged me from my cozy cocoon. I slipped out of the covers into the crisp air and tiptoed toward the bathroom.

No matter my soft tread, the six-month old puppy curled in her crate in the dining room jumped to attention. Even in the dim morning light I could see her eagerness – "You're up! You're up! You're UP!" I padded past to take care of business and I could hear the rattling of little feet against the metal crate door. "Let me out!" A part of me just wanted to crawl back to my warm bed and bury myself a while longer. But I thought – well, if my bladder's full, I'm sure she's ready for a potty break too. Plus she'd probably whine and wake my friend. So I quietly opened the crate door and led her outside, where sure enough, her bladder needed emptying too.

The morning was cold and the wind blustering, so the slim black pup raced back inside. She hurried past me and raced back to the room I was staying in where she leapt with the effortless grace of youth onto the bed. When I climbed in next to her, she wriggled and chewed on my hand. I was hoping for a bit more sleep, I thought a tad wearily, though the velvety squirming presence was not unwelcome. I snuggled up to her and in about a minute and half, she fell asleep, her teeth still around my fingers. In another minute, she buried her head against my chest and began to snore, giving herself to me completely, without reserve.

Recently adopted by my friends, this little dog has no reason – by human figuring – to trust her heart and body to me. But she doesn't reason like a human, she makes decisions based on the present and doesn't require knowledge of religion, politics, employment, or future intentions. She can be available to love fully just for right now, just for this cold Minnesota morning snuggle.

Dogs are unencumbered by the workings of a pre-frontal cortex and because of that are free from ruminations about future consequences of their actions. Not so for us humans; we are required by the structure and strength of our brains to contemplate all kinds of factors, and how such factors may affect the long term success of any relationship before we commit our hearts to unbridled love. We need to maintain some boundaries, we have responsibilities.

Snuggled under the comforter, I knew the length of my relationship with puppy Lydia to be approximately three more days. I marveled at her doggish trust and gave a thought to the difficulty we humans have loving each other without complication. I decided to try to be more present in my human interactions, a little less concerned about impressions and consequences. Lydia snored loudly, her small body pressed into my abdomen and her breath warm on my chest. I knew this relationship wouldn't last, but no matter; I did something very canine. I gave my heart to her one hundred percent.

Soul of a Bouncer

2010-10-05T09:48:00.000-07:00

A third bloom has joined the first two on the anthurium, a shiny, young new bloom. Once again, I picture Nicholai joining his surrogate dog-moms, Kali and Molly, out in Heaven. I don't know this is true - in fact I doubt it - but I like the picture anyway.

We miss our big black bouncer who - we come to find out - was a staunch mitigating force between the pitbull girls. Day before yesterday, Kelley made her play for "Number One Dog" by jumping on Izzy and attempting to bite her face off. We'd seen the little bits of jealousy, the plays for the front seat, or snuggles on a lap, much like a couple of siblings jockeying to be the favorite child.
"Mom likes me best!" they occasionally seemed to say, and we were careful to dole out attention evenly and require some deference from the new kid on the block.

Kelley has been cooling her heels at her auntie's house since her ill-fated attempt at domination. We all adore her - sweet and soft and uber-cuddly. Every evening, she comes upstairs to snuggle with Tim and listen to his bedtime story. But it's going to have to work between a hyperactive hyper-energetic female who has always had an "in-your-face" style - though not a single altercation with another dog in six and a half years - and a feisty, strong, game-on style female who clearly wants to be top dog. Nicholai managed this dynamic for us, and we knew it; I guess we just hoped the girls could and would work out a peaceable truce without him. Apparently, not.

As Timmy said, distraught on Sunday at the thought of losing Kelley, "Why did Nicholai have to die so soon?" Darn it all, I'd love the answer to that one - and a host of others while we're at it.

