Unbound

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All the evidence I need.

Winding Down

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

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

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

REINCARNATION?

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

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

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

But I sure am curious.