tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44496457343418454602024-02-18T18:59:44.727-08:00Winter With Zoe108 Meditations on Love, Dogs, and MortalityNatalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.comBlogger182125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-80058696868295658482012-08-11T14:46:00.001-07:002012-08-13T14:50:55.532-07:00Part II, Day 72: Good Grief<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's been five weeks and two days since Zoe died. I bought a book about pet bereavement, but I haven't had a chance to read it yet. In a culture that still doesn't quite know how to talk about death, entering this landscape of grief is another new place for me, another new country, although a lot of friends have given me advice.<br />
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And not one person has implied I should get over it, and move on, even though I heard recently that grief is going to be listed as a pathology in the new DSM-5 coming out in 2013, that is, the <span class="st">fifth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Apparently grief becomes pathological when it goes on a little too long. </span> I think you're allowed six months to a year to mourn, and then you get cut off. After that, you need counseling, or drugs, or both. I don't know the limit for pet bereavement. If dogs live a seventh of our lifespans, does that mean we can only give them a seventh of the time we're granted for human family members? If that's the case, I'm already close to tapped out. <br />
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So here is my question: How is healthy, non-pathological grief for one's dog supposed to look and feel? I don't know. All I can say is that the best advice I got from friends who have lost their beloved pups this year was to cry whenever I felt like it, for however long, and not to stop myself, not to judge myself, but to just let things be what they are.<br />
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It was the same advice I got when my mother died five years ago and when my best friend died suddenly when we were both only twenty-four. The essence is: have your experience, and don't judge it. Just be present. Let <i>what is</i> come inside the house; abide with it without fear. Grief delayed or repressed comes back later to haunt you anyway, so it's better to let it flow. And so I've had to give up wearing mascara for a while. It's liberating to live free of restraint, so open and unguarded, but I never know what to expect. <br />
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Which is kind of what this dog has taught me ever since I brought her home, with one major difference. In the 10 months after her diagnosis, I tried to be present with her always, to seize every day, to embrace the unexpected just as we made our routines feel new, but I also did my best not to cry in front of her or let her know when I was sad. Now, I just move from laughter to tears to calm conversation to my eyes filling mid-word. Living so fluidly--literally--is my new normal. There were entire years in my life before this when I never cried once, not even at sad movies, and I would never cry in front of anyone, not even my loved ones. It's hard to imagine now what that life was like. It feels like it happened to someone else.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Suzan McDermott, Bravura Photography</td></tr>
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So if you ask me to describe how things are going around here, I can only tell you this: I am terribly sad sometimes, but I'm not despondent, and definitely not depressed. And I can't really say I'm unhappy. I sleep and eat, I exercise regularly, I'm back in yoga class, I water the plants, and I come as close to balancing my checkbook as I ever have. I am still inspired by my work, extremely focused about it, and more in love than ever with my husband, family, friends. I often feel great inexplicable surges of joy. I hug my colleagues when I see them shopping at the farmer's market or checking on their book orders at the campus bookstore. Sometimes my heart feels so full it almost hurts. I feel gratitude for every sweet thing in my life, including the kindness of the gentle readers who followed this blog. But I <i>really</i> miss my dog. I miss my dog <i>more</i> as time goes on, not less, because at first it didn't seem so final, even though I saw her take her last breath. <br />
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At first I thought I could be a Miss Havisham if I totally let myself go. Instead of being the jilted bride who lives in her torn, stained wedding gown, with mold and cobwebs the only organic matter left in that room where the wedding feast would have occurred, I just thought I'd creep around with a lot of black Zoe hairballs in the corner. I didn't want to vacuum up her fur, and when I did, I didn't want to throw it out, but I did anyway. There's still a clump of it in our bedroom on the floor beneath all our sweaters. Her toys are still in a box by the wood stove. Our TV in the bedroom is still balanced on her crate, although my husband is making a new wooden stand and when that happens, the crate will get broken down and will live in the room where we keep our suitcases. I also have a little portable Zoe shrine I bring to the deck sometimes when I meditate. It has her collar with the purple heart for bravery that was given to her by her oncologist, a sand dollar I found when we were walking on the beach at Topsail Island this past March, and a completely disemboweled red fleece bow she got under the tree one year that she used to balance on her nose and still smells like her.<br />
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I sit out on the deck with this odd collection and imagine her looking at me as she did in this photo on an ordinary morning in the last couple weeks of her extraordinary life.<br />
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Maybe she would think Mommy was acting a bit strange if she saw me sniffing her eviscerated toy or jangling her collar, trying to recreate the sound of her running up to me. <br />
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I did this every day from the day she died until about two weeks ago.<br />
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Now I do it about once a week.<br />
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I wish I could see her, even just out of the corner of my eye, but my mind refuses to play tricks on me. This is what frustrates me the most. Being with Zoe for nine years grounded me, made me more present in the here and now, more planted on this earth, less likely to retreat to my space girl imagination. But sometimes I wish my imagination would help me out. I used to be a lot more other-worldly. If I could believe now in another dimension, that a spirit world was right around us, I would allow myself to think she was still with me here, sitting on my left, as friends of mine who think that way promise me she is. <br />
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But even though I don't believe she's here, I talk to her. When I get in the car, I tell Zoe she's a good girl and I'll picture her smudging up the window with her nose. (I have cleaned my car twice since she died, and vacuumed up her fur, but have yet to wash off those doggy nose smears.)<br />
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I talk to her a lot in my studio, since she spent so much time here with me and I wrote almost all of my posts here with her looking right at me. I'll just say that she's a great girl, a beautiful dog, that she's so good, that she's so good, so very good.<br />
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And sometimes I just smile and say, <i>Hi, baby dog</i>, and I'm flooded with the memory of her essence, and I feel peace. I see her grinning at me just like she did in this picture below: <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kelly Prime took this photo of Zoe looking at me, May of 2012. The poop bag got in the picture too.</td></tr>
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My former student took this photo of Zoe and me on an ordinary day, the kind of ordinary day I tried to make memorable when all our days were numbered. We walked around the track on our campus and Kelly told me how she wanted to be a writer. Zoe plopped down on the grass to rest when we were halfway through, and Kelly and I took turns with the camera. I cropped this one so that you won't see my weird brown sweatpants that look like fake suede, or the black leather money belt I used on dog walks for carrying treats and poop bags that my husband teased me about, or the extra five or so pounds I put on from all those amazing Sundays lunches we had this year, post-diagnosis. There was a time--maybe this was back when I couldn't cry--when my vanity would not have allowed me to keep a photo like that around. But I love the way Zoe looks here, and I like the way I'm looking at her, in the part of the picture you can't see, and the photo, in its entirety, is one I will always treasure.<br />
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I didn't dream about her for the first ten days. This made me get very mad at my superego, my hyper-vigilant sleeping self. Couldn't my superego/sleeping self stop being so damn literal and just take a little break from reality? In all of our nine years together, Zoe would appear in my dreams even if she didn't make an appearance until late in the game. At some point I would remember: <i>Hey, you, sleeping Natalia person, you have a dog! Where's your dog? </i>And then she'd sneak in, as though she'd been there all along. She was never on a lead, never had on her collar. We'd just walk together or run wherever I happened to have been in the dream when I remembered she was my companion. Often we were in city traffic, but she never got in harm's way. In this way Zoe and I traveled to New York City and London together, through crowds in the middle of Delhi, through mountains and deserts and lots of other complicated futuristic dreamscapes that have no name.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Suzan McDermott</td></tr>
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So I thought she would stay in my dreams forever, that we would be reunited whenever I slept. But she was gone. And then, ten days after she died, ten nights of dog-less dreams later, she finally showed up. She was both a young dog, maybe a year old, looking very collie-like, with more white markings than in real life, and she was a nine-year-old little girl, with long, silky black hair and the nutmeg skin of a Cherokee. The two were both Zoe, both gorgeous, and both doing what my friends and I playing at recess used to call around-the-worlds on the monkey bars, twirling and twirling nonstop.<br />
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Finally I got the puppy version of Zoe to stop moving and I held her head in my hands. I wanted her to listen. I said, "Zoe, thank you for letting me be your person. Being with you made me happier than I've ever been in my life."<br />
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And when I woke up I realized that was true. And this came to me as a shock. That of all the sources of five-star happiness on my list, the pure joy I felt in the company of my beloved dog was like nothing I'd ever known.<br />
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My husband says he doesn't mind. I love him so much for that. But here's the thing: that happiness I felt with Zoe leaked out, over everything. Over everyone. And it hasn't gone anywhere.<br />
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Zoe taught me to inhabit every moment with everything in my arsenal: brain, heart, soft belly, fierce animal hunger, compassion, annoyance, fear, the whole lot. So how do I sit with my grief, which takes me to the past, and still live thoroughly in the present?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Suzan McDermott</td></tr>
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I wake up each day and do the things on the to-do list. Work on the novel for 3 to 12 hours. Draft syllabi for the new semester. Get aerobic exercise. Do yoga and lift weights. See friends, read, cook meals, relax with my husband, make plans for coming trips. I like doing all these things. I like being productive. I always have.<br />
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But I also look at old photos of her and I'm <i>there</i>, in those memories, and I'm grateful to have them, grateful even for the flood of tears. I have about five or six old movies consisting mainly of my sister and me provoking her dog and mine to roll around and nip at each other and grunt, our version of pup pile-up, and I think, <i>Thank goodness we were wise enough to know we needed documentary proof of our supreme immaturity, thank dog we knew we needed to record for all time these three minutes of sublime happiness. </i>Honestly: the first two weeks I think I went through every single photograph of Zoe I had every single day and if you've been in this corner a while, you know that's a lot of pictures. Ditto, movies. Ditto, old journals that never became posts. That was pretty much how I spent my afternoons.<br />
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What I haven't done yet, though, gentle reader, is re-read all the posts of this blog. I will, when I feel like I can.<br />
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I miss her when I eat. I can't break the habit of picking out the bits of egg or meat that I know she'll like when she licks the plates. Now they just sit there.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">under the deck</td></tr>
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I miss her when I walk up the steps to the deck of our house, where she kept watch.<br />
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I miss her on the balcony when I sit or water the plants. I think of how amazing it was to behold her there, rapt, staring for hours on end at the river and wildlife and wind, how she taught me stillness and steadiness and wonder.<br />
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I miss our morning love. She would thump her tail, roll on her back and grunt, and it was a new day, a marvelous new day.<br />
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I miss nighttime cuddles. After I brushed my teeth I would find where she had made her nest for the night and I'd talk to her, review the highlights of the day, scratch her back, and tell her again how wonderful she was.<br />
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Every part of town probably still has her DNA. She has peed on every bush. Every walk we've taken is still happening in some other dimension as I make my way around on foot from village to woods to town green.<br />
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One of my friends who lost both her beloved cat and best friend in the same year had their ashes mixed and fired into jewelry. Another friend who lost her dog this spring went out and got a tattoo of the dog's paw print on her ankle. Another friend wants to salvage all her dog's fur that she's vacuumed and knit a scarf to wear in winter. These are people who are very even-tempered, whose grief would not be the first thing you would notice about them if they walked into a room. I understand the need to wear the beloved companion around one's neck or to scarify oneself with his memory. You want something against your skin that says, <i>This love has seared me, and that love is here to stay.</i> You want to say, <i>This creature I mourn was my heart.</i><br />
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What I'm going to do is plant some of Zoe's ashes beneath the willow bush my friend Cathy gave us to honor Zoe's life. This bush will live and grow in front of the deck where Zoe used to guard the house. I'll also put some of her ashes in her favorite other places in the yard, and on my balcony. And I'll let some of her ashes float away in the river that flows past our house and when I do I'll think of the Tibetan Buddhist sand mandala I once saw, and I'll remember the wonder I felt as it was being made--which was exactly the same wonder I felt as it was released to the universe.<br />
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Her remains came home in a lovely wooden box. I expected something tacky made of cardboard. I expected something cheap and flimsy that would make me weep. Instead I cried because of the kindness and courtesy being shown to us by our vet, who chose to take our beloved girl to a place that returns the ashes of our animal companions back to our family hearths in a treasure box. It looks like it's made of walnut or stained mahogany and some delicate vines are carved into the top of it. It's the kind of box I would buy for storing nice stuff.<br />
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It's in our dining room now. I haven't opened it.<br />
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Coming home after work or an evening with friends is the hardest, even five weeks on. Knowing that she won't be rushing to the door to greet us, to put on her own one-dog parade of welcome: that's sad for us. Our house is quieter now, and Zoe was already a very quiet dog.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Suzan McDermott</td></tr>
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I get a little restless at the part of the day when we did our walks, and I've been trying to use that time to do yoga instead of just work. I am also on the lookout for some dogs to borrow, short-term. <br />
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In fact, even though I'm really busy now, I try to spend as much time as I can with other people's dogs. Last weekend I picked up my friend Cathy's dog from her house and brought him to our house while she finished a project at the library, and I can't begin to describe how much it filled my heart to see him in my rear view mirror grinning at me from the back seat, and stepping up on the divider now and then to take a whiff of my savory arm pits (it was 95 degrees) and look out the window at the North Country landscape of maple trees and pines whizzing past, a sight that always made Zoe so content. I can't tell you how happy it made me to know that for the next few hours while my friend and I made dinner and caught up on each other's news there would be a sweet dog to pat after every other sentence. It sent me back to memories of the two dogs playing together.<br />
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But that didn't stop me from missing Zoe. It made me miss her more.<br />
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And you see, that's the thing. A kind and helpful part of myself wants to console the grieving part of me and say, <i>Hey, your memories are beautiful and they give you peace. Aren't you lucky to have them?</i><br />
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I am. I'm grateful. But I can't touch those memories. Not with my hands, anyway. And that's the paradox. Loving a dog, loving this dog, made me more physical, more connected to all things palpable and three-dimensional and real. And there's no replacement for the physicality of that experience. For the feeling of my hand against her fur, her rough tongue, her bad breath, the thump of her tail. <br />