For now, I notice the anthurium and I think to myself Nicholai's both where he needs to be, and with me. After initially thinking the only solution to the females' rivalry is re-homing Kelley, I've decided to pull a little of the bouncer from his storage spot in my heart. If he's here with me - and I choose to think he is - I'm going to use his sensible dog-logic. I'm going to become the mitigating force between the girl dogs.

When Kelley comes back home, stricter rules will apply. Izzy has top billing - on the couch, the bed, the car. Kelley needs to wait at doorways for me instead of crashing ahead like a locomotive, in fact Kelley and I need to head off to formal obedience training. Izzy has got to reign in her frenetic excitement when she can, and when she can't, we've got to give each dog some space. For a while, I provided them with individual adventure walks. Due to the time-sucking nature of that effort, walks had become combined - seven days a week. And that's not working.

Come on Nicholai, if you're out there somewhere hanging' with St. Francis, lend me a hand. I want a peaceable kingdom.

St. Francis' Day

2010-10-04T20:40:00.000-07:00

Exactly two months ago, Nicholai woke up in the wee hours with his breath ragged. The time had come to make his way up and over the rainbow bridge and he strained with the effort.

Today marks the Feast of St. Francis, the patron saint of animals and the environment, the monk who preached loving tolerance for all god's creatures. He was said to preach to the birds and to have given blessing to a wolf who was plundering a local village. Francis preached to humans and animals the universal ability of all creatures to praise God and the duty of men to protect and enjoy nature as stewards of creation and ourselves.

In today's world, where money seems to have become our greatest deity and we see the world and all her creatures as ours to use up as we see fit, it might behoove us to bring to mind the image of a man who pledged to live a simple life, to forsake money and to embrace all of creation. Whether he succeeded perfectly, we cannot know, but perhaps the inspiration can help us now when we need to find a way to harmony of man, beast, and earth.

I hope that Mr. Nickle-Pickle has met up with good St. Francis on his travels. Francis might provide a healing blessing for Nicholai and perhaps Nicholai will carry my hopeful prayer for the soul of humanity to the patron saint of beasts.

May we change our collective mind and heart before time runs out. "All praise to you, oh Lord, for Brother Sun and Sister Moon, Mother Earth and Brother Fire, for all these brother and sister creatures."

Syntax and Grammar

2010-09-30T19:43:00.001-07:00

Traditional wisdom would have it that "man," or humans, are the most intelligent life form on earth. We, the humans, believe that our larger brains (relative to body mass, dolphins and whales actually have bigger brains) confer us with greater intelligence. I would point to simple behavioral attributes of humans – war, pestilence, environmental degradation – and make the case that perhaps brain size is overrated, but I digress.

Language is often pointed to as the coup d'état proving man's superiority to beasts. Surely, if animals were so smart we argue, they would develop language, but alas, they don't. We shake our heads at their sweet but dumb simplicity. Poor things.

I've lived with wolves in my parlor for many years. Initially, I appreciated how they learned a little English with their inferior canine brains: sit, down, stay, and occasionally, when they wanted to, come. Oh, yeah, and w-a-l-k, c-a-r, and g-o. And then alk-way, ar-cay, and o-gay. Not that they were smart or anything, learning to interpret spoken and spelled English as a second language not only across culture but across species.

As time went by, we noticed we were spelling more words as our dumb dogs' English vocabularies grew. I noticed that I could say things like "Go find Maya," and Nicholai would dash to the car, seeming to understand we'd need to drive to Maya's house to find her. It seemed a lot to put together for an inferior mind and I became more impressed with the dogs' understanding of our language. On many a w-a-l-k with Nicholai, he appeared to read my mind, reacting to my thoughts even when we were not connected by a leash. Once I noticed a dark hooded figure skulking along the edge of the brush in the distance. Nicholai was sniffing driftwood about two hundred feet away from me, but at the moment I decided the mysterious person was suspicious, he lifted his head and glanced not toward me, but toward the figure, and raised his hackles. I imagined he felt a molecular shift in my energy or smelled a change in my chemistry, but how did he know about the dubious character? Not via language as we tend to think of it, but it seemed pretty sophisticated communication.

