Summer Clothes

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

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

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

Hot Dogs

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

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

Still breathing, still smiling.

Threads of Community

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Ahh … Summer

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

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

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

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

Ahhh … summer.

Pursuit of Happiness

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

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

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.