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Milo, the King Charles Spaniel who thinks he's a Greyhound, came by last week with his people. When he's over these days he looks all through the house for Zoe. He still smells her everywhere. I hope if he ever sees her he'll tell me where to look. <br />
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So I am getting to know this place called grief. It's like another room in the house. I go there and look out the window and see what the sky looks like from this new angle: the maple tree rocking in a sudden wind without a dog to track its motion, the emboldened groundhogs and bunnies and now a baby skunk all playing hacky sack in a dog-free yard like teens in the house when the adults are gone. And always, always, the river flowing past, never stopping, never changing direction, gleaming white and gray like the ashes we'll send down it soon, when we are ready to let some of them go.</div>
Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-85574659290171181112012-07-10T03:00:00.000-07:002012-07-12T04:39:24.472-07:00Part II, Day 71: Travels with Zoe, or North Country Dog on the Red Kashmir Rug<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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On the last full day of Zoe's life we almost got caught in a thunderstorm. It was the fourth of July.<br />
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Zoe fears thunder and fireworks more than most people fear death. Given that her own death was imminent, we'd often thought it might be best for her to leave this earth before that night's firework display. We didn't want her to spend her last night alive crying and quivering in terror.</div>
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A storm would cancel the fireworks show, but then we'd have to contend with the storm, which could go on for hours.<br />
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But the thunder rumbled from a distant patch of sky. It didn't roar overhead. We were half in dream when it slid close. Neither of us had slept the night before and now she was dozing on the lawn a few feet away from where I rested in the hammock.</div>
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We hurried up to my studio. Kerry joined us just before the heavens opened. To drown out the thunder, I turned on the fans, including a rattly old cooling box that spews water and sounds like cans caught in the spokes of a bicycle. After sharing such a peaceful day I hoped we could ride the calm like a magic carpet to the end. To the <i>end</i> end.</div>
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I was tempted to take a picture of her sprawled out on the Indian carpet beside the bed on the studio floor, but I didn't. The picture I've included here was taken months earlier. On our last day together, I took no photos. I didn't want to move. Kerry was next to me, reading, and I was too. I hadn't read a thing in days. I'd just been sitting with Zoe, talking to her, petting her, trying to take everything in.</div>
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The book was something I've been wanting to get to for a long time: <i>Eva Moves the Furniture,</i> by Margot Livesey. I loved Livesey's portrayal of a child's aching loneliness, her vivid depictions of the Scottish landscape--a part of Scotland where the woods are "fertile and predictable, with foaming hawthorne hedges and woods of beech, chestnut, and birch." Where the character remembers that even as a child she "judged the landscape inferior to the one" she knew "from stories." </div>
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I could relate to this evocation of a non-exotic landscape. The North Country where we live has a quiet beauty that some of us have had to train our eyes to see. It's the anti-sublime. The anti-romantic. The anti-exotic. Or maybe it <i>is</i> sublime with all its open space, those vast fields and skies, with the very occasional big walloping storm. </div>
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Reading the novel's opening made me grateful to Zoe for teaching me to love the North Country. Walking with her in the woods in every season through snow or fields of trillium or fallen red maple leaves has always filled my heart.<br />
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And there she was now on the red Indian rug, her eyes boring into mine. She had her head rested on this rug and her front paws out straight. </div>
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Now, let me tell you about this rug. I found it in the year 2000, three years before Zoe was born, in a little store run by two brothers from Kashmir who somehow found themselves in Macleod Ganj, in Dharamsala, India, on Temple Road, near where the Dalai Lama lives in exile.<br />
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I visited this town with six other women during monsoon season when everything in the shops smelled of rain and damp. Every day the women and I went to <a href="http://www.360panoramas.co.uk/17/85/Namgyal_Monastery" target="_blank">Namgyal Monastery</a>, the Tibetan Buddhist temple. We'd been told we might have a private meeting with the Dalai Lama because one of the people in our group, my close friend Cathy, had hosted some Tibetan monks at our university the year before and they'd created a sand mandala that many in our community witnessed being painted, over a period of weeks, and then dismantled.</div>
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I, too, had been part of the group that walked with the monks down to the Grasse River and watched as they lowered the exquisite sand painting into the river and let the current carry it away: an object lesson to all of us on the nature of impermanence, which was something I understood then only as an abstract Buddhist tenet.</div>
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So every day in India we went to the temple. And every day we were told, "Come back tomorrow." And what did we do when we were turned away? We walked up Temple Road, striding past monks in scarlet and saffron robes, past monkeys playing in pine trees, past cows sipping from rain water and grazing on garbage, past backpackers from the West, past shops smelling of incense, past market stalls full of prayer beads and bronze Buddhas and necklaces and earrings, and we shopped. And that's how I discovered this little carpet store.</div>
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My tiny but very strong friend, Laura, balanced this rug and the other two I bought on top of her head and hauled them over to the DHL place where we shipped them back to the States. They arrived many months later smelling of monsoon rain and mold, and I had to air them out for days before I could put them in the studio we had just built above our garage. I loved bringing the smell of monsoon season in the Himalayas all the way back to my ordinary North Country river valley landscape of pine and hemlock, willow and maple, groundhogs and rabbits and so many family dogs.</div>
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So there was <i>my</i> dog, on America's birthday, enjoying her last day on earth. She was on this red Indian carpet that had traveled by head through monsoon to a shipping office from the other side of the world. </div>
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And there, I realized, in tableau form, were the two pulls in my life: the North Country dog, who means home to me, and a rug emblematic of my love of travel.<br />
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Behind the rug I could see the desk Kerry built for me out of cherry wood. On it was my laptop. On it also were books I love that I wished I had written. Behind the desk was the door to the balcony where Zoe spent so many mornings with me, including what would be her last. And beyond that the back yard and the river Zoe loved so much. And next to me on the bed, reading, and sometimes looking at the dog, and sometimes looking at me, was my sweet husband. </div>
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I often began my meditations this year by randomly opening <i>Your True Home: The Everyday Wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh,</i> and it irked me how often I landed on this teaching:<br />
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We all feel insecure. We don't know what the future holds: accidents happen, a loved one may suddenly be struck by an incurable disease and die, we are not sure if we'll be alive tomorrow. This is all part of impermanence, and this feeling of insecurity makes us suffer.<br />
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How can we face this feeling? What is our practice? I think living deeply in the present moment is what we have to learn and practice so we can face this feeling of insecurity. We have to handle the present moment well. We live deeply in the present moment so that in the future we will have no regrets. We are aware that both we and the person in front of us are alive. We cherish the moment and do whatever we can to make life meaningful and to make him happy in this moment. </blockquote>
Travel is one way to live deeply in the present. When you're in a new place, there's never a shortage of "wow" moments. Living deeply in the present moment within the landscape of the familiar is a lot more tricky, at least for me.<br />
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In my very first post, "<a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2011/12/day-one-why-108-days.html" target="_blank">Why 108 Days</a>?" I wrote about my eternal quest for "stop-time moments of radiance," for snapshots that will linger in memory even if I don't take them: <br />
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the pink stone street beneath my chair at the outdoor café
in Cassis where I covered my sweater with croissant crumbs while I
watched motorcycle mamas cheek-kiss before they ordered their daily
espressos; the collie tied to a bench who pulled the rope tautly toward
the square as she waited for her human companion, who happened to be a
fragrant <i>clochard,</i> a street person, who was off buying cheese at
the public market; the elephant led on a chain by a man in a dhoti in
Kerala who swatted flies with her tail; Tibetan Buddhist monks in wine
and saffron-colored robes playing badminton under a pine tree filled
with spying monkeys in a walled stucco courtyard, outside of which cows
lounged on broken concrete grazing on garbage; a group of women keeping
purdah in Rajasthan singing a song of welcome to my students and me from
beneath their orange veils. </blockquote>
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Could I invest each day of my life in Canton,
New York with the same powers of alertness I brought to my days in
France and India?</blockquote>
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What
I was after, I guess, is what we call the sacredness of everyday
life—what Scott Russell Sanders calls “the force of spirit.” In his
moving title essay in a collection by this title, Sanders drives with
his wife to visit her father, who is dying, and notices everything out
the window through their not-sublime but no less beloved Indiana
landscape: fields of corn, cloud formations, a brilliant sky. And he
feels his love for his family and for the landscape where they make
their lives with a force of nature that is not unlike that magnetic pull
that leads geese in formation across the sky or a sudden wind that
reveals the underside of leaves.</div>
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In this blog, "Winter with Zoe, I hunkered down close to home and tried to live every day I had left with Zoe as fully as possible, with this soulful dog as my guide. <br />
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And somewhere in there, maybe on one of those icy winter walks when I really should have been wearing clamp-ons or cramp-ons or whatever they're really called, while <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/01/day-48-mindful-winter-walking.html" target="_blank">I watched my tripod pup nimbly lead me</a> to the less slippery ground, I learned that if I could <i>try</i> to see the world as a dog sees, to bring my full powers of awareness to every walk through the woods, every tour of the back yard, and even the square feet on the studio where I wrote these posts, that this precious time we had left would not be wasted on me. </div>
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My greatest fear next to losing her even sooner than predicted was that I wouldn't be up to the task. That I wasn't awake enough as a human to benefit from these lessons in seeing. That I'd totally blow it by falling into my same old habits of sleepwalking. </div>
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I wish I had those months to share with her all over again. I miss her so much. I wish I could bring the self I am now back to the starting point when I began counting our days together.<br />
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I have a long way to go. I'm much more peaceful now, day to day, but I'm still the kind of person who, when stressed, is capable of putting her purse on the top of her car and driving off, perhaps after she has just tried to open the garage without first opening the garage door. But maybe not. </div>
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Maybe not if I picture Zoe, my zen master with a tail, in the back seat looking out at the landscape of my car wherever I drive. Or striding out to the left of me when I walk. I only hope I can take what she taught me on travels close to home and far away, and to never, ever forget.<br />
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Thank you, Zoe, for waking me up. And thank you, gentle readers, for sharing this journey with us. <br />
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Namaste. </div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhARr_c2fkT8D9H4hfpXppDPsdeLLDvoekPwh4xpoiQYRHn1IeUMolj4XN0F_Pkv1_MggW22dDrAmQuo4USPz9_6-ZkiHIEdV65V3P8_OAWk95Qy_l1w8ZogMVJzFu1bMHr53bZEWUsirQ/s1600/zoe+and+i+receive+holiday+french+yums+from+d.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhARr_c2fkT8D9H4hfpXppDPsdeLLDvoekPwh4xpoiQYRHn1IeUMolj4XN0F_Pkv1_MggW22dDrAmQuo4USPz9_6-ZkiHIEdV65V3P8_OAWk95Qy_l1w8ZogMVJzFu1bMHr53bZEWUsirQ/s640/zoe+and+i+receive+holiday+french+yums+from+d.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe and I investigate the Christmas present (2011) from our friend, Danielle. To honor a coming year in which no trips would occur, my friend gave this Francophile delicious French food items, all meaty and dog-a-licious</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_w-BBIuVcD5wr_6eQM5MboIMtKAayRBbx7hpfR98rZH5SOz3aqZQsqwr2K8qwLpw21vRlKUc-3U7GbTY89vBzZOeO_8_dhOqrxtivh_SKL7cSNP5Hmvbvst30dBatIqHfj-u43MUqltU/s1600/zoe+and+nat+beginning+the+journey+in+loire+valley.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_w-BBIuVcD5wr_6eQM5MboIMtKAayRBbx7hpfR98rZH5SOz3aqZQsqwr2K8qwLpw21vRlKUc-3U7GbTY89vBzZOeO_8_dhOqrxtivh_SKL7cSNP5Hmvbvst30dBatIqHfj-u43MUqltU/s640/zoe+and+nat+beginning+the+journey+in+loire+valley.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe and me in the Loire Valley, May, 2010, photo by Kerry Grant</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugof_G15KBfKKaSVD7UzbmRL9ZtM7wLyq7aq77ZNK8rkSxohGEdS9kuSidT3Tt_MsZeUCM1rU78y4h7HJ2-lZ0sQpAiBfRPAtnQZzBxViTjdRocrcbtr_IMb2lrkYZ2gW1tMB_Wpvf6A/s1600/zoe+and+natalia+coming+back+from+trouville,+april+29,+2010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugof_G15KBfKKaSVD7UzbmRL9ZtM7wLyq7aq77ZNK8rkSxohGEdS9kuSidT3Tt_MsZeUCM1rU78y4h7HJ2-lZ0sQpAiBfRPAtnQZzBxViTjdRocrcbtr_IMb2lrkYZ2gW1tMB_Wpvf6A/s640/zoe+and+natalia+coming+back+from+trouville,+april+29,+2010.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe and me on a bus with our students returning from Trouville in Normandy, France, April, 2010</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQodHU-lvdHLU-gc3UaUK7-BqFkMtahmrMcrdoZUc3iZVvrYWZ0uI2z65trAFVw1Ws_baXHoCM3Wb_D822oR4waz-tmmtjALTqDet8NPMOHdF4oIkFuLmveeKCpNCOWdaPQUAkaTTe1T4/s1600/zoe+contemplating+all+you+can+eat+moules+in+toulon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQodHU-lvdHLU-gc3UaUK7-BqFkMtahmrMcrdoZUc3iZVvrYWZ0uI2z65trAFVw1Ws_baXHoCM3Wb_D822oR4waz-tmmtjALTqDet8NPMOHdF4oIkFuLmveeKCpNCOWdaPQUAkaTTe1T4/s640/zoe+contemplating+all+you+can+eat+moules+in+toulon.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe's reaction to the concept of all-you-can-eat mussels and fries, Toulon, France, May, 2010</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1_El0EdBuErg4nwTa6AtT6fljuWlbouzO-k6yV6VBWM-PtItVh3rg4FiX4b1EVzQnTr1TRaQkU5075veZv4HQ9y7RAVUybPuCf1xzz5yDKf4o3Lm1I9B_HlmMBu-YNANAyazzPnAFE7g/s1600/zoe+drinking+from+our+river.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1_El0EdBuErg4nwTa6AtT6fljuWlbouzO-k6yV6VBWM-PtItVh3rg4FiX4b1EVzQnTr1TRaQkU5075veZv4HQ9y7RAVUybPuCf1xzz5yDKf4o3Lm1I9B_HlmMBu-YNANAyazzPnAFE7g/s640/zoe+drinking+from+our+river.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe drinking from the Grasse River, our back yard, Canton, New York, late June, 2012; sometimes I thought of this river as her sacred Ganges</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJafVdz4EpFxp2dHZxIjquk9DfFNOpKjjhi0EI8J2i6_h-3x_M7CiCwKlQDuQdclYj6nI8trQv8hTmqEgY9fVNiuxegUdokmqz7KnH2MDxlOCHrZePWU-6WvJmMJLktWdTX-u5zm16jgo/s1600/zoe+gazing+at+water+in+winter.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJafVdz4EpFxp2dHZxIjquk9DfFNOpKjjhi0EI8J2i6_h-3x_M7CiCwKlQDuQdclYj6nI8trQv8hTmqEgY9fVNiuxegUdokmqz7KnH2MDxlOCHrZePWU-6WvJmMJLktWdTX-u5zm16jgo/s640/zoe+gazing+at+water+in+winter.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was experimenting with my new camera this winter of 2012 trying to capture Zoe staring at the river in our yard when it was too bright to see; she reminded me of the monks I met at the Namgyal Monastery</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0U_yXqVNx7Mo_k9vOAL5kv1tfCtKaISFDmbZbg8FhIXoU6gL2JCUBTyj4_JmmHpjI_xjVsbAnJqaeOnQt6LRkUFUyW7duAEKo18kH4Lh4MrKphgp57RbdqpgyBGjhPgpwPuHs6RPbeqs/s1600/zoe+in+profile+in+winter+at+river.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0U_yXqVNx7Mo_k9vOAL5kv1tfCtKaISFDmbZbg8FhIXoU6gL2JCUBTyj4_JmmHpjI_xjVsbAnJqaeOnQt6LRkUFUyW7duAEKo18kH4Lh4MrKphgp57RbdqpgyBGjhPgpwPuHs6RPbeqs/s640/zoe+in+profile+in+winter+at+river.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">close up of Zoe in our yard in winter of 2012</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdxDsOBYq5uGwsWQEy16WBCip4TtBQB6Zy7qDrNFjxSooEsDzeI7rpreQS7Y6z8e2NwUq416iwUgKOW2NZPJc1lpzCgBaZ2-6OA7TGLKOrsO5uk_zzVX-Fx_iXX4WHMHaYdpwrx4ote0/s1600/zoe+in+la+forete+verte.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdxDsOBYq5uGwsWQEy16WBCip4TtBQB6Zy7qDrNFjxSooEsDzeI7rpreQS7Y6z8e2NwUq416iwUgKOW2NZPJc1lpzCgBaZ2-6OA7TGLKOrsO5uk_zzVX-Fx_iXX4WHMHaYdpwrx4ote0/s640/zoe+in+la+forete+verte.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe in la forêt verte, outside Rouen, Normandy, April, 2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh6l8Kt1Vm3shG9b0JWmAJEEuLZajejXHEPSCZrESWroiFMyUB0LN-Qh4y_FDnuj_tLFLZdspvC8CwYz3avxHY7orr6wuczBGqfmnClt4WJwgHzszIrR9vRlAJesLNdvk9Z0WJqe8mh6Q/s1600/zoe+with+maya.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh6l8Kt1Vm3shG9b0JWmAJEEuLZajejXHEPSCZrESWroiFMyUB0LN-Qh4y_FDnuj_tLFLZdspvC8CwYz3avxHY7orr6wuczBGqfmnClt4WJwgHzszIrR9vRlAJesLNdvk9Z0WJqe8mh6Q/s640/zoe+with+maya.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe grew up with Maya, the golden retriever who was alpha of the pack in the gentlemen's walk, although Zoe, as number two in the heirarchy, liked to herd everyone</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo591ZNUPkVecXlncVsXaszfYYdeD2iEx_LLV2d-pvVxtuJdWMkwwc-AV1Akhdye3Ya9R7DDYLbPEVCFU2oNZYEiB4kejf4DZyAIP72bk79kmN633nwRRFtGa_uoQL8L9Ls2KK2M2j5CU/s1600/zoe+yawning+in+the+car+in+France.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo591ZNUPkVecXlncVsXaszfYYdeD2iEx_LLV2d-pvVxtuJdWMkwwc-AV1Akhdye3Ya9R7DDYLbPEVCFU2oNZYEiB4kejf4DZyAIP72bk79kmN633nwRRFtGa_uoQL8L9Ls2KK2M2j5CU/s640/zoe+yawning+in+the+car+in+France.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe in the car we leased in France, sighing with ennui. She loved our travels, and we were delighted and grateful that France was so dog-friendly, but we always knew she would be happiest at home.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXHUDTRVxZMLvo25Jo9YLXE1jXBgoo4AGhFld5y_qIq_YriUpbnYc2hIiUmIq-PVO1ctsH150fRlK9WdqxYF5iya6sSANcbgKcynftvaKICTmXxy_1LwDVUEvPabrcgT8G_IgsdpvTLzY/s1600/kerry+and+zoe+on+the+loire+river.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXHUDTRVxZMLvo25Jo9YLXE1jXBgoo4AGhFld5y_qIq_YriUpbnYc2hIiUmIq-PVO1ctsH150fRlK9WdqxYF5iya6sSANcbgKcynftvaKICTmXxy_1LwDVUEvPabrcgT8G_IgsdpvTLzY/s640/kerry+and+zoe+on+the+loire+river.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kerry and Zoe in the Loire Valley, May, 2010</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpz8ZIWUi5u4euhjz8n8o3gaCXNRAFwIuZpF1wF4YvCLQ8WuZlI-dJeQDjMUs_YWRMCp6Z_CdBLjXH9GlFXWaV0TGTcr2ZQJAsUDQc6yxejdv9fbn9CLz_ExK8VJHfI3qzKQRfiJQHHs/s1600/pat+and+cooper+and+zoe+in+winter.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpz8ZIWUi5u4euhjz8n8o3gaCXNRAFwIuZpF1wF4YvCLQ8WuZlI-dJeQDjMUs_YWRMCp6Z_CdBLjXH9GlFXWaV0TGTcr2ZQJAsUDQc6yxejdv9fbn9CLz_ExK8VJHfI3qzKQRfiJQHHs/s640/pat+and+cooper+and+zoe+in+winter.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking in the woods with Zoe, Cooper, and Pat made me really appreciate the North Country. Pat's treats were always coveted; liver biscotti was Zoe's favorite</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7byh_sHw5bv_DHoXd_GTYTv1zjHfU3qzszKj9CZ9EJUt605-A4Sx02L9Xo0LDHXKsVRHfs1PlbYvrjYMFIumON1NKL05SayM7DR65h5hTIIYBQ8LCUUb3HhaPhgy3PkTWYDrNpnWt28/s1600/more+snow+please.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7byh_sHw5bv_DHoXd_GTYTv1zjHfU3qzszKj9CZ9EJUt605-A4Sx02L9Xo0LDHXKsVRHfs1PlbYvrjYMFIumON1NKL05SayM7DR65h5hTIIYBQ8LCUUb3HhaPhgy3PkTWYDrNpnWt28/s640/more+snow+please.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blissed out in a snow storm, February, 2012: has she reached Nirvana?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