I began to observe the dogs more closely – their interactions with each other as well as with us. They don't use words like we do, but goodness me, they utilize countless variations of motion and stance, ear placement, eye direction, tail carriage, woof, ruff, bark, whine, and growl. A deaf man once commented to me (in sign language) that people with normal hearing have a repertoire of body language and facial expression roughly equivalent to a wooden Indian, relying heavily, as we do, on the spoken word. With a chuckle, I remembered his comment as I watched Nicholai communicate with my non-dog owning brother one day during a Christmas visit.

Joe plunked down on the couch and set a large blueberry muffin on the end table beside him. Nicholai trotted over and sat squarely in front of Joe, facing him. I didn't pay much attention, reading a book in a rocking chair nearby. After a couple of minutes, my brother asked with a nervous chuckle, "Uh, Mary, why is Nicholai staring at me?" Raising my eyes over my book, I looked at Nicholai. Joe looked at me with raised eyebrows and a shrug.

Nicholai sat erect and purposeful, staring at Joe. His gaze was soft, his ears alert, but relaxed. His tail wagged gently on the floor behind him; "I come in peace, but with a purpose" by all accounts. He stared at Joe's face, then raised one eyebrow and flicked his eyes toward the end table, subtle, but unmistakable; then lowered the eyebrow and returned his gaze to Joe. I laughed out loud. "Joe, you're smart," I said. "You're a scientist, you figure it out." I went back to my book. A moment later, I heard Joe laugh. "Ohh. He wants my muffin. Should I give him some?" "Entirely up to you."

Nicholai's meaning was crystal clear, syntax, grammar, even etiquette appeared present. So I wonder, do animals really not use language, or are we – like the stereotypical hearing person – just too "wooden" in our approach to see any language other than our own?

Threads

2010-09-24T15:39:00.001-07:00

What is it that some of us love about animals so much? Why do I, a college-educated professional and parent, find my heart so deeply intertwined with the lives and hearts of animals? I could move on to contemplate more important things leaving Nicholai's life behind; he was after all, just a dog.

There's the fact that we need animals to live. For millennia they've provided humans with food and clothing, and in the most recent tens of thousands of years, with working partnerships in hunting, herding, and protection. We've domesticated some animals and formed alliances with other once-wild animals to our mutual benefit. So, I guess the first answer is simple. Even if we don't eat animals, we still need them to live.

I depend on animals for more. Whether I'm feeding the squirrels in the back yard (a plentiful population, especially without a prey-driven black dog guarding the perimeter), clucking at the chickens with left over corn-on-the-cob in hand, observing a spiny reptilian bearded dragon lounging on a rock, or enjoying a snuggle on the couch with my favorite canine companions, there is soul feeding that goes on for me. Each of these critters, wild and domestic, captive and free, connects me to the complicated labyrinth of the living world, removing me – if just for a moment – from the world created solely by and for humans. When life seems ridiculous in its difficulty and unfair in meting out challenges and blessings; when words and expectations pollute candid exchange of emotions between people, I find solace in the honest company of animal companions. Their unconditional love weaves me firmly into the world by shining threads; strands so slim as to evade notice, but strong as steel and silk.

A quilt hangs in our dining room stitching connection between lives over distance; threads speaking quietly of movement across seasons and years and decades. The quilt's maker was once a friend but our ships sailed apart long ago. Yesterday I learned she committed suicide just a few days ago. I have no knowledge of the struggles and pain that guided her hand and after five and a half decades of living, no arrogance with which to judge her actions. Only a tender awareness of fibers tugging at my viscera and a fleeting image of filmy white cotton fluttering in the breeze.

I've questioned the value of my individual life, wondered at the worth of putting one foot in front of another in the hardest of my times. I am grateful for the wordless love of plain dogs. Love that anchors my feet to grassy fields and sandy beaches, weaves my heart to the first crocuses of spring and the last crimson leaf of fall, entwines my arms in furry hugs, and knits wet-nosed kisses firmly to my cheek each morning.

