DNA of the Bully Girls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who’s In There? DNA Breed Results

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silent Spring

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eggs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We can make it different for all of us.

Three Blooms Instead of Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

House Keys

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

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

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

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

Angels in the Cottonwoods

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

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

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

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

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

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