When Zoe got together with her "cousin," Sadie--the dog who lives with my sister, Mira Bartok, and her husband, Doug Plavin--they brought out each other's wolfiness. I love this picture Doug took in April of this year on a walk we took near their house in Western Massachusetts.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBvii3YDpNj5cybUnugVXKKLnWRim2FXZOneCvmprorJO22KEcNHtmy8hJWlVAn0ce104EhyphenhyphenYJSa2eT2E4Bad7HW-v-VqsWuIcAYjouVrf5lnGRPsT7Mk-HbgZ0D1BhJ__UQTJwESM3cY/s1600/doug's+pic+of+zoe+and+sadie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBvii3YDpNj5cybUnugVXKKLnWRim2FXZOneCvmprorJO22KEcNHtmy8hJWlVAn0ce104EhyphenhyphenYJSa2eT2E4Bad7HW-v-VqsWuIcAYjouVrf5lnGRPsT7Mk-HbgZ0D1BhJ__UQTJwESM3cY/s640/doug's+pic+of+zoe+and+sadie.jpg" width="538" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Doug Plavin of Sadie and Zoe, the canine cousins, in spring of 2012<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF9OfBJ-HVKbs2ICyCK38T-E1a6aO9JFbvx9_xBe-VluxRfAynClRatAauo4t-7Tfve9FJQzVAsgnBpeiaxeQuHKoug2kplge-miZrvv7EpAk22pefiVLL4esb3OMFVrI8jwvme_KoTCQ/s1600/DSCN1562.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF9OfBJ-HVKbs2ICyCK38T-E1a6aO9JFbvx9_xBe-VluxRfAynClRatAauo4t-7Tfve9FJQzVAsgnBpeiaxeQuHKoug2kplge-miZrvv7EpAk22pefiVLL4esb3OMFVrI8jwvme_KoTCQ/s640/DSCN1562.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We were dining
in Collioure, on the Mediterranean Sea, and she was very quiet under
the table like a perfectly behaved French dog. And then the fish came
out, and she emerged from the tablecloth eager to see and be seen</td></tr>
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<h4 style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">
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<span id="goog_616075455"></span><span id="goog_616075456"></span></div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-76374281606033593922012-07-08T05:21:00.000-07:002012-07-09T08:16:44.209-07:00Part II, Day 70: Camp Zoe<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
All along I thought two things at once:<br />
<br />
My dog is going to die soon.<br />
<br />
My dog isn't really going to die soon.<br />
<br />
Hope is so persistent. It's like those sweat bees we thought we'd banished from the yard but that came back in the hot weather to swirl around our heads when Zoe got Reiki. It's like a retrovirus. It's the perennial you can't kill even though you've transplanted it twice. Last week when she bounced back for a few days to enjoy life again, scarf down meals, lick the cat's butt, wet her paws in the river, patrol the yard, and hold court for all her guests, I both made arrangements for the end game and wasted a little time on google with searches like this: "miracle cure, canine osteosarcoma."<br />
<br />
This is how a cautious optimist like me moves forward. We take in the bad news, we adjust, we work with it, we work around it, and then some part of us still hopes it isn't true, that there will be an exception in this one specific case.<br />
<br />
I spent $57 buying something called essiac tea from Canada that supposedly shrinks tumors in humans and pets. A woman said that she cured her dog's bone cancer with it, and I so wanted to believe her. But I'm pretty sure that particular dog hadn't reached the stage, as Zoe had, when she sometimes had to be carried up the stairs because of the tumors in her lungs. The package arrived two days after Zoe died. I'd like to give it to a friend who might put it to good use in her own cancer battle, but it's a little awkward, isn't it? Here, my dog died, but you can have this. We never opened the box.<br />
<br />
I've been trying to find the words to write about those last 48 hours, but it isn't easy. It's not that I don't want to relive some of those moments--to be honest, I've thought of little else--but because I don't want to confront my own inadequacies in rendering them in language. But I'm afraid that if I don't write them down I'll forget. And I'd rather not forget.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNyexfS8dK6-a2GCc5-bE76K8crei35e8Ue3owcCtVoGqxYQkYFln2MZ4JJBi0y8DOXf-8o6L06Y5q2EEYTL3S2xBT1J3bbGsWNrr7sMtQFl-uLg-b0SsY0w8KJyGejyFvhO8CiVeHA0o/s1600/IMG_5757.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNyexfS8dK6-a2GCc5-bE76K8crei35e8Ue3owcCtVoGqxYQkYFln2MZ4JJBi0y8DOXf-8o6L06Y5q2EEYTL3S2xBT1J3bbGsWNrr7sMtQFl-uLg-b0SsY0w8KJyGejyFvhO8CiVeHA0o/s400/IMG_5757.JPG" width="400" /></a>When Zoe woke up early on Tuesday morning, her bladder and bowels insisting that all the rich food she'd eaten those last few days had to go, right now, I knew we were getting close. I just wanted to spend the day sitting with her in the grass as she moved here and there to relieve herself or to find shade, and I didn't want to do a single other thing.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi98HCzuEqRl2Ix9NssCq-UeuIOJhPphL0Ny-SiG17-huZ9nu4Rf9FoLRkVHPFFyRHdUNcz6jRd7QLUdV5DukY_xDTcPKDPKUSbKZRpqb8bZuPFpDKlyo8A2REkcbtf2NX_TqD8-o5JhSo/s1600/IMG_5760.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi98HCzuEqRl2Ix9NssCq-UeuIOJhPphL0Ny-SiG17-huZ9nu4Rf9FoLRkVHPFFyRHdUNcz6jRd7QLUdV5DukY_xDTcPKDPKUSbKZRpqb8bZuPFpDKlyo8A2REkcbtf2NX_TqD8-o5JhSo/s320/IMG_5760.JPG" width="320" /></a>Early morning she found the fallen leaves my husband carted over to the river's edge in late autumn and made a nest. I got out my yoga mat and sat beside her and told her how much I loved her, how she was a great dog, the sweetest and smartest one I know, and she said she'd heard all of this before but thank-you.<br />
<br />
My husband joined us. We set up Camp Zoe. He spent some time in the hammock, which also involved finding the mosquito net and trying not to trap all the insects inside with him.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDIFaJvvxsk-_ieyI5xyvXxFZ5k98-ZQSHhsAAZIABOWtvdyE4w64P7JS32pGC9472KHHJVY8uSZPgQVT_iVWftlzHSJq8pa5Ub2LDMsLYA03BgsyHjhAN0Z3hL4d8D93or1nEtLKrOjc/s1600/IMG_5759.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDIFaJvvxsk-_ieyI5xyvXxFZ5k98-ZQSHhsAAZIABOWtvdyE4w64P7JS32pGC9472KHHJVY8uSZPgQVT_iVWftlzHSJq8pa5Ub2LDMsLYA03BgsyHjhAN0Z3hL4d8D93or1nEtLKrOjc/s320/IMG_5759.JPG" width="320" /></a>A lot of people came by to see her. It was hard for me to talk. I wanted to just be alone with my dog but I also loved watching her perk up when people who had known her since she was a puppy came by to say good-bye. She's the consummate hostess. She would be lying and resting, but then she'd hear or smell someone she loved and hadn't seen for a while and she'd be wagging her tail, even getting up to greet them.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVIBB512yFHPEYmWqC8SHp7aAcedSjRFazyzfetMt1zwLgqTu40X6u_RB_03HMwBrWLS8WqCdX22LWX76EAtNGjlXeLEOB6BJE5JQ1YTZ_53BPQYR4pSWqdFrbqWtobO4k7A4j9sK-14Q/s1600/IMG_5764.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVIBB512yFHPEYmWqC8SHp7aAcedSjRFazyzfetMt1zwLgqTu40X6u_RB_03HMwBrWLS8WqCdX22LWX76EAtNGjlXeLEOB6BJE5JQ1YTZ_53BPQYR4pSWqdFrbqWtobO4k7A4j9sK-14Q/s320/IMG_5764.JPG" width="320" /></a>I called our vet, Amy Thompson, and asked her to come over. I thought she might be able to tell if Zoe was suffering, if it was tomorrow, or even that night, but she thought Zoe was doing okay, really, although her pulses were "deep," which means, I think, that the dog was drawing into herself. She had a new acupuncture point to try that the other Dr. Thompson in Vermont had suggested, near her eyes, for helping with all the bumps that had taken over so much of her body in the past month.<br />
<br />
That's right. Right until the end we were still trying to treat her. <br />
<br />
She seemed to feel better afterward. She was hungry for a snack and we made one last visit to town for a soft serve vanilla in the village green.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjcvbNxXf4L7wFuZ5kCN1o4GMbwFSv6ycUMTgzl3u9muODUHbcv7zAFsPLZ_tTcyzIVI9fQd8Cyt-CSOMk5h4R1SI0SLRXbaESRoJmutxqnZ7Mk19EO0HZ9Bfa1KH0NHQTEa4UvlqUihE/s1600/IMG_5766.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjcvbNxXf4L7wFuZ5kCN1o4GMbwFSv6ycUMTgzl3u9muODUHbcv7zAFsPLZ_tTcyzIVI9fQd8Cyt-CSOMk5h4R1SI0SLRXbaESRoJmutxqnZ7Mk19EO0HZ9Bfa1KH0NHQTEa4UvlqUihE/s640/IMG_5766.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With the needles in</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The local Reiki master saw Zoe just after 4. She thought Zoe felt balanced and her lungs were no worse than they'd been yesterday, but she was just really <i>really </i>hot. I was so furious with mother nature for lobbing us these hot buggy days on the last week of Zoe's life. I ranted about climate change, the American contribution to it, our unwillingness to lower our carbon spewage, and then I told myself, "Shut the fuck up and go sit with your dog." I put ice cubes in her water dish and I ate one.<br />
<br />
I asked Cathy to come over, and when she pulled up I tried not to cry. She was with me the day I met Zoe. We'd been on a walk when we met a woman with a cute terrier mix she'd brought home recently from tthe Potsdam Humane Society. Cathy and I sometimes talk about doing things in some vague perfect future and we don't always get around to doing them, but we drove right over in early afternoon. Those eight little Aussie mixes were all so adorable that she wanted to adopt one too, even though she was about to go on a long trip overseas.<br />
<br />
Cathy was the kind friend who drove Zoe and me to Cornwall the day we had to amputate the leg with the cancerous bone. <br />
<br />
Later she made a book of photos for me commemorating Zoe's last morning as a four-legged creature.<br />
<br />
That night Zoe and I set up camp downstairs in our house. I made up the bed in the TV room, the place the boys used as their man cave back in the day, and Kerry sat with her for a while. She rested her head on his foot and gazed up at him, and it was the sweetest thing I had ever seen, bar none.<br />
<br />
It was a rough night. I don't think she ever slept. For a long time I heard her panting and I turned on the light to just look at her and try to sooth her. She threw up, she had more than one accident: her body wanted everything out. We moved Camp Zoe into the living room, closer to the door. I took her outside again and again. <br />
<br />
But on the Fourth of July, peace prevailed for us for one last time. It was just us three at Camp Zoe, and we spent the day on the grass under cloud cover resting and just being together in a quiet, reassuring way. She kept looking up at us with her keen, intelligent, curious eyes, and we knew it wasn't time. Almost, but not yet. For a while I took a nap in the hammock while she slept a few feet away. And when she gazed at me, her eyes were still bright. <br />
<br />
That's when I knew what her sign would be. <br />
<br />
We three slept in the studio that night. Sometime in the middle of the night, or early morning, Zoe asked to be let out to the balcony.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1jYr26apjARZJNbSsRTtlUvxGsjxvjVVJbmC_Funl8TKiqMqNX4rCJL8DQikVhA2MOq2DgmsaHsf3JJy-gwU23kH6T1dBvU48bXtfiAUUEDBR1A7CFgq_yVQq-0r7UeE64CD-5A3DWVo/s1600/IMG_5767.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1jYr26apjARZJNbSsRTtlUvxGsjxvjVVJbmC_Funl8TKiqMqNX4rCJL8DQikVhA2MOq2DgmsaHsf3JJy-gwU23kH6T1dBvU48bXtfiAUUEDBR1A7CFgq_yVQq-0r7UeE64CD-5A3DWVo/s320/IMG_5767.jpg" width="213" /></a>And when we woke up on Thursday morning, we knew. Zoe had begun her journey. She had her eyes on the river. She didn't turn to us when we spoke to her. She was letting us know that she was already on her way. <br />
<br />
We made the call.<br />
<br />
The thing about making the call, of having the vet come to the house with that hideous black bag (or is it a metal box?) and that dreaded needle: you think you can't do it. You never ever want to think about it. You want to love your dog and love your life together and not imagine that this day will come.<br />
<br />
The day comes. <br />
<br />
And the thing about that day, about making that call, is that it's the last thing you will ever do to show your dog your deep, abiding love. When you love a being so much, you won't let her suffer. The selfish part of you that just wants another day, another day, a romp through the grass together, a leisurely nap under the shade of the willow tree: that part just turns off. To honor this dog you love so much, who has already begun drifting into the next world, whose eyes are no longer on this one, you make the call.<br />
<br />
She had her head in my lap and Kerry supported her head from the other side. She and I looked into each other's eyes. My eyes were the last things she saw as she left this world. The very last things.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VXSfuTzTyaIoRuqbkKxgsnIIcAPp-yvPZ06EWSEBTxhS7b4Qx72u5k0Cvt88VCorZf51pgO3icsxYfA3nCPq8jzjDcUnZW-OIIP7JkygkmpHHBxO6CEjhH0WvUK9AtFy1yWg4BXYy0Y/s1600/IMG_5769.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VXSfuTzTyaIoRuqbkKxgsnIIcAPp-yvPZ06EWSEBTxhS7b4Qx72u5k0Cvt88VCorZf51pgO3icsxYfA3nCPq8jzjDcUnZW-OIIP7JkygkmpHHBxO6CEjhH0WvUK9AtFy1yWg4BXYy0Y/s320/IMG_5769.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Later that morning, I wandered through the yard, revisiting all the places she liked to go. The spot under the deck where she watched the house. The iris bed. The river's edge. And of course the balcony where she spent every morning of her life, including her last. I thought I would find her somewhere. That I'd feel her presence. But I didn't. She was really gone.<br />
<br />
Our yard is still set up the way it was during Camp Zoe week, with the hammock and the mosquito net, and although we've gotten rid of some things, her water bowl is still on my balcony. I meditate up there every morning. <br />
<br />
The part of me that hoped I would find a miraculous cure at the last minute still hopes I'll find her spirit up on the balcony. That when I meditate, I'll see her out of the corner of my eye, or I'll feel her presence. It hasn't happened. Instead, I honor our time together and practice saying good-bye again, a thousand new ways. Good-bye, beautiful dog. Good-bye, sweet friend. Good-bye, guardian spirit. Good-bye, roommate. My love.<br />
<br />
Dogs don't fear death. And they hide much of their pain from us. What they fear more, I think, is leaving us. And so we have to love them as much as we can, as much as time allows us to, and just let them go.<br />
<br />
It's one thing to know this and believe it. It's another thing to do it. You think you can't. But you have to, and so you do. <br />
<br />
But while a little part of me left with her, the light in my eyes that watched her as she took her last breath, a part of her stayed with me. That animal fierceness. That intensity. And, I hope, that capacity for stillness, for finding contentment in just watching the river flow by. <br />
<br />
And it's on that river where I'm going to spend this Sunday. Just my husband and me on a canoe. Two creatures, on a July day, in a remote part of North America, who have just been through something that people all over the world go through every single day. It's the oldest story there is. It's everyone's story--no exceptions. We have loved another being, and we've watched her leave this world.<br />
<br />