Most days, life enthralls me in all its color and complexity. But on some days, the filaments of love offered by a dog are pretty much what get me through.

Brother Dog

2010-09-12T17:37:00.001-07:00

"Oh Nicholai, I loved you so-o-,

I wonder why, you had to go-o-o.

I feel so lonely now that you're gone,

Oh Nicholai, why did you go?"

The home-made tune wafted to me over air rushing through partly open car windows and whining girl-dogs as we sped along the highway to the Sandy River. Blue sky overhead, sunshine, tennis balls, and a plastic bucket for berry-picking, we were set for a lovely upbeat morning. I joined Tim in his ode to a Dead Dog, my heart light. After a couple repeats, we sank into silence except for the panting of the girls, their eyes on the road ahead, quivering with anticipation.

"We're almost there; could you grab the balls please?" No answer from my talkative-to-a-fault kid. A glance in the rear view mirror showed a sobbing nine-year-old. I reached my hand between the seats. "Oh, bub," I said. "I'm sorry, I miss him too."

"I don't feel as brave as when he was here. Even if he was away with you, I still felt braver than I feel now." More sobs. "I've known for almost my whole life, he was my brother!" What can I say? "Why did he have to die too soon?" Hell if I know. "I hope he waits in Heaven for me to get there; I hope he doesn't go away."

When Tim came to live with us, he was three and a half years old and we constituted his ninth home. That's right – nine homes in three years. Birth parents, foster homes, a failed adoptive home, more foster homes. He was the poster child for attachment problems and at the tender age of three, came with a warning – "can be cruel to animals." Into our household he came, where not only a sibling but four dogs greeted him. Over weeks and months of trials and tribulations, we struggled to gain his confidence and rebuild the trust so severely broken before we ever met him. We supervised every canine-child moment for fear of harm one way or another. Then one day as Tim cried heartfelt tears over lost families, he recited a litany of names – every lost dog and cat family member since he had conscious memory. I was struck with the realization that his "cruelty" was born of the need to repel the instant and deep connection animals offered him. Experience had shown him clearly that forging bonds of love was a wasted effort, doomed only to heartbreak. Hence the pushing, shoving, kicking – keeping those damned critters out of his bruised, but not entirely broken, heart.

Our dogs won him over, one by one. And now, one by one, he's had to say good bye, not as he's shuttled to another home, but as his dogblings take their final and inevitable curtain calls. His open grief over losing his brother and protector Nicholai is a yardstick by which I can see how far he's come in the heart department.

We held hands and sang another verse to Brother Dog.

"Oh Nicholai up in the sky,

Watch over us with your loving eye.

Don't forget us, though we're left behind,

And please wait for us wherever you are."

Maltese?

2010-09-06T22:07:00.001-07:00

I'm trying to square memories of Nicholai with images of diminutive white fluff balls called "Maltese." Lapdogs of royalty for centuries, it's impossible for me to find a remnant of this 4-7 pound doglet in my nearly hundred pound personal protector and rabbit eater. Maltese – really?

Don't get me wrong, I find lapdogs cute and cuddly. I imagine one day in a few decades a petite canine will be the perfect companion for this will-be old lady. The thing is, Nicholai was a great big, burly, wild, watchful, sometimes fierce, large, black buddy. How would a Maltese ever get in there? It just wouldn't be right.

The other oddity is that we knew Nicholai's parentage on the maternal side. Mom was what any person with half an education in dog breeds would label a "pitbull." And while pitbull is more a type than a strict breed, with lots of breed tweaking going on in back yards, I doubt any breeder of pitbulls anywhere at any time added a dab of Maltese to his or her line of dogs. I suppose the Dachshund might have gotten together with the Maltese over a back fence somewhere back in the ancestral lineage – at least it is a physical possibility.

We laughed about it when Nicholai was here, so implausible it seemed that he was descended from a pocket-sized prince of a toy dog. I know genetics are complicated and genes might or might not express themselves for generations, showing up as a blue eye, or a curled tail, or a splash of white in a black coat.

Mostly moot now that he's gone, we just chuckle at how Maltese Nicholai wasn't.

DNA of the Bully Girls

2010-08-31T12:54:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-29T18:14:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-27T20:28:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-25T16:47:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-21T20:27:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-20T17:10:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-17T20:16:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-16T13:08:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-13T13:24:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-11T18:41:00.000-07:00

What a difference a week makes.

Last week - sweet Nicholai.

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

Patience

2010-08-10T16:43:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-09T12:41:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-08T22:13:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-07T18:12:00.001-07:00

Love From the Start

2010-08-07T10:13:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-06T08:52:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-05T08:56:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-04T09:15:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-02T14:09:00.001-07:00

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.

Difficult Appreciation

2010-07-30T13:28:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-28T17:29:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-26T16:53:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-24T10:56:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-22T18:55:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-07-22T18:52:00.000-07:00

Enforced Stillness

2010-07-22T07:30:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-18T14:21:00.001-07:00

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?

2010-07-17T19:12:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-16T14:11:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-15T21:32:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-15T09:21:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-14T16:50:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-12T20:46:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-11T11:18:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-10T18:50:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-08T16:23:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-07T17:16:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-06T21:34:00.001-07:00

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.

Pursuit of Happiness

2010-07-04T12:24:00.001-07:00

Chips and dip, potato salad and hot dogs, and the sounds of crackling and popping – it's the 4^th of July. Our whole family rose early and together with Nicholai, Izzy, Kelley and a couple of recycled tennis-ball sized balls, we hit the beach for a hearty exercise session.

The pitbull girls are sensitive to loud noises. Izzy has made her peace with Independence Day clamor and tucks herself into a cozy corner to ride out the din. Nicholai is un-phased by the hullabaloo; I like think he recognizes human doings that bear no concern for him. This will be Kelley's first 4^th of July with us, and since she worries about loud voices and vehicular sounds, we're a tad concerned about her response. We want her dog-tired when nightfall comes in hope that she'll be able to relax when the racket ramps up.

For me, I love to pull out the Declaration of Independence and have a read-through. Used to be, I needed to drag out an Encyclopedia Britannica, now-a-days, it's a cinch to Google and pull up a copy of the document right here on my shiny computer screen.

It never fails to wow me. "When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume, among the powers of earth, the separate and equal powers which the laws of nature and Nature's God entitle them … all men are created equal, endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness … Whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or abolish it …"

Today, we live in a country where the government takes a historically high percentage of income in taxes but returns little in the form of schools, healthcare, jobs, or environmental safety and clean up. The government, our government, supports industry's need to maximize profits over ensuring public safety, regulating chemicals poured, leached, spilled, and dumped into the air, soil, water, and food. Our government has dragged its collective feet about providing healthcare to all Americans and school funding has never been so low. Did our ancestors outstrip us in courage and the conviction to be free?

Later in the text of the Declaration, the founding fathers state: "… all experience hath shewn that mankind are more disposed to suffer, where evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed."

As oil spews into the Gulf killing wildlife and destroying livelihoods, my dog suffers a cancer shown most likely to be caused by pesticides in the environment (unregulated for 60 years), my sister suffers breast cancer (with no genetic predisposition, but a member of the most poisoned generation to walk the earth), taxes are up and jobs are down, I will marvel at displays of explosive color in tonight's sky.

When I tuck Isabella under covers, attempt to quiet Kelley's barking as the noise escalates, and hang out with my amazing cancer-surviving Nicholai, I'll be thinking perhaps the time has come again, in the course of human events, that We the People, get serious about our rights to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.

Savoring Summer

2010-07-02T10:46:00.001-07:00

Rain warm enough to wear shorts while walking, sun kissing bare arms, early jaunts to water spots where humans wade and dogs swim with abandon; though it's slow to come this year, I am savoring the summer.