The world feels different now, just as our yard is not the same without her presiding over it. But it's still a place of beauty, of wondrous things, and we're grateful to be part of it.</div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-70158405943012103882012-07-07T04:00:00.000-07:002012-07-07T13:02:01.318-07:00Part II, Day 69: A Photo Montage Intermission<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhivvA8RPhU6kZUFBFTlKYc3BcrMAOTHjamAxidzaBr-OyP-njOPAJ5t-fqOwAC7xopqmWNsLAULdu5Qt5GBqbac-CSPeyxvt4AiP3dkzfT_63UJwW5NCasTV8ND5Ti7pbjjvN4L1KRjn0/s1600/IMG_0987.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhivvA8RPhU6kZUFBFTlKYc3BcrMAOTHjamAxidzaBr-OyP-njOPAJ5t-fqOwAC7xopqmWNsLAULdu5Qt5GBqbac-CSPeyxvt4AiP3dkzfT_63UJwW5NCasTV8ND5Ti7pbjjvN4L1KRjn0/s640/IMG_0987.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Tara Freeman, Zoe and me in my writing and meditation studio</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc4G3qj5LGUnXrEXfRMEnszcG1UbUxIT85TO1szbg7xKFIQs2wR3fcYSTXyPFUa62Zz2Tq13wvvX92CtOWWUcLCmJF8oEETS6Pxh2ZnvI_GFcxHWn2DiAJH-qmtb7uE3yNE0QRJdaOc78/s1600/IMG_2231.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc4G3qj5LGUnXrEXfRMEnszcG1UbUxIT85TO1szbg7xKFIQs2wR3fcYSTXyPFUa62Zz2Tq13wvvX92CtOWWUcLCmJF8oEETS6Pxh2ZnvI_GFcxHWn2DiAJH-qmtb7uE3yNE0QRJdaOc78/s640/IMG_2231.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe in her favorite bunker, under the deck, watching the house</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgroSbYsbtRB-qB3eDHJGXWPPpUx_XBzAoVK2gq0t7mSjJuDK7WlhasPaITPoBucRE3Au7MY5-lWBR9WKNKD63eqmxmb-oxd_Tf3BiixjE1o1Eid45GBkFrkrTrn7paUFHrfhMpUt7Tmo8/s1600/IMG_4115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgroSbYsbtRB-qB3eDHJGXWPPpUx_XBzAoVK2gq0t7mSjJuDK7WlhasPaITPoBucRE3Au7MY5-lWBR9WKNKD63eqmxmb-oxd_Tf3BiixjE1o1Eid45GBkFrkrTrn7paUFHrfhMpUt7Tmo8/s640/IMG_4115.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">in trillium season, May of 2012, there was also phlox</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuGQlduR7Nmu-dVdQAg_Kwh8P4FytotVklHEoR7LcouTpOViEYv_zt7xFW5ctof34sjiN3Kd7db8BMWaIYtCEGx0O08tXs-vQsGI2VJyXfL_FTa9T6YCbSOBHHy9UxSdS3Hf-5B5duIs0/s1600/IMG_4357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuGQlduR7Nmu-dVdQAg_Kwh8P4FytotVklHEoR7LcouTpOViEYv_zt7xFW5ctof34sjiN3Kd7db8BMWaIYtCEGx0O08tXs-vQsGI2VJyXfL_FTa9T6YCbSOBHHy9UxSdS3Hf-5B5duIs0/s640/IMG_4357.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe and me in trillium season, photo by Kerry Grant</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydVLpMmr3RO8q4419TnTLj_Fs6-ZnMIQZ2jy58iuixII2IY5LGH2gmoyl-HOWZXE7fNN-2h8Dl6wdud9ZGy8vjr5ZxAM7_JowOd_1RO5HOaxMZtudXfPODCvFqkJS7z4AIHjkEIOGNSw/s1600/IMG_4395.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydVLpMmr3RO8q4419TnTLj_Fs6-ZnMIQZ2jy58iuixII2IY5LGH2gmoyl-HOWZXE7fNN-2h8Dl6wdud9ZGy8vjr5ZxAM7_JowOd_1RO5HOaxMZtudXfPODCvFqkJS7z4AIHjkEIOGNSw/s640/IMG_4395.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe looking wolfy in May</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMNFIXmVlTEjofcTUFhyphenhyphenHKAOBqvdmWk55XV_VrgVrbZkKoiNP0Q2gCP4ksEVeHmIizNKpK8JswpdNJKENrDi1bvSQM_0xXGai9qKOdCUj3_uBeRm-TogOFILREhbVeW9U3EFV7e1jQ1Nk/s1600/IMG_4498.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMNFIXmVlTEjofcTUFhyphenhyphenHKAOBqvdmWk55XV_VrgVrbZkKoiNP0Q2gCP4ksEVeHmIizNKpK8JswpdNJKENrDi1bvSQM_0xXGai9qKOdCUj3_uBeRm-TogOFILREhbVeW9U3EFV7e1jQ1Nk/s640/IMG_4498.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe at the entrance to the woods, trillium season, 2012</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVbUSpmljrS8DFszTDbVvUrot1PSKkf0qMtB1LjVj8LvBX8Z2A_lGYq8j9SErGG-twi1H7OXJsSppo6LVH4HCVopx-vZcbFsp52YrCKdC5fdVOI5OI9QYCUsvqmuaAkXct0wZ5UW1mw3Q/s1600/IMG_5580.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVbUSpmljrS8DFszTDbVvUrot1PSKkf0qMtB1LjVj8LvBX8Z2A_lGYq8j9SErGG-twi1H7OXJsSppo6LVH4HCVopx-vZcbFsp52YrCKdC5fdVOI5OI9QYCUsvqmuaAkXct0wZ5UW1mw3Q/s640/IMG_5580.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe's meditation post</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNBjYw6USXuk0_vnik6AO4_KrevyjFW-m95BunXXLTfuug3Aw5Oyu4nbb8iUMQ6DbMVex-k5m1tRovLP2VOf7pXFJ3gtYJb5kvg6siDg6alNTT4W0UACgimwrl7tVnArd9fFeg6oTB51Q/s1600/cute+Zoe+upright+in+car+with+purple+heart+fully+revealed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNBjYw6USXuk0_vnik6AO4_KrevyjFW-m95BunXXLTfuug3Aw5Oyu4nbb8iUMQ6DbMVex-k5m1tRovLP2VOf7pXFJ3gtYJb5kvg6siDg6alNTT4W0UACgimwrl7tVnArd9fFeg6oTB51Q/s640/cute+Zoe+upright+in+car+with+purple+heart+fully+revealed.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> I thought at first this photo was by Tara Freeman, but in fact I took it in early March when we were driving to do a walk with Cooper</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5r_uQ3iHbVCKZlnFBEwMfQ4jI_Z93bJyxy0IJUdbnfC45OBhUxEu6USkgtY1NsFvrE-k60CWvaafopuqiVnuvLF5ZaS53EY02yphwN2rxEur3tXy0A7sq6Km325sr9jqWq20qhVIf9is/s1600/DSC_0740.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5r_uQ3iHbVCKZlnFBEwMfQ4jI_Z93bJyxy0IJUdbnfC45OBhUxEu6USkgtY1NsFvrE-k60CWvaafopuqiVnuvLF5ZaS53EY02yphwN2rxEur3tXy0A7sq6Km325sr9jqWq20qhVIf9is/s640/DSC_0740.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Tara Freeman of Zoe and me </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiv_mVp00Wjsk6GOPJJ2cbjmdkCbFixfvVnzUBpBnQnjasNhZjAI_F7mL4mrZ1WkC-x1_mMTOHj8PsRewzcldwbClPnK6az84Q4TWyg-5Fm99PQyG8VdCeZ94vNECvRJcnjnu2egJ0UQ0/s1600/DSCN0775.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiv_mVp00Wjsk6GOPJJ2cbjmdkCbFixfvVnzUBpBnQnjasNhZjAI_F7mL4mrZ1WkC-x1_mMTOHj8PsRewzcldwbClPnK6az84Q4TWyg-5Fm99PQyG8VdCeZ94vNECvRJcnjnu2egJ0UQ0/s640/DSCN0775.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I kept seeing this version of Zoe again, this exact face, in the last 10 days of her life</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF6mpf5Vvh8CyTA2xy1oafpkOqlT5A_WXd-q29eotHVVVbvbnb53mVLXjZ02CXRkgb7KpEncsEgueTqdjhfYqxNOqmyRyZEHw0ys6Pw3bjgOnAVh7k5XyksHHWFqu7MzZWWtTZbnNt2tQ/s1600/DSC_0558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF6mpf5Vvh8CyTA2xy1oafpkOqlT5A_WXd-q29eotHVVVbvbnb53mVLXjZ02CXRkgb7KpEncsEgueTqdjhfYqxNOqmyRyZEHw0ys6Pw3bjgOnAVh7k5XyksHHWFqu7MzZWWtTZbnNt2tQ/s640/DSC_0558.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Karen Strauss</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5gfBIc4a3D3VKpfJtBwDYP_uOyV_efka3EkQTcogGX-RfjFgkKBHJg1SN3CugRzgtrUy1ycFaiS334CuEr00tBkJWlUgqMvANemvdBN1X_wrNjNEjIGjuVsZSwvsbE7BN9bZ89FW0yw/s1600/DSC_0562.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5gfBIc4a3D3VKpfJtBwDYP_uOyV_efka3EkQTcogGX-RfjFgkKBHJg1SN3CugRzgtrUy1ycFaiS334CuEr00tBkJWlUgqMvANemvdBN1X_wrNjNEjIGjuVsZSwvsbE7BN9bZ89FW0yw/s640/DSC_0562.jpg" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Karen Strauss</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqHEhs9aaQWd1FIqeXC3Q1Luax93dxgeI_s5lePvL-qqM8DJAMGaT6A6LaslOiEnTI2FIKFJ3LAA0Oq-OBvxZejqLMCkB5JjMajJhgRkOV_zFZk1y-NoqKnttT4QzuMsW7tCpueVYE8vE/s1600/DSC_2386.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqHEhs9aaQWd1FIqeXC3Q1Luax93dxgeI_s5lePvL-qqM8DJAMGaT6A6LaslOiEnTI2FIKFJ3LAA0Oq-OBvxZejqLMCkB5JjMajJhgRkOV_zFZk1y-NoqKnttT4QzuMsW7tCpueVYE8vE/s640/DSC_2386.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Tara Freeman</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAd09vogok5w7epVR7itOsidNNnTWs4LSwirwQQb1qvUPfAtA5tpj4JkyWfUAKe900BnrobeSaVeTZlEcZfmdeGkorYoBZmCp51Moi48WLJrQeqy5avttMiySuonC_wQuJYhP7we-tv0M/s1600/DSC_2459.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAd09vogok5w7epVR7itOsidNNnTWs4LSwirwQQb1qvUPfAtA5tpj4JkyWfUAKe900BnrobeSaVeTZlEcZfmdeGkorYoBZmCp51Moi48WLJrQeqy5avttMiySuonC_wQuJYhP7we-tv0M/s640/DSC_2459.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Tara Freeman</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzukH6Y9LkcPCruEl-SgtLGc2jGnhhp2BzJOw0T_C3QZe-pcRjLibZT5E4GuyEe93JmONo0_M1jjOzvZXWLENDPus7WN6X-1ioiJ4_o0s7Tiw5bR8PzdS4nEeSgBAUHbKPL-S1uGv9dtk/s1600/DSC_2470.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzukH6Y9LkcPCruEl-SgtLGc2jGnhhp2BzJOw0T_C3QZe-pcRjLibZT5E4GuyEe93JmONo0_M1jjOzvZXWLENDPus7WN6X-1ioiJ4_o0s7Tiw5bR8PzdS4nEeSgBAUHbKPL-S1uGv9dtk/s640/DSC_2470.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Tara Freeman</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhijpbCqRunEdzvrTVokvZ5r5n5cK9MMdkvrYuHwE_3F0TARMpTvKgs5CJUuyXczC77hR4ZSCn-5020CRqVQaTEJr4hk-XgFv_UCPQnIKHrBfKk0SJy7zWV4-qbmwFwZ8tSvgcOcXcfFyQ/s1600/DSC_2948.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhijpbCqRunEdzvrTVokvZ5r5n5cK9MMdkvrYuHwE_3F0TARMpTvKgs5CJUuyXczC77hR4ZSCn-5020CRqVQaTEJr4hk-XgFv_UCPQnIKHrBfKk0SJy7zWV4-qbmwFwZ8tSvgcOcXcfFyQ/s640/DSC_2948.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Tara Freeman</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-ETzrPbIBGI1oCImM86gKOw08j8L-vFBeaob5WE0t10lY_DQns9-3vOW0eRLEjXSuqIgTJ0Ld6O2ESbRccN_XXgPfa2qYwBnJQhChMGzR7fVKQ63xEUQUlBU6f4QrcM3Sl0BV8OALpE/s1600/DSC_2956.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-ETzrPbIBGI1oCImM86gKOw08j8L-vFBeaob5WE0t10lY_DQns9-3vOW0eRLEjXSuqIgTJ0Ld6O2ESbRccN_XXgPfa2qYwBnJQhChMGzR7fVKQ63xEUQUlBU6f4QrcM3Sl0BV8OALpE/s640/DSC_2956.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Tara Freeman</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip3jqGANEoSU7hOJynU3m6Lz1xSc5ZdscEuRWkEFRQ_dGarTY8SA8EXlDmYOSLiHbXVPWn3r5t_F3hgu5Wy_36Ro0XDJxcRATjoit0Ow5nO5_UZZBkJnCqa5756jcTyE9zdc83-7yMRT8/s1600/zoe+and+i+are+talking.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip3jqGANEoSU7hOJynU3m6Lz1xSc5ZdscEuRWkEFRQ_dGarTY8SA8EXlDmYOSLiHbXVPWn3r5t_F3hgu5Wy_36Ro0XDJxcRATjoit0Ow5nO5_UZZBkJnCqa5756jcTyE9zdc83-7yMRT8/s640/zoe+and+i+are+talking.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe and me having a chat, photo by Tara Freeman</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8xps8dqWiAVFBPqMXbX7S1a17bzV5UeaqeVyP6RvyMih2YgXKOxFieDgIPtr-uUQhyphenhyphen1F-jwTWMTaY5IgbmlIihkBZk87kd1YCvGWLIXyacQ1DRRyCngkJCotrHGOty_HCxxYf3zkVMWQ/s1600/zoe+and+me+in+May.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8xps8dqWiAVFBPqMXbX7S1a17bzV5UeaqeVyP6RvyMih2YgXKOxFieDgIPtr-uUQhyphenhyphen1F-jwTWMTaY5IgbmlIihkBZk87kd1YCvGWLIXyacQ1DRRyCngkJCotrHGOty_HCxxYf3zkVMWQ/s640/zoe+and+me+in+May.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe and me in May, 2012, photo by Kelly Prime</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjChAK2F2xYHOfW9DHejmwMlGkRWg2oJdvF1A99a_AbaPgtfe8XsnHILtGDEXl4tkQBL_btzFVyK2Qur5G_SFHeMv3MJqPdYbsLkpmT7okoNjnhCqWtUN-zygBDmtXkqjSZMhWALB7F13Q/s1600/zoe+at+chemenceau.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjChAK2F2xYHOfW9DHejmwMlGkRWg2oJdvF1A99a_AbaPgtfe8XsnHILtGDEXl4tkQBL_btzFVyK2Qur5G_SFHeMv3MJqPdYbsLkpmT7okoNjnhCqWtUN-zygBDmtXkqjSZMhWALB7F13Q/s640/zoe+at+chemenceau.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe in front of Chenonceau, the Loire Valley, France, May, 2010</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNY9ik2VxZjtG_XdppmuJeL6g0MtIMU92PKAbD4PUg5n0NOqAutK7njkmSy2KR2pjaG-dGgFhLPd2D-VnDh-2qohSUYc8cXjuWtXUEpnxgNxbklOWtkWkmSPBRhfnWsbx-2OZcCSN0cWk/s1600/zoe+meditating2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNY9ik2VxZjtG_XdppmuJeL6g0MtIMU92PKAbD4PUg5n0NOqAutK7njkmSy2KR2pjaG-dGgFhLPd2D-VnDh-2qohSUYc8cXjuWtXUEpnxgNxbklOWtkWkmSPBRhfnWsbx-2OZcCSN0cWk/s640/zoe+meditating2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe at her meditation post on my balcony</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_FiBk42KJBq6CK9zIOv-n3cjWzWx9raaBEVSi6TH-taTsLi2vPKZFDFtsWTqTPQ14vogzNVlKzzYJzbY0kqnISIiAGVLIsz0UolIl7gdc1v1J_Xzq6FP8LcWmQ8Vwfu7QKt2KUyrf_k/s1600/zoe+on+day+bed.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_FiBk42KJBq6CK9zIOv-n3cjWzWx9raaBEVSi6TH-taTsLi2vPKZFDFtsWTqTPQ14vogzNVlKzzYJzbY0kqnISIiAGVLIsz0UolIl7gdc1v1J_Xzq6FP8LcWmQ8Vwfu7QKt2KUyrf_k/s640/zoe+on+day+bed.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">resting on her funky day bed, a ripped up old sleeping bag of our kids', in my studio</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5UFoL91ZskYFOcwG_vcSIJpp5Qoisa-vdCw_9pSXp5nR_1RXju1-wggvOfCFUY0yDL_sMq7mGweJXBygL_wPEaQWW7_yvilAl51uM3g_TPtKditNtj4Mkkrxzfc2MLX0rzkMeFZI41c/s1600/zoe+on+her+back.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5UFoL91ZskYFOcwG_vcSIJpp5Qoisa-vdCw_9pSXp5nR_1RXju1-wggvOfCFUY0yDL_sMq7mGweJXBygL_wPEaQWW7_yvilAl51uM3g_TPtKditNtj4Mkkrxzfc2MLX0rzkMeFZI41c/s640/zoe+on+her+back.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We lived for these moments when she would roll on her back and let us pat her belly</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiveEbzgOBgx1es0OnG_ihUwOgSwGGwZOBn_k0YAc8-tjOEOCaPFPkfHfFB2fNzH2d-3yJv8w8WdQ3Sxkz664xlW11KZ1Fa7vRXM2wiX3LI0PexdXp56cd7ImJ9Y7xJZFHGR3BQHY7GM0Q/s1600/zoe+with+stick+in+snow.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiveEbzgOBgx1es0OnG_ihUwOgSwGGwZOBn_k0YAc8-tjOEOCaPFPkfHfFB2fNzH2d-3yJv8w8WdQ3Sxkz664xlW11KZ1Fa7vRXM2wiX3LI0PexdXp56cd7ImJ9Y7xJZFHGR3BQHY7GM0Q/s640/zoe+with+stick+in+snow.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe in winter, her favorite season, after first major snowstorm of 2012</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpL0Kr99d3C1rLKG8XMxjA64eBctKSF19fDEN9ep1IV5Vk__1NxBEYyksHM3QiFkgv62f8Igbwe_D2qA2P72sIBPlPfAPcZx-JaQrdoWtvhb3WIlxfddJ3Zk5vdB9Fyi6qFKggTYnPNvo/s1600/snow!.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpL0Kr99d3C1rLKG8XMxjA64eBctKSF19fDEN9ep1IV5Vk__1NxBEYyksHM3QiFkgv62f8Igbwe_D2qA2P72sIBPlPfAPcZx-JaQrdoWtvhb3WIlxfddJ3Zk5vdB9Fyi6qFKggTYnPNvo/s640/snow!.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">February 12, 2012<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxEnlksehnv7c5bVru_pmpAwgnqSZn5FT-CTfTn_a26rWAXTWGDAOVcHu29VeeioosHBSClgGkgv56XnA6oK59-gz9-rhDC97VjmZKbbtojeJ-1KauaX6j77X5hpVp_NSSwkThl7dtFdE/s1600/DSCN0663.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxEnlksehnv7c5bVru_pmpAwgnqSZn5FT-CTfTn_a26rWAXTWGDAOVcHu29VeeioosHBSClgGkgv56XnA6oK59-gz9-rhDC97VjmZKbbtojeJ-1KauaX6j77X5hpVp_NSSwkThl7dtFdE/s640/DSCN0663.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe in the French Alps, late May, 2010<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I have more posts to write, gentle reader, but today I wanted to share the photo montage I keep seeing in my head as I try to come to terms with both my grief for my beloved Zoe and my gratitude for the beautiful days we've shared together, up to the very end. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The other day in an e-mail a friend quoted me from an early post when I said that sorrow's soft underbelly is made of the memories of the beloved that give us joy. (I think I said this more succinctly the first time!) These are a few of them in pictorial form. I have more coming soon, and more stories.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Thank you so much for reading and for sharing your own stories about love, mortality, dogs, and more.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Namaste. </span></span></div>
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</div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-20590092671310758752012-07-04T12:55:00.000-07:002012-07-12T04:53:30.925-07:00Part II: Day 68: Independence, and a Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeM4yoPqiCu5P_mydzET7538GZO6vb7MAowBGQf0D8S1-bktzjDRB2vMU8g6LCXH4xalmm4PnDTrhnKU-sDzhRhm_W930vDiKSUQf5OjIYqItxYLHhX53nyULEpMl7N7t80LaKjirvV74/s1600/kerry+and+zoe+head+to+head.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeM4yoPqiCu5P_mydzET7538GZO6vb7MAowBGQf0D8S1-bktzjDRB2vMU8g6LCXH4xalmm4PnDTrhnKU-sDzhRhm_W930vDiKSUQf5OjIYqItxYLHhX53nyULEpMl7N7t80LaKjirvV74/s320/kerry+and+zoe+head+to+head.jpg" width="213" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjELgDiF3MYLfekgh-C8GIpy2qqkWwEnljwGUszgPrHvH_vOf9hrINlXmNW-fOQdreJ3Lkb0rSJBeJuCB21QrRJGgeERXbJoa_ZcCd2KPAdZGxOeWJ1NT5ctVUhQcgYufSkjR4LSz0oAXc/s1600/z+in+grass+cutie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjELgDiF3MYLfekgh-C8GIpy2qqkWwEnljwGUszgPrHvH_vOf9hrINlXmNW-fOQdreJ3Lkb0rSJBeJuCB21QrRJGgeERXbJoa_ZcCd2KPAdZGxOeWJ1NT5ctVUhQcgYufSkjR4LSz0oAXc/s400/z+in+grass+cutie.JPG" width="400" /></a>So grateful today to have my sweet girl with me, a quasi-breeze in the hot weather, my husband with us in the grass, the triad of just three beings chillin', or trying to under a fierce July sun. The discovery that an ice cube down the spine of this hot black dog is the best thing in the world I can give her now, and that there's something I can still give her that makes her feel amazing. Another day and another chance to critter-watch with her: ground hogs, the river's duckling flottilla, robins, the great blue heron with his girlfriend, monarch butterflies. I craved this quiet time with just us and it is here, what I longed for with all of me. This being-ness. The sound of the river. That sweet moment in late morning at the top of the hill when I put my arm around Zoe and she leaned into me. The fact that she still peers at the world and at us with that keen intelligence and curiosity. Peace on a holiday I've always hated because of its insistent noise and triumphal attitude. Love beating in our hearts instead of a marching band, the thrum of it never failing even as things slow way down. Another day. Another day.<br />
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Another day.<br />
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<br /></div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-3105649274863922982012-07-03T05:02:00.001-07:002012-07-03T05:02:17.029-07:00Part II: Day 67: Just Be<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK7ijrum8Frn19eBAYjJjhAaQuPZ89XvV-d8GANbCrKXBEzCeTb708vi88ju6Y9LyvOmgRIR0s_hiQEphw0NzJFpnnq3xIgNSGUkMSpQsb48Z8nz2l18_HXdCBxFdnoXf4XUgrNOEY0Zs/s1600/zoe+in+grass,+june+24.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK7ijrum8Frn19eBAYjJjhAaQuPZ89XvV-d8GANbCrKXBEzCeTb708vi88ju6Y9LyvOmgRIR0s_hiQEphw0NzJFpnnq3xIgNSGUkMSpQsb48Z8nz2l18_HXdCBxFdnoXf4XUgrNOEY0Zs/s400/zoe+in+grass,+june+24.JPG" width="400" /></a>Zoe woke me up at 4:45 this morning with one little bark, and then we headed out so she could do her business, as they say. She tore down those stairs. Still has her priorities intact, although honestly I wouldn't care one bit if she gave up on the rules. I fell back to sleep near her downstairs and dreamed she was chasing a beagle up a steep hill, running at full speed. She's always in my dreams. The other night we were in London on a busy city street with double decker buses zipping past us. Sometimes my dreaming self forgets I have a dog, and then there she is. She's never on a lead, and my worry in the dreams sometimes is that she'll stray too far from me and end up in traffic. Or that where I'm going in the dream won't be a place where dogs are allowed in and that she'll have to wait for me for a long time outside. But we always find each other. She's always close. And for some odd reason, I've never checked in my dream to see if she has four legs or three.<br />
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She's in the grass now as I write. We were on the balcony, but something has upset her stomach and she wants to be close to the grass. My plan today is to just be with her without the distraction of writing, reading, or anything else. To just be. To see the world with her eyes, to follow her gaze to the tiger lilies lit up by the sun along my neighbor's stretch of river bed, the blue heron soaring above, the men working on the bridge across the river, the robins and squirrels, the shadows and light.<br />
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Namaste, gentle readers. Namaste.<br />
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<br /></div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-54025305358837807052012-07-02T07:22:00.001-07:002012-07-02T07:40:29.368-07:00Part II: Day 66: Clean Plates Club<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On Saturday Glenn surprised me with a wonderful message: he and James and the Divine Ms. Emily, their curly-haired golden, were driving out to see us on Sunday from Vermont, if we were up for their company. They wanted to see Zoe, and while they were at it, to spend a little time with us too.<br />
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If you've been following this storyline for a while, you'll know that Glenn and James had a dog named Milo who was Zoe's mentor while he was on this earth. Milo, the three-legged golden retriever, sometimes known as Milo Speed Racer because he traveled for many months of his life by go-cart, came into our lives via a former student of mine named Annie, who had worked with James at Green Mountain Coffee in Vermont before she and her husband joined the Peace Corps and headed off to Zambia. Zoe and I stayed with Milo and Emily and the cats and these fine humans twice this spring, in <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/04/part-ii-day-two-thanksgiving-in-spring.html" target="_blank">late March</a> and in <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/05/part-ii-day-25-zoe-and-friends-in.html" target="_blank">late April.</a> I don't think Zoe and I could have navigated through the world of canine cancer without their <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/05/day-ii-day-26-what-do-hippies-eat-for.html" target="_blank">advice on nutrition and medicine</a>. Last week, when Zoe announced that she was done with chemo and was going to do everything <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/06/part-ii-day-63-her-way.html" target="_blank">her way</a> for the last stretch, Glenn gave me a lot of wonderful advice on the phone and talked me off the ledge. He suggested Prednisone for Zoe's appetite and for relief from inflamation, and Tramadol for pain. This advice was immediately echoed by a number of other friends on-line. Because of these wonder drugs, Zoe rallied this week.<br />