No way, no how did I expect to have Mr. Pickle here with me by now. Last summer, I hoped and prayed for a few nice summer days to enjoy dipping in cool water with my buddy. Swimming dates this summer are a miracle, so unexpected, and I don't take a moment for granted.

Two summers ago – in July – we lost Nicholai's good buddy, his girlfriend Maya. Though she showed no signs of illness and passed a complete senior physical in June, she developed acute leukemia. During the last week of July, she went from running at the river with Nicholai to dead. The ride was stunning. Her owner was out of town and after three days of progressive malaise, I carried seventy pound Maya into the vet's office because by that time she was too weak to walk half a block.

That experience put me on notice: the end can come quickly for any of us. Last July I held my breath all month, convinced that by some act of spirit or alchemy beyond my understanding, Nicholai would take his earthly leave during the last week of July and race heaven-ward on the wind to play with his old flame Maya. As July came and went and we sweated and panted through the dog days of summer, then relaxed in the perfect days of autumn, I realized that Nicholai wasn't finished with his time here.

I don't want Nicholai to stay here a moment longer than is right for him. By the same token, I know I'll be holding my breath again this July, wondering if this is the moment when he sheds his old body, leaves lymphoma behind and flies away.

It's coming, I know.

Eighteen Months

2010-07-01T08:27:00.001-07:00

Here we are, July 1, 2010. I'm trying not to count so much, not to put too much weight into how many days or weeks Nicholai's life has gone on; trying to keep my head in the moment – with some, if obviously not complete, success. But I just can't help it.

I can't help celebrating that he's still here, still playing, still drooling on my lap, still whining for back and belly rubs. I can't help but notice the profound disconnect between what I'm told (the cancer paradigm) and what is REAL.

Told: Nicholai had three months, at most, to live without treatment, six months to live with alternative treatment, maybe nine to twelve months to live with full chemotherapy and radiation treatment, if we were the lucky ones. I'm told that without these expensive, toxic, dangerous drugs, he can't survive.

Reality: Nicholai is living with strength and beauty eighteen months later. Because of inadequate research on alternative care (it'll never be a giant profit center, so the big boys would hate to find out it is actually the solution), we don't know if Nicholai's survival is due to our interventions, or just dumb luck. We do know that his survival is not due to the poison drugs and harsh radiation offered by oncology.

Told: We don't know what causes cancer, it seems to be genetic.

Reality: Much study on genetics and cancer reveals that the links between environment – both voluntary and involuntary (ie: smoking vs. exposure to DDT in childhood) have a much larger role in the etiology of cancer. Only 5% of breast cancers are the result of a "breast cancer gene," and studies have shown that adoptees share more health characteristics (including incidence of cancer) with their adoptive family than with their biological one.

Told: Don't trust real food in its natural state; buy pretty packaged processed food. That stuff from the farm – pastured meat, fresh milk, homemade cheese and yogurt – it's downright scary and it's gonna kill you – and your little dog too.

Reality: Factory farmed everything is bad for us. Meat, eggs, and milk of course, are toxic soups of herbicides, pesticides, drugs, feces, sickness, pain and suffering – all of which come right up the food chain to our plates. But veggies too, grown in monocultures and harvested in lots too big to keep clean, have treated us to contaminated spinach, lettuce, and other veggies.

Told: Nicholai would quickly waste away losing appetite, strength, and energy.

Reality: Nicholai is running and jumping, bouncing and celebrating. He roots through garbage for snacks and chases balls into the river. At this moment, he is nudging my hand, urging me to leave the computer and hit the trail with him. Cancer can be debilitating, but so can traditional treatment. Stepping outside the paradigm, there is both help and hope.

In this eighteenth month, I have to trust what I can see and feel and touch. I have to trust my breathing lungs and beating heart, for I too, am a non-chemotherapized long term cancer survivor. I have to trust my happy living dog trotting at my side.

Is it just me, or have we accepted lies as truth and truth as lies? I'll have to contemplate that later, it's time for a walk.

What?!

2010-06-29T20:44:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-27T11:31:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-25T13:34:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-24T19:22:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-23T17:34:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-22T21:58:00.000-07:00

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

Raw Milk = Real Food

2010-06-21T15:36:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-20T13:06:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-16T23:29:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-15T18:45:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-14T15:44:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-13T14:13:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-12T19:14:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-10T19:31:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-09T19:29:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-08T15:57:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-06T18:36:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-05T20:58:00.001-07:00

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?

Sun Break

2010-06-03T16:36:00.001-07:00

A funny thing happened on the way to the river this morning. As I looked through my camera, an unexpected brightness made me squint. Splotches of dark and light danced around Nicholai in the view finder in a play of light and shadow I hadn't seen since my trip to Montana.

I've been loving the nearly constant precipitation that has many Portlanders pulling their hair in moldy despair. Maybe my weeks in bright Montana under crisp blue skies helped. Or perhaps my worries about global warming are unconsciously abated by the unseasonal cool temperatures and daily showers. My cool weather veggies are still thriving. Still … the warm amber light and the absence of cool drizzle was a delight.

Wet trail, the result of recent rains.

Some of these days, Mr. Pickle lags behind me for a few moments, always catching up and always smiling from ear to ear. I see, though, a mild slowing down indicative of lymphoma's slow progression. Enlarged lymph nodes haunt my equanimity for a moment, and then Nicholai is off down the trail in pursuit of a rabbit, or busily inspecting goose poop.

Goose poop, almost good enough to eat.

It's an inevitable side effect of my frontal and pre-frontal cortex. I'll never have the easy comfort and peace-of-mind Nicholai demonstrates without effort. But that's the main reason I love dogs. Every day, by simply being who they are, dogs illustrate the beauty of present-moment consciousness. Every day, I take a cue from them and every day, I forget again and start worrying about the past or future. I suppose that's my gift to them – planning for meals, filling the tank with gas to get to our next far-flung adventure, saving for veterinary bills, remembering the deleterious effects of the rotten salmon from the beach. What a good partnership we make.

And how nice it was to have a brief sun break this morning.

Nose Knows

2010-06-02T19:02:00.001-07:00

Nose to the ground, nose to the shrub, nose to a blade of grass; so often my view of Nicholai is a view from behind while he does what dogs do best – examine the world by nose.

One day in my office – where I provide chiropractic care to dogs and cats – an elderly dog with an undiagnosed malaise came for an appointment. While I could no more diagnose the mysterious disease than the numerous veterinarians who had consulted, I could provide improved comfort and quality of life. After his adjustment the old dog left with his people and more dogs appeared for their scheduled visits. Each dog entered the treatment room, took a single sniff, and proceeded to investigate the room with an intensity of concentration I seldom observed. Noses to the floor with snuffles in full gear, any concerns about the appointment and our human agenda suddenly evaporated, the dogs probed for clues to understand the baffling aroma lingering in the room.

Three or four dogs later, a sudden dawn of realization hit me, making the small hairs on my neck prickle. In that moment, I knew that if I only had the method to ask them, each of these canines could easily explain the mystery malaise of the first dog. The intensity of their expressions and their single-minded focus on scent exploration left me certain that these simple pet dogs were master diagnosticians through the strength of their superior olfactory systems.

Dogs have an enlarged olfactory center in their brains with over 200 million scent receptors, compared to a paltry 5 million for us humans. Their noses contain an intricate scrollwork of nasal folds which stretched out would cover the area of a sheet of 8½ X 11 paper, whereas ours would cover a postage stamp. Estimates of dogs' scent detection and interpretation skills range from a thousand to ten thousand times greater than ours.

These are some of the things dogs can perceive via their sense of smell.