<br />
But other things may be motivating her to hang out here for a while. I've written this week about the lamb dinners, the rib-eye steak, the extra acupuncture, <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/06/part-ii-day-64-more-inter-species.html" target="_blank">the visit with the cat, and the Reiki</a>. And I wrote about some of our sweet <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/06/part-ii-day-62-visitors.html" target="_blank">visitors</a>. Saturday night Zoe got to spend time with the other Milo in her life, the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who Thinks He's a Greyhound, when his lovely people brought over pizza and wings and we stayed out on the deck talking and drinking wine until the mosquitoes were stricken with food comas from feasting on us. I think the love blasting her way from so many sources is keeping Zoe interested in life.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2_w7QdHfKZI4vK-xgzOvA7A5mmoDpbp3gEP0UBOaQyglG_y6MawCMokHaojlMnys671n8HumIIuYENBoUH6sZyFBx2ln_fItAhkI5AaVWDsmG-HiqOurhaDJUDhfgjRYKQpeHr2_DIMI/s1600/IMG_5739.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2_w7QdHfKZI4vK-xgzOvA7A5mmoDpbp3gEP0UBOaQyglG_y6MawCMokHaojlMnys671n8HumIIuYENBoUH6sZyFBx2ln_fItAhkI5AaVWDsmG-HiqOurhaDJUDhfgjRYKQpeHr2_DIMI/s320/IMG_5739.JPG" width="320" /></a>I've written numerous posts about the delight my husband and I take in <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2011/12/day-four-how-sunday-became-my-favorite.html" target="_blank">Sunday lunch,</a> but we skipped it last week because I was working hard on my book and we missed it the week before because we were still at Chautauqua. I almost forgot how much fun it is to set the table in anticipation of a glorious feast. To prepare a few of the dishes the day before: the beet salad with wild blueberries, walnuts, parsley, and goat cheese feta; the lime and cilantro and jalapeno marinade for the grilled chicken; the lemon shallot olive oil salad dressing; Kerry's dry rub for the ribs and how his slow-cooking method fills the house with savory aromas.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYQmyYX1cvp0Xga0i1sTNJpZamubTmKRD8qC1BVGECwGaXsV5U8_RcA1gmA0cgFo0plW7k0kndCZxoiK7IAHwqei2gIry4F3xZh4P2uK7GJHJWrMeDLJ9CAFBfiZ3cz3PodfcHs830bas/s1600/IMG_5740.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYQmyYX1cvp0Xga0i1sTNJpZamubTmKRD8qC1BVGECwGaXsV5U8_RcA1gmA0cgFo0plW7k0kndCZxoiK7IAHwqei2gIry4F3xZh4P2uK7GJHJWrMeDLJ9CAFBfiZ3cz3PodfcHs830bas/s320/IMG_5740.JPG" width="320" /></a>Zoe has a unique relationship with each of our friends. With James and Glenn, whose energy is so calming and peaceful and nonjudgmental, she turns into a puddle of bliss. Other people inspire her to run, or sit up tall, or boss around their dogs, but with these two dog whisperers, she just eases down into the grass and welcomes in the love. They are the most patient dog-centric people I have ever met and I often drew strength from them this spring when I visited their house in Vermont and hunkered down on the floor beside the dog day bed, otherwise known as The Nest, where their two goldens ran the show.<br />
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Before we sat down to eat the two men gazed at the river with their dog and mine, and Zoe seemed to understand that there was something very special about this visit. She lay supine beside them, as relaxed as she is when someone has just done Reiki on her.<br />
<br />
But then she smelled the meat. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGlEh3X5gDSeUT4fH9o9YKgRIGSAOkjScK-LHddhwEGXIpGZiX-vuXkojDBsZM89h6AfEhz31crF4vef1GN0tVxnBOWzH6hvWgtsUh3rKxY4E9TrSWYlSUJj_9XpgarFY_jsouZpK0yvs/s1600/IMG_5745.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGlEh3X5gDSeUT4fH9o9YKgRIGSAOkjScK-LHddhwEGXIpGZiX-vuXkojDBsZM89h6AfEhz31crF4vef1GN0tVxnBOWzH6hvWgtsUh3rKxY4E9TrSWYlSUJj_9XpgarFY_jsouZpK0yvs/s320/IMG_5745.JPG" width="320" /></a>Later, Zoe and I lowered our full bellies to the ground and stretched out. For an hour I lay beside her in the grass. The wind kicked up again, and then it began to rain. The title for the tableau the dog and I made was The Art of Resting in the Rain. It was so soothing and lovely to just ease down onto the earth and feel that cooling mist of rain caress our bodies. I felt like a plate licked clean by dogs.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXyiqrn24gXqB2tz04K_rSzp0g19bBPuYMPEp7jDBqFx2tOeigNYoZZYb9Q_TuVp7y0mr8pPkb20ie_4mGC-J9YB6bYvrp3fmgT6tdgqv8OQgLDI6wIYfvxm5-k6PPL9CeT6WQqffVLVI/s1600/IMG_5752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXyiqrn24gXqB2tz04K_rSzp0g19bBPuYMPEp7jDBqFx2tOeigNYoZZYb9Q_TuVp7y0mr8pPkb20ie_4mGC-J9YB6bYvrp3fmgT6tdgqv8OQgLDI6wIYfvxm5-k6PPL9CeT6WQqffVLVI/s400/IMG_5752.jpg" width="266" /></a>In the evening, another car came up our drive. Zoe left her bunker under the deck where she'd sought refuge from late afternoon sun to run to our guests. There were Diane and Fred, bearing pepperoni dog treats (low-fat, Diane promised, because their boxer, Finn, has suffered bouts of pancreatitis after high fat feasts.) They never visit without treats. <br />
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So we sat down at the table on the deck and ate the whole meal <i>again.</i> While Diane and Fred entertained us with stories about ghosts in the house in Ireland they sometimes rent, the antics of a certain empathy-deficient brother-in-law (now even I can do a fair imitation of the man's whining), and a bizarre murder trial that took place last year in our county, Zoe understood that she was the reason for the visit, that she was the star of this show.<br />
<br />
I love how these two couples visiting us yesterday appealed to two
sides of Zoe's nature--and ours. Glenn and James sooth and comfort her,
and make her feel safe. Diane and Fred bring out the puppy in her; they are high-spirited playmates and provocateurs. Zoe feeling safe and
able to relax, Zoe charged and ready to play (or at least, beg for
meat): they are both sides of a dog who is still enjoying her life.<br />
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Later, Zoe stayed with me in the kitchen while I cleaned up instead of going upstairs with Kerry.<br />
<br />
There were still plates to lick from supper. <br />
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<br /></div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-47983933642138551542012-07-01T07:23:00.000-07:002012-07-06T04:53:10.255-07:00Part II: Day 65: Sun, Wind, Clouds, Birds<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have so many feelings swimming inside as I sit on the balcony on this Sunday morning. Zoe just tucked into a huge breakfast of Sojo's (a nod to the hippie/organic-fight-cancer-with full-vigor era) gussied up with leftover roast lamb and asparagus (the palliative care-inspired, make-your-dog-feel-like-a queen diet). For half an hour this morning, she joined the gentlemen's walk for the first time in a week. David was back from conferences in Botswana and France and Zoe got to see him and Maya, his golden retriever, the closest thing Zoe has had to a litter mate these past nine years. Kerry didn't want to push it, didn't want to give her lungs and that sore hind leg too much to do, but she was a normal dog this morning crossing the field with a beagle and a golden and pushing her snout into the pocket of one of her favorite human friends saying, "More please. Can I please have some more?" My husband says it was more of an amble than a walk, but hey.<br />
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We used to have a flock of turkey vultures who nested a couple houses down from us. They would send their young to flight camp, and you'd see them running drills above our yard, doing laps, crazy eights, letting an air current carry them up before they practiced the dive-bomb. Zoe, as a puppy, would see them up there and look at me, her face a grimace of doggy worry. "Can those big birds get me?" she wanted to know. "No way will I let them get you," I always told her, but until she weighed about thirty pounds or so, too heavy for a raptor's talons, I would take her in the house when they got close.<br />
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My neighbor Betsy thinks the vultures now have moved a few blocks over, to Cleveland Street. Her friend has woods behind his house that the big birds prefer to our block. Cleveland: the name also of the town I grew up in. At the <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/06/part-ii-day-58-literary-dog-gets-gig.html" target="_blank">Chautauqua Writers Festival</a> a lot of the writers attending were from Cleveland. One woman asked me to sign my memoir, and she asked if it was true, the sad epiphany I come to in an end chapter, that Cleveland holds too much pain and sorrow for me and I'll never go back. I told her that as soon as I left the conference I'd be getting together with the girls I grew up with in Cleveland, for a reunion we call <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/06/part-ii-day-59-dog-at-camp-baker.html" target="_blank">Camp Baker</a>, and that I would have been heading to the city itself as well for my third trip there in three years but I couldn't prolong the vacation because Zoe wasn't feeling her best.<br />
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Trouble flies by our houses like a big black bird. If you peer into those glistening obsidian wings you can always see the reflection of your own face. Best not to look too closely.<br />
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There's a lot of sickness suffering and death around us these days.<br />
<br />
A close friend, a breast cancer survivor, has, since I began writing this blog, undergone surgery and radiation to remove a small tumor from her brain, and she's now contemplating chemo as the cancer claims a toehold in her lungs. But she meditates for an hour each morning, tends to her garden, and finds ways to know peace. She is, in fact, a very steady, calming presence.<br />
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A colleague known for her fierceness and fearlessness and tough mama love died of brain cancer last week. I still can't quite believe that she's gone. I didn't know her well, but I will remember her as a fiery spirit: the sun in the solar system of her family and circle of friends.<br />
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Wednesday night a close friend's mother-in-law ended up in the ICU when her heart stopped beating. The family is reeling while they wait to see if she'll pull through.<br />
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We all want to draw some kind of wisdom from these illnesses and losses and shocks but when trouble like this looms large, flapping its big dark wings at us, language usually fails us. Fails me, anyway. For me, it's best to be soft and tender around grief. This morning I'm looking around here and I see that my plants need watering. I'll do that in a minute. Add some walnuts and goat cheese feta to the beet salad I made last night. Put the clothes in the dryer. Find some Miracle-gro for the pansies and snapdragons, which are looking more dessicated by the minute. Pet the dog.<br />
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Pet the dog! Honestly, when I went to bed Monday night I did not think she would live to share another Sunday morning with me. And here she is, watching the river, turning now and then to gaze at me. At acupuncture yesterday Amy Thompson said that Zoe's pulses were twice as strong as they were on Tuesday. Last night Danielle told me she thought Zoe seemed like her old self, and even her coat was shinier than it was when the week began.<br />
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But I know this is just a reprieve. Zoe pants harder now. <br />
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Today, on this warm but cloudy Sunday morning, there are so many things I'm grateful for. I'm glad, for one, that an insistent wind showed up on Friday and Saturday when the temperature rose. When we began doggy hospice week it was cool and rainy, Zoe's kind of summer weather, and when I heard that it was going to hit 86 degrees on Friday, my heart sank. I thought, my dog will be doubly miserable. Most days this week, we watched the wind. It rocked the willow tree, sent flower petals adrift as at a wedding, and it cooled us down when we sat in the grass.<br />
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I'm grateful for my friend Pam who told me not to try to do anything ambitious right now. To just sit with Zoe and breathe. Normally at this point in a project I would be working around the clock. The novel will be my solace in grief. Discipline and hard work are not difficult for me to manufacture. What's always come hardest to me--and what my zen-master with a tail has taught me--is to simply be present. To sit and be still. To notice the small things happening around me, like the robin that has claimed a spot in the grass near the hammock.<br />
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Zoe is moving around up here on the deck, looking for a spot to get comfortable. She needs something from me, and I wouldn't be here to help her if I was hidden away in my corner with my pile of books.<br />
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Yesterday our neighbor, Betsy, was out in her yard and Zoe barked hello. In my normal working-around-the-clock point of a project, I would have seen my neighbor and only waved. Instead I invited her to come up the balcony for a cup of tea. She's leaving soon for a trip to see her family. She loves Zoe and would not have had the chance to say good-bye to her.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixSsyMKuTKiEsZUhyjGNbeiaDwQ3LCDa9r925uiwBNpRdOd_vMIzODKucXLzf2Ow51gC9qEFf8WWgSDVeUHAOsTEKLMMyJ3SHhC9xVDZyKwKGMdVOiAVx_NsAruDXfykvmHDIf9LAlIRk/s1600/z+on+balcony+for+meditation+post.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixSsyMKuTKiEsZUhyjGNbeiaDwQ3LCDa9r925uiwBNpRdOd_vMIzODKucXLzf2Ow51gC9qEFf8WWgSDVeUHAOsTEKLMMyJ3SHhC9xVDZyKwKGMdVOiAVx_NsAruDXfykvmHDIf9LAlIRk/s640/z+on+balcony+for+meditation+post.jpg" width="426" /></a>On Friday when the local Reiki master watched Zoe's gaze drift to our neighbor's yard and then the river, she thought at first that Zoe was seeing entities that we couldn't see, like doggy ghosts. I said, "Well, there was a little dog Zoe used to play with. A cute Chihuahua who who was hit by a car when Zoe was still a young dog." I told Betsy that story, and she talked about how much she had loved that cute little dog. We shared a moment of missing him and I could picture him again, that cute little brown pup half the size of Zoe's head jumping on her and asking to be chased.<br />
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And we talked for a long time about the power of this week's wind. Zoe's and my solace this week was not such a great friend to Betsy. She had decided to de-clutter her house and she'd piled up some things of her daughter's that she wants her to take to her own home, or chuck. And then she took out archives from her own life: the photograph in the newspaper in North Carolina announcing her wedding engagement. The clipping of the photo from the wedding itself. She even had a clipping from <i>O: The Oprah Magazine</i> of something I wrote and published in 2001 about being a stepmother. She remembered my older stepson from a school group she led. At any rate, after she'd gathered up her life-in-clippings, and took out her daughter's box of mementos, she left to go on an errand, and when she came back she found out that all of these documents from her life had scattered to the wind. She found the engagement photo in her neighbor's shrub. She patrolled the nearby yards and salvaged what she could find. And then she had a good long laugh at herself. This is as an object lesson, she thought, but she wasn't sure what the lesson was, exactly.<br />
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My friend whose mother-in-law is gravely ill--as is her dad, and maybe her sister too--found a minute to read my blog this week. She's like that: no matter how hard things are in her life, she thinks of others. She wrote me an e-mail to say that she finds it moving to watch me try, with Zoe, both to hang on for dear life, and to let go.<br />
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I'm wondering if that's how we're supposed to live all the time. To hang on by loving fiercely, and not holding anything back. And to be ready at any moment to let everything go.<br />
<br />
Pema Chodron talks about living in uncertainty. She says it's like being at sea on a raft, and then the raft disappears. The local Reiki master who has now worked on Zoe twice visualized Zoe's voyage from the earth as a ride on a raft down the swift-moving Grass river, the river she gazes at for most of every day.<br />
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Above us, the clouds are clumped into a quilt that says nothing, that makes no particular shape I can read things into as I'm often inclined to do, but is doing its job by keeping us cooler than we would be otherwise. Zoe is panting anyway, and I need to check her out to see if something new is wrong, or if this is just her new normal. Love binds us now, as we breathe together, and will bind us still when she's gone. I feel the sun and wind and look above at the clouds and beside me, to this dog I love so much, and I feel so thankful to be part of all of this. All of it. Even the things that scare me, the things that I continue to hope will skip the house and fly by on big wings toward the clouds.<br />
<br /></div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-51397321161976557762012-06-30T06:27:00.003-07:002012-07-02T05:28:44.457-07:00Part II: Day 64: More Inter-Species Encounters<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVX9weLzjYTZfCuFnClzceejWNtkuTwTvs9e8xvXHwI_cXLPMzlfUjVGYt6OMFKrts6BQqp4ATJv7msaDx6UBNn49OXJ2T4R8LV2i5g6NSqp9n0IBdo0RNtNmosiCoZB1keDDrzGcbRV0/s1600/IMG_5654.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVX9weLzjYTZfCuFnClzceejWNtkuTwTvs9e8xvXHwI_cXLPMzlfUjVGYt6OMFKrts6BQqp4ATJv7msaDx6UBNn49OXJ2T4R8LV2i5g6NSqp9n0IBdo0RNtNmosiCoZB1keDDrzGcbRV0/s320/IMG_5654.jpg" width="213" /></a>On Wednesday, Zoe met a local Reiki master and shaman and photographer who poses by daytime as a bank manager. In true North Country fashion, this woman has at least four strings to her bow, and she also lives on a hundred acres of land in a landscape that some would describe as the middle of nowhere but is truly the middle of somewhere alive and wondrous, full of creatures with tails and plants that sometimes murmur advice.<br />
<br />
My friend Sandy did some Reiki on Zoe at <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/06/part-ii-day-59-dog-at-camp-baker.html" target="_blank">Camp Baker</a> and I saw how Zoe
both perked up and relaxed as my friend opened up the energy between
Zoe's heart and head and hind. She looked both startled, as in, <i>What is
this odd, cool thing?</i>, and relieved, as in, <i>I was wondering when you were going to figure out that I need this.</i> <br />
<br />
Zoe leans right into the local Reiki master the instant they meet. My shy girl presents herself
to this woman fully, but with one exception. She won't let her touch
her throat. I wonder about this. These are the muscles on Zoe's neck that she uses to hold her head so high, earning her reputation as a regal dog, but perhaps it's with these same muscles that she braces herself
and hides the pain. The local Reiki master finds the pain anyway.
It's mostly in her hind quarters: the torqued hip and leg. We'd been noticing
how that back leg seemed weaker lately, and the local Reiki master
thinks there's a hot spot there. I wish I'd been getting Zoe
chiropractic adjustments all along, since she became a tripod, like
James and Glenn did with Milo. The Reiki master works on Zoe's heart and lungs and
feels the congestion there, but tells me that even though Zoe has to
work hard to breathe in certain positions, she is not feeling pain in
that region.<br />
<br />
She closes her eyes to listen to Zoe.<br />
<br />
A minute later, she says: "She loves you. She doesn't want to leave you." We talk
about how I can find ways to communicate with Zoe to let her know that
I'll be sad when she's gone and I'll miss her, but she is free to go
whenever she needs to, and that it would make me much sadder to see her
suffer.<br />
<br />
"But the other thing is, I think Zoe likes it here a lot right now." It's
true. We've had one of the best weeks ever. And while we're having
this conversation, Zoe and the local Reiki master can smell the lamb
Kerry is roasting. Later, Zoe will lick her plate
and ask for seconds.<br />
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<br />
<br />
On Thursday Zoe fulfilled her lifelong dream to sniff the butt of a
kitty who didn't retaliate by scratching her eyes out. She even
kissed the cat, both on her nose and on her ribs, but unfortunately,
neither the cat's person, Rebecca, nor I had our cameras at the ready to film the
closest of these inter-species encounters, so you'll just have to take
our word for it.<br />
<br />
I wasn't sure if Zoe would be up
for this visit. On Monday and Tuesday we'd walked through the
neighborhood and she'd tugged hard, asking to go over to Rebecca's, but
by Wednesday we were confining our walks to the acre we live on so as to conserve her strength. But I
just looked at Zoe and said, "Do you want to go in the car to see
Rebecca and the kitty?" and she hopped in.<br />
<br />
I think Zoe
prefers the push-pull of the chase than to have the object of her
obsession offered to her directly, as Rebecca was doing. This fearless
cat the size of Zoe's head loved provoking Zoe by scrunching down to
places under low tables that she knew were too small for Zoe to follow
her into, and Zoe loved provoking the cat by squeaking her mouse toys. The
truth is, Zoe is still a little afraid of this cat. This was evident
in their staring matches, which Katniss always won. (For back story on Zoe's relationship with Katniss, go <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/06/part-ii-day-48-zoe-and-rebecca-and.html" target="_blank">here</a>. For more on Zoe with Rebecca and her cat, Webster and an evil cat Zoe met on the island of Corsica, go <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/01/day-27-zoe-rebecca-webster-interspecies.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV5E8wtyw0XMlYH3VbNSnrxEXQet91Cn5qVob2aszAJBdvWRxkJ5PieXvqfVO3RlMMMx3oOrNl1pnLOFjqDF6TCEDGYNdENdV1ri_mhFLx4dTJ8W0Ka2mo5GDltMRfsskiwnYQV34c7OU/s1600/IMG_5676.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV5E8wtyw0XMlYH3VbNSnrxEXQet91Cn5qVob2aszAJBdvWRxkJ5PieXvqfVO3RlMMMx3oOrNl1pnLOFjqDF6TCEDGYNdENdV1ri_mhFLx4dTJ8W0Ka2mo5GDltMRfsskiwnYQV34c7OU/s640/IMG_5676.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe begins each visit to Rebecca's by devouring a greenie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3cQATWfD2S-iKu_pHfE3jx5e4Ds2iHHoflXt8cO0q9CDY_XkFg1dH6fIkLWGBoVScgne7Ii-FXhzbHwUxIpoOlnjKeSCeCDp7hHHIqRPANE7nXXN9DuqLQHqk_uhqOWyc2G39laZYoP0/s1600/IMG_5680.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3cQATWfD2S-iKu_pHfE3jx5e4Ds2iHHoflXt8cO0q9CDY_XkFg1dH6fIkLWGBoVScgne7Ii-FXhzbHwUxIpoOlnjKeSCeCDp7hHHIqRPANE7nXXN9DuqLQHqk_uhqOWyc2G39laZYoP0/s640/IMG_5680.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Are you seeing the scale differential here between species?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCoct1YU8Rjv2cJ-VoIv2cu2aNBOfYINo11hI-d0mjpOW38Zl-Zejyvp5Zg4L6B5cLO-VkfLnx-qjG2AM607GEH8DLD06JRk4HZ7nFqAxmjxjIvqkHdTCZM7fX4WEBWdrakomqzOVEPDk/s1600/IMG_5685.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCoct1YU8Rjv2cJ-VoIv2cu2aNBOfYINo11hI-d0mjpOW38Zl-Zejyvp5Zg4L6B5cLO-VkfLnx-qjG2AM607GEH8DLD06JRk4HZ7nFqAxmjxjIvqkHdTCZM7fX4WEBWdrakomqzOVEPDk/s640/IMG_5685.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I see you!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4KtV0IamvsaVDoDGJ6PMT0wEKJxZ5Wrc9v0pLt_BWuhEdUn8_YW9rzo4B52q89kS5vfwSmDrOqI6iY6MMcSD8tWr3g_1CjPwIly7Hnh8KQFyqs0ssox8y5aO5DczvkInh1lR4aQmmPAY/s1600/IMG_5686.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4KtV0IamvsaVDoDGJ6PMT0wEKJxZ5Wrc9v0pLt_BWuhEdUn8_YW9rzo4B52q89kS5vfwSmDrOqI6iY6MMcSD8tWr3g_1CjPwIly7Hnh8KQFyqs0ssox8y5aO5DczvkInh1lR4aQmmPAY/s640/IMG_5686.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe and Rebecca and the fearless, freakishly calm Katniss</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpiTjLDe46LLbYQK0ep2uMmFvjxEd4yGKugityBQUw2Uzq6YJZPNQDgH3605_laStQGZOoyiUG2TitMazAN0LsqqA4bLF0cB4ColGI8jWlwWmVTs6RKfjz_yYWemZrCcNp2mTT9YtiQZo/s1600/IMG_5694.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpiTjLDe46LLbYQK0ep2uMmFvjxEd4yGKugityBQUw2Uzq6YJZPNQDgH3605_laStQGZOoyiUG2TitMazAN0LsqqA4bLF0cB4ColGI8jWlwWmVTs6RKfjz_yYWemZrCcNp2mTT9YtiQZo/s640/IMG_5694.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Try getting under here with that big bootie of yours! Ha!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmgJLCAbQ58qpW2SfAfunJutWLpDub5m4HBGeGpzWNJ5aptCT3de85yrMX_0mj7YKsQXMLn8zeKp_RaxWg53fH5qltaRUvqgBRL7lZ0YZIImBIxH2xCjD4zrgaeWPQcui8lz5bcOpfXvU/s1600/IMG_5702.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmgJLCAbQ58qpW2SfAfunJutWLpDub5m4HBGeGpzWNJ5aptCT3de85yrMX_0mj7YKsQXMLn8zeKp_RaxWg53fH5qltaRUvqgBRL7lZ0YZIImBIxH2xCjD4zrgaeWPQcui8lz5bcOpfXvU/s640/IMG_5702.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do you think they're going to make us pose with funny hats for a greeting card?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQKIhv6uVirZkVUKzNz7Ds9tNLzXZpuW6SrYEpxaC1BMDiQwKwo-DZ__T5f_hmp9T4Q1vYDixMxSrjDE6Z5Q-F7Kh9e2Qej03tfOT11MF4LoQLaUhQGGzmETz-Uo4XUtYicYPQDc0hEGk/s1600/IMG_5708.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQKIhv6uVirZkVUKzNz7Ds9tNLzXZpuW6SrYEpxaC1BMDiQwKwo-DZ__T5f_hmp9T4Q1vYDixMxSrjDE6Z5Q-F7Kh9e2Qej03tfOT11MF4LoQLaUhQGGzmETz-Uo4XUtYicYPQDc0hEGk/s640/IMG_5708.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's a dance</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhctP_3wpO8tUojA7wbDnvjCZIN_5kV3vFpJXGyf9tIC80XDdrROmbRqIh10oFdCHH_wMx5sGqP7AVOV9KLKhnX-9gK0iiDv7-PnXg8gDc5Ul9qFsmc8DgLllyS_B1ofps2sjhAqL9FIi8/s1600/IMG_5723.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhctP_3wpO8tUojA7wbDnvjCZIN_5kV3vFpJXGyf9tIC80XDdrROmbRqIh10oFdCHH_wMx5sGqP7AVOV9KLKhnX-9gK0iiDv7-PnXg8gDc5Ul9qFsmc8DgLllyS_B1ofps2sjhAqL9FIi8/s640/IMG_5723.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The kitty's paw eventually was draped along Zoe's head, but my camera was in the case then</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY7vp78n8EB5bQr-_-pRaJDEe7R_uBr4Xt0VGe61IZkZyE6lUhelHJQhD4vAOpBQyjcKpgulMCpn-tGSJ1HzJmrxx8D9JtAMk3fw9f_wdF3DChuNOl5JjjBmIn72hYOBqwKicjyw1ucy4/s1600/IMG_5727.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY7vp78n8EB5bQr-_-pRaJDEe7R_uBr4Xt0VGe61IZkZyE6lUhelHJQhD4vAOpBQyjcKpgulMCpn-tGSJ1HzJmrxx8D9JtAMk3fw9f_wdF3DChuNOl5JjjBmIn72hYOBqwKicjyw1ucy4/s320/IMG_5727.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
But finally, after they'd been in close(ish) proximity for nearly two hours, the two
creatures were friends. I think if we'd had more time a bit of snuggling
might have ensued, but a sniff and a kiss were such milestones that it
would be greedy for any of us to ask for anything more.<br />
<br />
Zoe celebrated this inter-species love-fest with ice cream at Morgan's. Afterwards, she walked around the park,
marker-peeing and saying to anyone who was interested that she was
having a great day. <br />
<br />
Last night the local Reiki master came over again, and this time she worked on me for a few minutes first and taught me some Reiki moves I can use on Zoe myself. Zoe ran right up to her when she arrived, picked a spot in the shade for us to begin, and waited while we talked, announcing her interest in the action to come by chewing a stick.<br />
<br />
"She feels good today," she said. "Definitely no worse than Wednesday. She's tired, though."<br />
<br />
"I don't think she's sleeping deeply enough," I said. "It's hard for her to sleep on her side now, whether it's the aching hip or where the lung mass is located, and when she sleeps on her side she sleeps her deepest and best. It's the only time she completely surrenders."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIK10NCfrrUGtLymCopefrSyjY24YwNSphFCkLY3ZbiHNT9kY9mRDwNQbS686E_Q5DRc-Y4BuPlI4ZFftRO75e9xdW50qEp_jmFUXOm2OqMboDnUWka2BSALrYSE61uHv6Kbx_6WbKhg0/s1600/IMG_5728.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIK10NCfrrUGtLymCopefrSyjY24YwNSphFCkLY3ZbiHNT9kY9mRDwNQbS686E_Q5DRc-Y4BuPlI4ZFftRO75e9xdW50qEp_jmFUXOm2OqMboDnUWka2BSALrYSE61uHv6Kbx_6WbKhg0/s320/IMG_5728.JPG" width="320" /></a>Toward the end of the session, Zoe was looking off toward the river. "It's either like a portal for her, what she's seeing, to the beyond. Or she just wants to go down to that river and get her feet wet to cool off." We followed Zoe's gaze. Later the local Reiki master suggested that I explain to Zoe that leaving this life will be like floating on a raft down that river she loves so much.<br />
<br />
But here's the thing: I believe what the people who can talk to animals tell me when they say that Zoe is afraid to leave me, afraid that I'll be heartbroken, and that it's my job to tell her she's free to go. But at the same time, whether it's the prednisone giving her a last boost, or the fact that our days this week have been so peaceful, she has seemed very happy lately and still her same old graceful, haughty, dignified, occasionally cuddly self. She is living her life exactly the way she wants to. On her terms.<br />
<br />
And besides, there's meat. Last night Kerry cooked three rib-eye steaks for dinner. Zoe was in the grass and we were on the deck, and she whined and cried until we invited her to join us at the table. She ate more steak than I did, with asparagus and chard, and I swear to dog I've never seen her look this ecstatic--not since she caught and ate the bunny. Afterwards she wanted to run down to the river she'd been staring at earlier, and while Kerry and I stood on the flat rock together and hugged, she leaned against us. Then she went in to cool down her paws and get a drink. I wanted those few minutes to last forever.<br />
<br />
I <i>always</i> want our moments together to last forever. <br />
<br />
I forgot to say that just when the session with the local Reiki master had ended, Zoe took a nap. She slept on her side and slept deeply. And last night I woke myself up a few times to watch her sleep. She usually is aware of me no matter how quiet I am but last night she only got up once when I did. I scooted over to the wooden floor to lie beside her, and a minute or so later she was asleep again in that position of surrender.<br />
<br />
This morning since we climbed the balcony we've seen the robin patrolling the yard looking for seed, and a squirrel, and then a moment or two ago the great blue heron swooped down to say hello. There's so much life around us and we have the best seat in the house.<br />
<br />
Am I bribing her to stick around a few more days with steak and ice cream and cats?<br />
<br />
Don't feel compelled to answer. I'm working this out myself. But I will say this: for whatever reason Zoe has rallied these past few days (and the prednisone is magically playing its part), she has blessed me repeatedly with that eager look I've known and loved these past nine years. <br />
<br />
I will never think there's enough time. But trust me, I'm content hanging out here with my dog right now on our back acre in the here and now, and when she says it's time to get on that raft, I'll find the strength to help her go.</div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-49129551273822028432012-06-29T05:39:00.000-07:002012-07-02T05:29:42.688-07:00Part II: Day 63: Her Way<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I remember when I was contemplating getting a dog I thought at first that I would find the right one by reading up on every breed and blend and then carefully picking the one best suited for my temperament and our lifestyle . . . in other words, when I was a completely different person, I thought there was a science to finding the right canine companion. <br />
<br />
I did worry sometimes that I'd be too much of a pushover and that the dog would not learn his or her manners and people would dread coming to my house because there would be this spoiled monster ruling the roost, jumping on the table, snatching ham sandwiches right out of people's hands, humping their legs, then chewing up their Italian leather shoes, perhaps with their feet still in them, peeing on their leather handbags, leaving her mark on the Persian rug, with me just leaning back saying, "Isn't she the cutest?" <br />
<br />
I got really lucky with Zoe. It took me two weeks and two nights to train her to tell me, reliably, when she had to go. She had arrived in our home in May to a glorious verdant late spring and she relished all that time we spent outdoors during housebreaking. After that, the only accidents we ever had were when I failed to hear her, when I didn't listen to her message, and those incidents were rare. The rest was, I see now, bizarrely easy too. She had sit and stay and heel down in a nanosecond, and we were soon ready for the world. She was never a chewer, she's never taken food from low tables, or gotten into things in the house that she shouldn't. She didn't jump on people when they arrived, and although she barks when anyone drives up to the house, she makes them feel welcome once they show her the proper respect and let her know that they understand she's in charge of this residence.<br />
<br />
But it became clear to me early on that Zoe would follow the commands I gave her only when the intellectual rigor of these games appealed to her. When she got bored, or when there wasn't anything in it for her (treats) she would come when she felt like it. We've rarely been in a situation where her being a haughty, independent, strong-willed dog has been a problem. She has never been skunked. She has only terrified me by running into the road to meet another dog maybe three times total in our nine-plus years. And when she wants to go a certain way on a walk, I follow. She is always good about heeling; I think she takes pride in it, now more than ever, especially since, as a tripod, it has been harder to go slow than to go fast.<br />
<br />
The Monks of New Skete warned against letting the dog think you're its butler, and that notion has always made me smile. I am not just Zoe's butler: I'm also her chef, nurse, workout buddy, traveling sidekick, health advocate, and now, increasingly, I hope, her confidante. She is my muse, and that's a lot of pressure to put even on a working dog, but other than turning away rather disdainfully sometimes when I try to take yet another picture of her, she has borne her lot in life with me with good will.<br />
<br />
So now we're trying to do things <i>totally</i> her way. I am hearing Frank Sinatra in my head: you know the song. She said no more chemotherapy drugs and we said, fine. Before that she said no more hippie-dippie raw food diet with Chinese herbs mixed in, and we listened. She wanted to see what regular dogs ate and we tried that for a month. This Monday she said no more dog food, I want only what you're having, especially the lamb, and now we just cook up three serving of meat and vegetables and try to take Sheri's advice about going easy on carbs, and she licks her plate and asks for seconds. I should have been tipped off last week at the lake house when Pam brought us moussaka and Zoe ate more of it than anyone. I'm still learning.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhib_kYa2jRCLS1GZA4QhZNoPxj1H5DU67FcWEttkIIDWtqcx4our72xntxyjLIEpn5-dHPcpB2x5ixJ-ZL14krUcciDlc23mt0BeG3JW0iaaFGTZhnrRi38DPo6dOcd8sljsy1MtYt-gA/s1600/IMG_5668.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhib_kYa2jRCLS1GZA4QhZNoPxj1H5DU67FcWEttkIIDWtqcx4our72xntxyjLIEpn5-dHPcpB2x5ixJ-ZL14krUcciDlc23mt0BeG3JW0iaaFGTZhnrRi38DPo6dOcd8sljsy1MtYt-gA/s640/IMG_5668.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">hello there, you</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtfndGcE2dx3FwyM3i9T9Fx7tkTAmPMpnqvYx1NluhA8kRP7jytaUf4wSbl1BoLAfZllfDE0vLPls6ZycCzgUnpg_Q4IzN4szbEqQ-X5303MIaDNiIAdnGkg16HCXkCVNdKSeNmeKFbO4/s1600/zoe+eating.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtfndGcE2dx3FwyM3i9T9Fx7tkTAmPMpnqvYx1NluhA8kRP7jytaUf4wSbl1BoLAfZllfDE0vLPls6ZycCzgUnpg_Q4IzN4szbEqQ-X5303MIaDNiIAdnGkg16HCXkCVNdKSeNmeKFbO4/s640/zoe+eating.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe eating with gusto fills my heart</td></tr>
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I don't have a lot of time left to become a good listener, but I'm trying my best. We still start our days on the balcony, and she takes pride in mounting those stairs, stopping to look at me en route for my praise. It winds her, and she pants afterwards, but then she finds a cool spot on the wood and rests her head on the rail and she's <i>there.</i> I sit with her, I post, and I even bring my meditation blankets out here and find a spot near her to do the honors. A little into the morning I make her breakfast, preparing the food I think she wants, and she eats with gusto. When the sun hits the balcony, Zoe wants to retreat to the shady spots of our yard. She picks where to be, and I sit a few feet away with my laptop or a book, but mostly I just sit. I pet her, then I give her space. The novel I've been revising for the past five months will be there when I'm bereft and need a new purpose in my life. So will the books I occasionally open and consider reading. Instead, I watch the breeze stir up the flower pots and notice when a pink snapdragon opens. I pay attention to birds. A lot of robins are in our yard these days. Now Zoe and I are watching Jeff do some sawing on our deck for the construction project. He just put in a new window that brought more light into the mud room. She won't be here when this job is done, but the fact that she's sitting a few yards from where the work is going on helps me believe she's still having her say in how the house shapes up, and that some proprietary part of her will still be sitting out here when the work is done.<br />
<br />
When I went to the Potsdam Humane Society in May of 2003, thinking I was beginning a systematic search for finding the right dog, I didn't notice Zoe at first. Most of her seven litter mates came up to the end of their cage to climb up and say hello, but Zoe stayed back resting with her head on her outstretched paws just as she is doing now as I write. She was known as the shy dog in the pack. The mellow one. The philosopher. I fell in love with her at first sight, but I also thought I <i>had</i> to rescue her because the people visiting would be wowed by the other cuddly, vivacious pups and would not give an aloof dog like her a second look. I found out later that two other people asked to have her right after I put down my name, and if I hadn't walked into the pound on that very day, at that very minute, I would have missed the chance to be her person.<br />
<br />
She was a little bit melancholy. She had trouble trusting. She didn't make eye contact easily. And my oh my, when she did finally look directly into my eyes, I was a goner. And still am.<br />
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I told myself I was channeling the Monks of New Skete by picking a shy dog. I thought it would be easier for me to be the alpha pack leader with a retiring little pup who sat off to the side thinking deep thoughts about the meaning of life. But actually, I learned, she was simply demonstrating her independence by separating herself from the crowd. She's not a follower. She is her own brand.<br />
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I love being her butler, chef, attendant, nurse, companion. Today, when I brought Zoe out a bit of Poly-MVA (known to shrink tumors, but at the least, to boost energy and the immune system; as you can see, certain old habits die hard) with a smoked salmon chaser, my husband and I were just finishing lunch on the deck. I said, in mock culinary speak, "The dog will start with smoked Wild Alaskan salmon in a light broth of Poly-MVA" and Kerry said, "The real question is this: is the broth frothed?" No, but the dog was salivating when she saw it, along with the tastes of pâté and goat cheese I brought her on a plate as a midday snack.<br />
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So here's where we are. We're at peace. We're content right now, this dog and me. My job is to just sit beside her and listen. That's painful sometimes because her breathing is getting labored. She has trouble getting a deep breath sometimes, like all our human friends with asthma, but then she's okay again for a while. Watching her breathe and listening for when it gets too hard is my only job at the moment. The prednisone is helping open up her lungs a little, and helping her find one last blast of energy and appetite to fortify her for the journey ahead, but it won't do its magic for long. <br />
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Right now she is watching Jeff carry out a ladder to the side of the house and she's smiling. "This is our house," she seems to be saying. "We're glad you are here to be part of things."<br />