Chemicals in solution at 1 -2 parts per trillion (the equivalent of 1 bad apple in 2 billion barrels)
Odors down to 40 feet underground
Insects in the ground or in woodwork such as termites in buildings
Human fingerprints that are a week old
Whether a cow is in heat via her urine
Lung, breast, and other cancers in human breath
Prostate and bladder cancer in a sample of urine
Dogs really can smell fear (via pheromones)

When I watch Nicholai examining the environment, I know there's nothing for it. I will never understand what he can know via the nose. My sense of smell is rudimentary by comparison.

Pitbull “Menace”

2010-06-01T14:39:00.001-07:00

More informed folks than I have written on the topic of breed stereotypes, but that's not going to stop me – this is my blog and I get to spout off on what inspires and in this case, irks, me. Various breeds over the decades have been alternately sought as the big bad dogs of the day by those who wish to appear tough, and vilified by those who consider themselves polite society. Over time, we have seen German Shepherds, Rottweilers, Dobermans, and others become the breed to fear. Today, it is clearly the pitbull's turn to be our canine villain.

Several months ago, a fatal attack on a child was reported in the news. "Dog Attacks Child – more at 6:00," the advertisements teased, seducing us to tune in later for the gory details. After hearing this line a few times, I turned to my partner while we were preparing dinner. "Well, we know it wasn't a pitbull, or they'd have used that by now." Sure enough, the headline remained "Dog Attack" and it wasn't until the reporter was in the heart of the story that the dog's breed was mentioned. In my mind, that is perfectly appropriate, since the dog's breed is just one factor of the story that possibly contributes to what happened. In this case, the dog involved was a Rottweiler, the child was killed, and the dog was impounded pending investigation.

Last night, the TV news blared out "Pitbull Attack – on your Ten at Ten." In this story a pitbull attacked a man for reasons not explained. Unlike the attack on the child which was fatal; this attack was non-fatal, still the dog was shot to death and the headlines screamed out "Pitbull Attack."

Izzy and Kelley are both pitbulls, some would call them purebreds though I question the very term when it comes to pitbull dogs. So much irresponsible backyard breeding takes place, it's hard to follow a distinct line of progeny and make any particular claims to "purity." Breed purity stuff gives me the heebie-jeebies anyway, ringing notes of sad resonance with human history.

Both Izzy and Kelley are delightful dogs – friends to all they meet. Izzy has been reliably friendly for six long years. She's lived with all manner of dogs, large and small, attended doggie daycare, and lived with struggling, emotionally disturbed children – all without incident. Kelley is still new to us and young, we will see how her mature personality plays out. I am confident though, that with the right exercise, stimulus, and supervision, she will also have a long and wonderful life without aggressive incidence.

I find screaming headlines about Pitbulls to be incendiary, discriminatory, and unhelpful. Dog attacks happen nine times out of ten due to human error. I'm sure it sells dying newspapers and boosts competitive TV- news ratings. But it is not responsible reporting and it gets me broiling mad.

It’s a Date

2010-05-31T15:57:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

One can always hope.

We’re all in the Web

2010-05-29T21:49:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Blood on Our Hands

2010-05-28T20:48:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

In Requiem by Kurt Vonnegut, he said:

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

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

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

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

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

Wild Begets More Wild

2010-05-27T21:15:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Who's the man?

Extra Calories

2010-05-26T16:50:00.001-07:00

Wet, again.

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

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

Bunny rippin' and tearin'

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

I hope my wild boy feels satisfied.

Photography

2010-05-25T16:51:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

Canon point-and-shoot

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

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

Family photo by Dennis Gillson

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

Plus, shooting photos is just plain fun.

He May Be Heavy …

2010-05-24T12:30:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goodnight, Sweet Princess

2010-05-22T19:55:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

"It was her time," Joan said bravely.

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

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

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

Goodnight, sweet Princess.

More Green Than Pink

2010-05-20T18:03:00.001-07:00

Cancer Compatriots, Nicholai and his Aunt Joan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Running

2010-05-19T20:27:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Is this how Nicholai feels?

An Ounce of Prevention

2010-05-18T20:35:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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