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And so we sit and watch the world go by and breathe together. She's in charge. She's always been a dog who did best when we did things her way, although sometimes I have forgotten and imposed a few elements into her regime that I thought would help her live longer and better. But from the moment we met, I've been her person and serving her has given me more joy than anything I've ever done in my life.<br />
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She'll be in charge of when she leaves this house and goes out into the universe. Until then I'll keep sitting beside her watching and trying to learn all I can to do right by her. <br />
<br /></div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-45736041077551449662012-06-28T05:54:00.000-07:002012-07-02T05:30:11.325-07:00Part II: Day 62: Visitors<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It starts Monday afternoon. Erin comes over to say good-bye to Zoe and me. Erin and her family are off to the cottage until August and in our ideal world their sweet dog, Max, would still be alive to run on the beach with them, and Zoe and my husband and I would join them. We would eat watermelon on the deck and spit seeds at each other, and we would all swim, and Zoe and Max would compete for the sticks we'd toss, but they'd sometimes swim to shore together with the same one in their jaws.<br />
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Instead we humans have to make do with a good talk and a cup of dandelion tea. But it's enough to lift our spirits, and not long after the visit, Zoe wants to walk, and eat, and tell me a thing or two about how she'd like things to be run around here. This visit marks a turning point. We started this day with such sadness, but after Erin's visit Zoe understood that we had heard her and we kind of eased into this new phase of our life together with grace.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe adores Erin.</td></tr>
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Eve and Blue arrive on Tuesday afternoon at 3, around the time we'd normally be thinking about a long walk along the river. Zoe is so excited to see Blue that she chases him downstairs and back up again, and that's how I first hear and witness "the cough," the dreaded sign that the mass in Zoe's lungs is interfering with her respiration. Well, we knew this was the case a few days ago when Zoe started stopping en route on walks a few times to pant and catch her breath when she went uphill, but now we're onto something bigger. But our vet tells us a couple hours later that this doesn't quite mean The End. When Zoe coughs like that when she's at rest, doing nothing at all, and when the cough interferes with her sleep, we'll know. Plus, Zoe took those stairs to greet her old friend like she did as a pup. She was so happy to see him and his person; her mad tear up and down the stairs to herd Blue was her version of dancing a jig.<br />
<br />
Here's how it is for her: It's like she was an Olympic runner and all at once she woke up with the lungs of a two-pack-a-day smoker, and she's just trying to learn how to move again. Later I will tell this story to Danielle and Steve and Steve will say it's like when Lance Armstrong first got on his bicycle after chemo. He'd think he was pushing hard, going as fast as he could, and then "a little old lady would fly right past him."<br />
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Danielle and Steve and Milo, the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who Thinks he's a Greyhound, pop over just after Amy Thompson has finished giving Zoe acupuncture. Milo has a hard time finding a comfortable place to rest in my studio, and Danielle wonders if he senses that things have shifted for his friend, the big black dog with the wolfy face who used to herd him: if he feels the impending loss. Zoe is sleepy from the acupuncture so she elects to go out to the balcony to rest.<br />
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My husband is having hip replacement surgery on July 10, and Danielle offers to come over sometime after that and make a nice dinner for us, partly in honor of Kerry's birthday which is later in July. Danielle is one of the best cooks we know. We were originally going to go to dinner at her and Steve's house on Saturday but now we just can't make plans, and before we could even tell her this she sensed it. Normally when we go to her and Steve's house she has a bone waiting for Zoe, and all the dogs lick our plates. Now it seems unlikely that Zoe will be up for leaving the familiar, the comfort of her domain, so the party will come to her--but only if she's up for it.<br />
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I feel so lucky to have such kind friends. And it lifts our spirits, Zoe's and mine, to have visitors. Zoe snuggles against our friends, or offers them a paw, and the presence of others lets this sweet dog know that there's still a world outside our house and yard even though, since yesterday, she hasn't been up for heading out there. I like to think it lets her know that her people won't fall apart. That she can go when she has to, that she doesn't have to stick around just for us.<br />
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Last night my husband said to me, "Would you like to go away for a few days if . . when . . ." and then the sentence trailed off. It was such a kind, sweet offer. We're both kind of tapped out financially now. He suggested a couple places not far away, one that we've been to in Essex, Vermont, that is connected to the culinary institute, and do you want to know, honestly, my first response? Before I could say it, I was thinking, 'That's a good choice. They take dogs."<br />
<br />
I'm going to have my work cut out for me.<br />
<br />
But I don't have to do it just yet. For now, Zoe and I are camped out on the balcony watching the river. The fat groundhog mama just visited, although she thinks of himself, I'm pretty sure, not as a visitor but as an inhabitant. A hawk swooped above us last night and did a few loops around the yard and we were enthralled. And although we're all just visitors to this planet, I feel very lucky to have claimed this particular spot on a cool morning in late June with a smart, sensitive dog whose snout reaching over the rails picks up the scent of every creature in our vicinity, and whose big, tender heart keeps teaching me more ways to love her even now. She's snoring, and that sound as she visits the land of dreams is as comforting to me as the sound of the river flowing past.<br />
<br />
Another day. How lucky we are. The gift of another day . . . <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blue and Zoe</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They have been friends ever since I took Zoe home to live with us</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe and I were so happy to see Eve, and I was happier still to see Zoe this happy</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When I first brought Zoe home, Eve bought me a pet advice newsletter and was my go-to person on all kinds of pup matters. She and Zoe have always understood each other.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_UC9w4t_IMeMrKpnjH_sSVrzePe_H5dJHYYooxT03HZ6vRJM50gBOqRY9LuoBdc3xnJ_90RqoVSiRzL0fN4813zAZ5QDZzNbdCo-oFJjxS2ryqu0E1rf4mZAWk9pv2RAikz9omj_TPcs/s1600/zoe+and+milo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_UC9w4t_IMeMrKpnjH_sSVrzePe_H5dJHYYooxT03HZ6vRJM50gBOqRY9LuoBdc3xnJ_90RqoVSiRzL0fN4813zAZ5QDZzNbdCo-oFJjxS2ryqu0E1rf4mZAWk9pv2RAikz9omj_TPcs/s640/zoe+and+milo.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo of Milo and Zoe taken by Danielle Egan; I didn't have my camera out to capture their sweet visit on Tuesday<br />
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</div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-6426585845765968202012-06-27T05:46:00.003-07:002012-06-27T05:46:30.150-07:00Part II, Day 61: A Pretty Good Day, Considering<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Amazing how the new normal can be a peaceful place after an attitudinal adjustment--or two, or three. So Zoe spoke on Monday and we heard her. No more anti-cancer drugs, no more walks at set times, no more dog food, no more activities that Zoe doesn't choose. That's our non-plan of a plan, and we've eased into it and set up camp there.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg2CxdCZlT0b5WtmMM4uJZ7Sz8BljoUTxltLPuZHmddXLZqWgkNMosep65V5LYxP2gcdArApGYcSk8Tzj_0nDewL-4Z8_-1bP4zXmVDok62017iGsJEXrjKtumLi1VgztErChQj8KhJxo/s1600/IMG_5614.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg2CxdCZlT0b5WtmMM4uJZ7Sz8BljoUTxltLPuZHmddXLZqWgkNMosep65V5LYxP2gcdArApGYcSk8Tzj_0nDewL-4Z8_-1bP4zXmVDok62017iGsJEXrjKtumLi1VgztErChQj8KhJxo/s400/IMG_5614.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kerry and Zoe</td></tr>
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She perked up in late afternoon and asked for a stroll. My husband and I put her on the leash and headed off in our usual direction, and even though we always think she has more fun off the lead, she seemed delighted to be out there in the 'hood with us, observing our neighbors' lives. She marker peed on various shrubs and lawns, delivering her triumphant, alpha Zoe-was-here graffiti with gusto, and as usual she wanted to pull her way up to Rebecca's house to play hide and seek with the kitties. When we steered her right on State Street instead of left, she wanted to stop in to see her friend Milo, the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who Thinks he's a Greyhound, but his people's cars weren't there and we told her she would just have to make do with us as sidekicks.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk0RKENvLyWVqt_vUCQz_HfgOq828qY9Gzz5n-uP24X5QEsjquGAFlo6ftInk-H0VZZT5fSuiMqTLjnH7Mzjca8XIL0F16oLrQ3hGDjW3zl3WnQ8988svbx3Kibw2g3stMFKjqomTaHt8/s1600/IMG_5602.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk0RKENvLyWVqt_vUCQz_HfgOq828qY9Gzz5n-uP24X5QEsjquGAFlo6ftInk-H0VZZT5fSuiMqTLjnH7Mzjca8XIL0F16oLrQ3hGDjW3zl3WnQ8988svbx3Kibw2g3stMFKjqomTaHt8/s400/IMG_5602.JPG" width="400" /></a>On the way back down Riverside we passed the house where after an ice storm that became a blizzard this winter we saw a woman outside shoveling snow so her husband would be able to get their truck up the drive. We'd all lost power that day and she was staying warm by keeping her driveway clear, but she was worried about her child and their cat in the cold apartment. If the power didn't come on again that night, they'd be in trouble. Even with all her worries, she had stopped to pet the cute three-legged dog and admire her dexterity in this crazy winter weather. Now she said, "I remember how much energy and strength your dog had that day, the way she plowed through feet of snow and wouldn't stop. The way she walked confidently through all those snowdrifts. She was the most powerful thing out in the world that day." It was such a kind thing for her to say, and now she and her little boy were patting Zoe, doing their own version of a laying on of hands, wishing her some good last days. (I wrote the story of Zoe's first encounter with this woman in January in a post called "A Meditation on Power," which you can see <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/01/day-38-meditation-on-power.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLdIsQav-vqtlQpNuGOdFUnghqrY_8dTQ7FuM8SEQdcYWAdIoA0hP2-udw3-9qL_PHxbKTU_yklZv6Kru0Z-9zTUXfiZWeBn59OmzRUBIMA3-8vOlPxAZNXebGa93bD89GifCEzsoF9fI/s1600/IMG_5624.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLdIsQav-vqtlQpNuGOdFUnghqrY_8dTQ7FuM8SEQdcYWAdIoA0hP2-udw3-9qL_PHxbKTU_yklZv6Kru0Z-9zTUXfiZWeBn59OmzRUBIMA3-8vOlPxAZNXebGa93bD89GifCEzsoF9fI/s320/IMG_5624.JPG" width="320" /></a>Afterwards our vet, Amy Thompson, came by to see her and to drop off pain meds for when she needs them, if she needs them. Zoe barked and wagged her tail and followed her into the house with great purpose. Amy said, "Well, she may be putting on a show for me, but I think Zoe still has lots of Xi in her--a good, strong pulse." We made plans for her to come back on Tuesday and treat Zoe with acupuncture needles: the first time
she would ever be doing this solo, without the Vermont Dr. Thompson. After the visit, Zoe ate for the first time that day. I think that once she realized we really got the message that the anti-cancer drugs were getting hard on her stomach, and she understood that we've ditched them, and that we'll give her whatever she wants, she was keen to tuck in.<br />
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Tuesday morning Zoe opted to hang out on the deck watching the house instead of walking with the gents, but then we took a stroll in late morning around the backyard, startling the groundhogs, admiring the wingspan of the great blue heron, playing a slow-moving kind of hide and seek in the tall grass by the river. For most of the day afterwards we sat on the balcony together except for when rain chased us inside. She ate a late breakfast of browned hamburger (organic, local) and grains and watched the river flow by our house while I brought my laptop out there and sat beside her. When the rain came, we went back in and had a long and very honest conversation. I lay down beside her and she presented me with her paw, as in, <i>Nice to meet you again</i>, as in, <i>We've done okay, you and I</i>, as in, <i>We can do this part well too, we really can</i>, as in, <i>Thank you</i>. For a long time it was a contest to see who would break the gaze first. Her stare is very intense and in the first round, she won, but in the rematch we tied.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOzlm9eW8tDj8-w00pcqYoMfwD1n-I_9V7KFIB7ktI7V1UsbK2oUKZgwaMGfG310fzk2VuDsdEKb5bXJtQ-ylBfaSPQpp79BG9iujrERnOlK7ouLnH7CW9RRf1q3wh7nLewAnK2fPbQnM/s1600/IMG_5645.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOzlm9eW8tDj8-w00pcqYoMfwD1n-I_9V7KFIB7ktI7V1UsbK2oUKZgwaMGfG310fzk2VuDsdEKb5bXJtQ-ylBfaSPQpp79BG9iujrERnOlK7ouLnH7CW9RRf1q3wh7nLewAnK2fPbQnM/s320/IMG_5645.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. Amy T and Zoe</td></tr>
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I talked to Dr. Bravo in Ottawa, her oncologist, and she faxed over a prescription of prednisone to my vet, which many advised is good for the last days because it gives the dog a last boost of appetite and spring in her step and joie de vivre before it's time to say good-bye.<br />
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At five o'clock Zoe enjoyed another stroll through the neighborhood. She met a young chocolate lab on the corner of Riverside and Prospect and it was such a sweet encounter. They stood a few inches apart from one another wagging tails for the sniff-fest, and then they gently tapped snouts. Later, Amy came over with the prednisone and her acupuncture needles and Zoe relaxed into a good session on her doggy day bed. She looked content and peaceful when the needles went in, and afterwards she napped out on the balcony.<br />
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I think, from Zoe's point of view, the best part of this new phase is getting to eat what she wants. We cooked her lamb chops from 8 o'clock ranch and served them on her organic grains mix and some wild rice with beet greens and she devoured every bite. We've got wild salmon from Alaska in the freezer for her, and tonight she'll get what we're having on a plate.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP_u40SO1lOiNt9_V64LVziJxAhCwHZ5mKMNyrRSMOTr2JD6WfNDG1o5ngHWoKcUi5HshMzI_SlMbYH5dbDUI8Y1kSUtYcoLuHXZLBuJj87vGmWFEF0Lzf_1CiAsmDV8kXdLTN-GO-ies/s1600/IMG_5627.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP_u40SO1lOiNt9_V64LVziJxAhCwHZ5mKMNyrRSMOTr2JD6WfNDG1o5ngHWoKcUi5HshMzI_SlMbYH5dbDUI8Y1kSUtYcoLuHXZLBuJj87vGmWFEF0Lzf_1CiAsmDV8kXdLTN-GO-ies/s320/IMG_5627.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is our office now</td></tr>
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So now it's Wednesday morning and we're on the balcony together, where we'll be all day today when we're not taking a leisurely short walk in the yard or in the 'hood. When she looks up at me it's as though I were her sculptor and she were posing, or maybe she's the artist and I'm her model. We know each other's every expression, every head tilt and tone of voice. She clearly knows we've moved on, into uncharted territory, but I think she also understands that even as I sit a few feet away from her, with every gaze, with every breath, and now, with every stroke of my fingertips at the keyboard, we're together.</div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-72933107038682124922012-06-26T03:00:00.000-07:002012-06-29T06:25:59.745-07:00Part II: Day 60: Slowing Down<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ82HH0Ia4p1R5OEE_q0F73jhCSGgiCD7fq5GMCY6E08LxMvJef-ymuIA3zu4KOWaF-zP_9l9lW_Aw9eiSFAi2hcf1CpFBAN7FzxdPaqzM5puCbwfzVL8aEqsTHffQqantuwbwPuKFBuQ/s1600/IMG_5574.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ82HH0Ia4p1R5OEE_q0F73jhCSGgiCD7fq5GMCY6E08LxMvJef-ymuIA3zu4KOWaF-zP_9l9lW_Aw9eiSFAi2hcf1CpFBAN7FzxdPaqzM5puCbwfzVL8aEqsTHffQqantuwbwPuKFBuQ/s320/IMG_5574.jpg" width="213" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN-Oae6AmR8AVDjwnats-Z-owEcI-E-5D1t6ihF643NUgrlbFL_B_6BDZMdVoIDtKWOA8U3n2V_d9PlGpoio1ScUOb7twgxvJSaUYtM4zZdHvqJrbGOb07PkopcR4gxlBOrCp5Pq5kFDA/s1600/IMG_5539.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN-Oae6AmR8AVDjwnats-Z-owEcI-E-5D1t6ihF643NUgrlbFL_B_6BDZMdVoIDtKWOA8U3n2V_d9PlGpoio1ScUOb7twgxvJSaUYtM4zZdHvqJrbGOb07PkopcR4gxlBOrCp5Pq5kFDA/s320/IMG_5539.JPG" width="320" /></a>A few people along the way have warned us that Zoe's decline could be swift. We think that's what's happening now. At Lake Finley she sometimes planted her paws and did her "hell no, I won't go" early on a walk, but it was 95 degrees and we were in a place she didn't know. "The real test," I told my friends, "is how she is if/when the weather cools down. If she's reluctant to walk far on the gentlemen's walk, we'll know that she's slowing down."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVL1UhCfOh96JQN_hqpmFl0jheUf83gn8QH29jI7Sv7G675haJS-QEfGj3AZMGvzkKg72r2PNzchr-xfLmVjWCC701Er4NLacB7NRwYD8G1HjpyqHuJERVZrH_YBfMv6IMa1MBY9gXTPQ/s1600/IMG_5580.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVL1UhCfOh96JQN_hqpmFl0jheUf83gn8QH29jI7Sv7G675haJS-QEfGj3AZMGvzkKg72r2PNzchr-xfLmVjWCC701Er4NLacB7NRwYD8G1HjpyqHuJERVZrH_YBfMv6IMa1MBY9gXTPQ/s400/IMG_5580.jpg" width="266" /></a>We noticed as soon as we got home that her breathing was getting more labored when she ran up a hill. She is panting now for much of the day. And although yesterday she ate seconds at breakfast and dinner, when she woke up today she went on a hunger strike. And when Kerry drove her out to the join the gents for the morning constitutional, she said quite firmly that she would prefer not to.<br />
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And then the good news: when she came home from the walk, she ran to the door to my studio and asked to be let up. It's a steep walk up many stairs, but she wanted to be up there on her post on the balcony watching the river flow by. She still seeks solace in nature, and in stillness. And whenever anyone walks up to her and she's awake, she wags her tail.<br />
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We think it's time to think about palliative care. Doggy hospice. I don't want to leave the house or do anything other than sit by her side on the grass when she's awake. But even then, I don't want to overdo it. Sometimes another's intense love is a burden, isn't it? She's such a brave, resilient, strong-willed dog, and I don't want her to be afraid to go because she thinks it's her job to look after me, her person. Kerry and I will have to make her as comfortable as we can and then let go.<br />
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It's been a year since I came back from India and noticed that she was limping. A year of long walks along the river through summer grass and fall leaves and snow and ice and trillium and now more summer grass. A year of morning meditations on the balcony, of romps through the backyard, lovely get-togethers with friends, and the writing of countless dogcentric mini-essays, journal entries, blog posts.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitZFbMsz8IJaPPPYJC7bCa6iSFdmDuhiAnOamKOMNZKthSoWjdtuZA13rkm7MdAkNxlPPg8S3xkRp66t6q5xZPAb5oE7AGJsid2xBxu5A_h3QvNygIRI5eb7y2pTPfFnS1vUdZNMDgnnU/s1600/IMG_5582.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitZFbMsz8IJaPPPYJC7bCa6iSFdmDuhiAnOamKOMNZKthSoWjdtuZA13rkm7MdAkNxlPPg8S3xkRp66t6q5xZPAb5oE7AGJsid2xBxu5A_h3QvNygIRI5eb7y2pTPfFnS1vUdZNMDgnnU/s640/IMG_5582.JPG" width="640" /></a>Yesterday Zoe and I sat together for a long time on the balcony at first light. We saw a doe run to the river to drink water and cross over to the other side. Today the groundhog babies did a kind of shuffle across the lawn, not concerned at all that we were above them looking down on their shiny brown heads. And now as I write the wind rocks the maple tree at my window, keeping Zoe cool as she rests in the grass.<br />
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I look out the window and she looks back up at me, entirely herself, queenly and cuddly at once. And so I'll end here because she's awake and I want to sit beside her for a few minutes on the cool grass and enjoy hearing what she has to say while I still can.</div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-64965756908442898752012-06-25T05:48:00.001-07:002012-07-02T05:30:53.937-07:00Part II, Day 59: A Dog at Camp Baker<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's soupy-hot as we make our way to Lake Findley for the girlfriend reunion, otherwise known as Camp Baker.<br />
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Sandy and Stephanie and Herta come running out to greet us, and Zoe snuggles up to them right away. It's a relief to see her wagging her tail, eager for the next adventure. We worried about this road trip. Five weeks ago our oncologist gave Zoe a prognosis of one month to three. When she survived the month-mark we still thought it might be hard on her to be in a car for six hours, then shuffled between hotel and lake house with all those stairs and all those new people in hot weather. She's always been a good traveler, but on the last car trip we took, a month ago, to my sister's--the Memorial Weekend Meltdown one week after the sad oncology visit--Zoe cried the whole way there, and I wanted to.<br />
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But she sat in the back seat as my husband drove her to Chautauqua with nary a whimper. She was feted at the <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/06/part-ii-day-58-literary-dog-gets-gig.html" target="_blank">Chautauqua Literary Festival</a>, roamed and swam, and now she is making fast friends with the girls of Camp Baker. She's our mellow, cuddly girl this week--no signs of being stressed. She's just hot--we all are--and would just like some cool water and a bit of shade.<br />
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Herta, I think, was the one who named our summer get-aways Camp Baker. This is because we were all classmates at Newton D. Baker Junior High, in Cleveland, Ohio, then lost track of each other after high school. When each of us wanted a pal to nudge under the table because someone in our vicinity--in Minnesota, Indiana, Delaware, Seattle, Massachusetts, or Cleveland--was saying something that reminded us of, say, the art teacher who used to intone, about magenta, "Some people like it, some people think it's kind of wild" we had only our own shins to kick. None of us stayed in touch. When we graduated, most of us broke our ties with the past, even the ones who returned to Cleveland to work. When one of us recalled the time Herta and others (I think Sandy and Pam were both in on it) wrote "This School Blows" on the back of my sister's campaign buttons when Mira ran for class president, and Herta almost got suspended, and had to get on the P.A. system to apologize and tell the whole school that her mother was punishing her, big-time, by having her scrub all the walls in the house, we had to tell the story to civilians without assistance from the team. (This was a symbolic punishment, akin to washing out one's mouth with soap and water, we were meant to understand; although Herta did not know what "blow" meant yet, our principal told her and her mother that the word was "pornographic.") Now that we are reunited we each have our own details to add to the saga.<br />
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This is the third gathering of Camp Baker--my second because I was in France with Kerry and Zoe for the first, in the summer of 2010.<br />
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For Pam, who arrives later with her tasty homemade moussaka and marinara sauce, it will be the first. Herta was the last to see her--in the early 80s. I don't remember seeing Pam after 1974, when she had piled up enough AP credits to graduate early, as did Herta. Herta worked for a while as an air traffic controller. Pam became an engineer. Before that, when Pam married at 19 the same guidance counselor who tested all of us in grade school to determine if we were smart enough for "major work," Cleveland's answer, circa 1970s, to enrichment programs, those of us who knew about it were worried. Now it occurs to me that whether we liked and trusted him or not, this man was the reason we all became friends. When kids seemed bright, their teachers referred them to him. He was the one who tested our IQs. If we scored above a certain number, we got put in these great classes where we began studying foreign languages by age eight and nine. We went on field trips to the Cleveland Art Museum and got tickets to hear the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra. Our art and music classes were among the best in the state. I don't want to sugar coat anything about this confusing era--Pam reminds us how parents in most houses she knew were taking Valium, and only Sandy and Steph knew just how severely ill our mother was--but it's an odd moment for me to realize that one thing we all have in common is the recognition by this one particular individual that we were smart enough to earn the keys to the kingdom. It's a direct line, one could argue, from that test in a guidance counselor's office when I was eight, to the ten trips to France I've made since grad school, including the one with my husband and Zoe that lasted seven months. We all remember seventh grade French class and the chic, gamine young French girl with the Vidal Sassoon haircut who assisted our teacher. Sandy and I invited her as our guest for the home ec Bring Your Teacher to Brunch. She sat at our table and ate the coffee cake we'd baked. When we made skirts in home ec (I got a D--sewing was never my forté), we wanted to design outfits like our French role model's.<br />
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These days, most public schools don't start kids on foreign language until eighth grade or so--far too late for the kids to become bilingual.<br />
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Rosemary is coming, also for the first time. She lived on Grapeland Avenue, the street my sister and I passed when we walked to elementary school--a street that I still see in my dreams although in them the houses look bigger, as they did in childhood, and the trees are taller than they ever were. She is not a Baker babe, as we call ourselves; she went to St. Mel's, the Catholic school in our neighborhood that we all called Saint Smells, right through the eighth grade. We were in the same high school junior year, but that's the only time our paths crossed. <br />
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But here's the miracle: Rosemary knew our mother. Not only did she remember her from the neighborhood, but as a nurse practitioner committed to serving the poor, she helped found the homeless shelter our mother sought refuge in for the last decade of her life. When Rosie thought of treating street people, helping ease their mental and physical suffering along with providing them a safe bed for the night, my mother was exactly the kind of person she had in mind. In later years she saw our mother at the shelter. She made sure she was okay. (For more information about my sister, Mira Bartok, our mother, and the memoir about our childhood my sister wrote, <i>The Memory Palace</i>, go <a href="http://thememorypalace.com/#home" target="_blank">here</a>. To learn more about the women's shelter that was later renamed for our mother, go to a post I wrote in January, <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/01/day-30-two-weddings-book-launch-and.html" target="_blank">here.)</a><br />
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And when Sandy committed her life to treating at-risk babies, children of drug addicts and of the mentally ill, she says she often wondered what it was about my sister and me that allowed us to thrive. She is now the acting director in her unit at the county hospital--the same hospital where my sister and mother and I went for our health care: i.e., the place that took Medicaid. Sandy remembers wheeling me out of that hospital, drawing on her old candy striper skills, after I had surgery there the June after we graduated from high school.<br />
<br />
Steph and I met when we were six. She lived across the street on Triskett Road, and all through grade school we spent all of every summer day together. We rode bikes, played Cold War-inspired spy games, and ran back and forth between her house and our apartment and our grandparents' house a block and a half away where we would climb fruit trees, run in the fields behind them, put on skits for the neighborhood, and play School--with me as teacher: my warped idea, then, of fun, and neither she nor my sister had the heart to unseat me from my dictatorial pedant's throne. Steph indirectly led me to yoga when she taught me all the stretches she was learning in gymnastics class. I loved her dachsund, Penny, and she loved Ginger, our collie/shepherd mix, the recipient of all my secrets. Steph was tiny and nimble, with hair long enough to sit on, and when she moved to Strongsville, Ohio in high school my sister and I never stopped missing her.<br />
<br />
Herta and Sandy and Pam went to a different elementary school, and when we all met in seventh grade in our A.P. math and science and English and dreaded home ec classes, I thought they were the coolest girls in the world. They had better taste in rock music than I did. They knew about Crosby, Stills, and Nash, whereas I was still stuck on Neil Diamond. They had boyfriends before I did. Herta would pay us to eat gross stuff we mixed up in the cafeteria--jello, mystery meat, orange juice, milk. She was funny and smart, an inspiring public speaker, and should have won the all-school competition for poetry recitation with her rendition of Poe's "Annabelle Lee" but some boy we didn't know won instead. She was robbed.<br />
<br />
Cathy, my sister's best friend, has just retired. In the thirty years she taught special ed, and then fourth grade, she affected the lives of some of the toughest families in the city. These were kids who had been abused. Kids with special needs and not enough resources in the school budget or in the home to help them achieve. A product of a great public school education, she witnessed its starvation due to budget cuts at the federal, state, and local level: she was in the trenches through its slow decline. She survived No Child Left Behind and all the crazy rounds of tests and testing and more until she finally had enough. She hopes she'll find a new career to take her into the next stage of life. She's thinking about doing something at a park. Something with trees and creatures instead of children who are suffering. She wants to sleep through the night and see what that's like.<br />
<br />
When I reminded Steph how our teachers would write our IQs on the roll and that I checked once, and hers was the highest of all the girls in sixth grade, she said, "Then why didn't anyone say to us, you're going to go to college. I wonder what I would have become if my parents had told me this and said, we're going to pay for it." She got a nursing degree and was married and working by 19. Now she's ready to find out what else she can do. Like Cathy, she's thinking of finding a job in a park. She is an amazing gardener, and has done the flowers for her kids' weddings. Her kids have doctorates, and she could too, but no one told her that was an option for her. Not in Cleveland, circa 1970s, even in our excellent public schools. We may have learned French, French impressionism, and seen George Szell conduct Mozart and Bartók at Severance Hall, but Cleveland was slow to catch on to the women's movement--at least in our little corner, on the West Side. Our sex-segregated lunch line at Newton D. Baker Junior High was a case in point. The boys ate first, then filed out of the lunch room, and we marched in while the assistant principal patrolled the halls, checking the lengths of our skirts. Home ec was sex-segregated too. No girls took woodworking. Mrs. Fields, who taught clothing, was a Stepford Wife with helmet hair, and we knew only that we didn't want to be her, but not who we wanted to become.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We went to a skiing lodge in the hills of Western New York for a walk.</td></tr>
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So here we are now. Two nurse practitioners, both of whom love their jobs, have major managerial responsibilities and work thirteen-hour days; a ready-to-retire nurse in search of an epiphany; the department coordinator of the classics and history department of a well respected liberal arts college; a retiring elementary school teacher; a disgruntled engineer who has been laid off more than once in the economic crisis and is afraid that she won't be able to finance her health care as she ages. Plus there's this dog and her person who loves words. If they wanted to, the medical gals could be physicians, but they are way more excited about the way their field is going, and how soon there will be a doctorate degree in their nursing specialties. As recognized experts, they'll be teaching the teachers. The department coordinator could be department chair but she's busy conducting her own history project--interviewing her aging father about his life before and after World War II. The engineer could be an executive at Boeing but she's more interested now in the career of her gifted college-age daughter. They're all bright and accomplished, highly competent women, but what matters to them most are other things: social justice. Their kids. Their gardens. Their health and the health of their siblings and their surviving parents. The state of our nation and our world, which they all find shaky. The nurse is going to Nicaragua soon to volunteer her services at a health clinic. She's ready to do more than what she does now, which already sounds like too much.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx17QdwrugEc-mhp04ml7uCtennizuH9fKSWm1A4OAsjQw8jaXzLd7E7OiJ3om4nF4ibvSe4PKPPZ_yW4osQNipYA6UrEhukvlxNKvyCKJK_PTr0lyPBKwxyVszTKKY5MALSKFWkL9M_g/s1600/IMG_5510.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx17QdwrugEc-mhp04ml7uCtennizuH9fKSWm1A4OAsjQw8jaXzLd7E7OiJ3om4nF4ibvSe4PKPPZ_yW4osQNipYA6UrEhukvlxNKvyCKJK_PTr0lyPBKwxyVszTKKY5MALSKFWkL9M_g/s640/IMG_5510.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big paws up to <a href="http://www.pinejunctiontavern.com/" target="_blank">Pine Junction</a>, a Lake Findley restaurant that let us bring Zoe to their outdoor patio for dinner. She helped the non-vegans in the group eat their burgers and fries.</td></tr>
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In this crowd, Zoe basks in love. She laps up Pam's moussaka and asks for more. Baker Babes scratch her belly and her ears. They tell her she's gorgeous and good. "Such a good dog! Such a great dog! So mellow! So tranquil to be around!" They sit beside her in the shade and tell her she's the most beautiful and wise and sweet dog in the world, even though some of them have dogs waiting for them at home. We take her on slow walks around the lake houses, eat with her on the deck, watch the flying squirrels and hummingbirds flit around our heads, and meanwhile, in Camp Baker form, we seven catch each other up on the last thirty-some years. We drink and we laugh. We share book lists and health tips. We exalt in the miracle of just being in one place at one time.<br />
<br />
Pam will write me a message when we're both back. "I can see how Zoe grounds you, and you ground her. How lucky you were to find each other." <br />
<br />
It's true. We have had a great life together. Zoe has slowed down considerably in the past two weeks. We don't have much time left. And now that I understand that this trip to Camp Baker was our last vacation together, ever, I'm so glad we got to visit these wise, compassionate women I knew in a time and a place when even though we weren't encouraged to take over the world, we found power in climbing the fruit trees in our yards, with another herding dog nipping at our heels, urging us to climb higher.<br />
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<br /></div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-92115401307801496242012-06-23T03:30:00.000-07:002012-06-25T13:15:08.412-07:00Part II: Day 58: The Literary Dog Gets a Gig<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe in front of the Athenaeum Hotel, Chautauqua, with her male human</td></tr>
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For the first time in known history, Zoe has been granted entry to the <a href="http://www.pw.org/content/chautauqua_writers_festival" target="_blank">Chautauqua Writers Festival</a>. She has a room that she shares with her two human attendants in the Victorian hotel, the <a href="http://www.athenaeum-hotel.com/" target="_blank">Athenaeum,</a> on the first floor, across the hall from a student in her person's workshop--a young woman who, like her instructor, sees metaphors everywhere, even in the parking lot, and is writing an essay about a wasp that terrified Darwin because it laid its eggs inside a spider's abdomen and the creature was churned inside out.<br />
<br />
When things that belong on the inside are outside it gets scary: ulcers, skin ruptures that look intestinal, parasites, alien embryos, intense emotions--like the kind that a memoirist relives, never exorcising them completely, through writing. <br />
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At the picnic before the reading a clump of admirers have gathered on
the grass to love up this dog. They praise her beauty, her sweet ways,
her proffered paws, her polite begging technique, her lean-in hugs. After her person gives the dog bites of pulled pork and chicken, the nonfiction festival director takes care of dessert. The lovely tattooed poet who is writing about her relationship with Rilke gets teary-eyed talking about her writing mentors, including this festival director--how they not only nurtured her muse, but how they also found her and her small children a place to live and gave her the will to live when she was in the lowest place ever. Zoe's person's eyes fill too, and Zoe notes that this is a place where people really share things, essential things, life-affirming things, and not just pulled pork and pie. The tattooed poet has lived with cats but is drawn to Zoe, she says, because she can see something special about her, something soulful and wise in her eyes that transcends speciesdom.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosp93-31HymqVWazj8wp3AAX5ClWCN4RHRXtgcuGDtu7hCJkjYc-ABC1T9FDEHZw_lFeRFF4BHPPbXJZZtsPZLOVtk4YVlspMa-23Bcp8cxw4P_C0aECx3R5F0J-SZxiq6E_u-4P16i0/s1600/IMG_5340.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosp93-31HymqVWazj8wp3AAX5ClWCN4RHRXtgcuGDtu7hCJkjYc-ABC1T9FDEHZw_lFeRFF4BHPPbXJZZtsPZLOVtk4YVlspMa-23Bcp8cxw4P_C0aECx3R5F0J-SZxiq6E_u-4P16i0/s640/IMG_5340.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe with Diana Hume George and Traci Morell</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh9Ut76_3XzK2S_i8Qy04IcU7O_COJgAmrk2RfdcGG7R9xIPpqV5I3XAKz-au1uZqmypf3TSS5ay-BANTL6piIOmlPNKEh5JRY2EBvZCVxA0fzromnUxRljPKJ58G_0_nldsz0oWe0Sq4/s1600/IMG_5334.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh9Ut76_3XzK2S_i8Qy04IcU7O_COJgAmrk2RfdcGG7R9xIPpqV5I3XAKz-au1uZqmypf3TSS5ay-BANTL6piIOmlPNKEh5JRY2EBvZCVxA0fzromnUxRljPKJ58G_0_nldsz0oWe0Sq4/s640/IMG_5334.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erica Sklar and Zoe are in love</td></tr>
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One of the student interns, a talented nonfiction writer, has veterinary science training. Zoe's person took to her at once, and Zoe adores her so quickly, so instantly, that it's hard for anyone else to get her attention. The two submit to a photo shoot, but would rather just commune without all the fuss.<br />
<br />
Zoe has a lump on her neck that is seeping. It was the size of a golf ball before the road trip began, but it's shrinking. Her people keep patting it down with disinfectant, but then it bleeds. Even though an oozing growth isn't easy on the eyes, the writers pet her anyway, complimenting her on her lustrous black coat, shiny after being groomed, although one poet at the barbeque suggests that it might be a good idea for her person to wash her hands before she goes to the podium because there's blood on it, which is probably also metaphorical, but not in a good way. Because Zoe looks so good it's hard to believe that something deadly is growing inside her. These lumps are the internal made external, even if they aren't harmful--her local vet doesn't think so, but really doesn't know--so they are the focus of her human attendants' administrations. It comforts them to help make something shrink when other things are so beyond reach.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWHcdTjq3ZgwV5LQeU-hs9wbX4adsXXYYBMNs5JBNzdfDaqoCMyhoL32Eudt3G_DA8Wjw7JxtiazyblMbO65gh5gozmpxPRAO8WTVQ29O_XRla-arEE9HPuu_b0etCyEyYz_xzAXMxnwM/s1600/IMG_5366.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWHcdTjq3ZgwV5LQeU-hs9wbX4adsXXYYBMNs5JBNzdfDaqoCMyhoL32Eudt3G_DA8Wjw7JxtiazyblMbO65gh5gozmpxPRAO8WTVQ29O_XRla-arEE9HPuu_b0etCyEyYz_xzAXMxnwM/s400/IMG_5366.JPG" width="400" /></a>At the podium, before her person reads, she tries to explain to the audience how Zoe came into her life, how this dog's cancer has changed the way she thinks about time, and how she expected to fall in love with her dog but not like this-- so deeply, completely, helplessly. She says something about how when humans adopt dogs they risk their hearts because they know they are devoting themselves to a creature with a lifespan that is normally much shorter than theirs, and when that lifespan is limited even more by a disease . . . Around the room, a few people, she will find out later, are thinking about their own pets and trying not to cry.<br />
<br />
Zoe is seated in the back row of this crowd with her male person. The two humans have wondered how Zoe will comport herself at this event. This dog is fabulous at parties and weddings. If
people are speaking, delivering toasts, reciting vows, promising to love
each other in sickness and in health, feeding each other cake, opening champagne, dancing to bad Eighties music, she is the perfect
guest. Retirement dinners are okay too. She likes listening to embarrassing tidbits about the retiree's thorough e-mails, idiosyncratic office attire, and generous deeds at the copy machine. But if it starts to feel too much like a classroom to her, she whines. <br />
<br />
Case in point: her person took her to the final day presentations at the
<a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2011/12/day-11-reunion-with-new-friends-in.html" target="_blank">Adirondack Semester in December</a> and at first she thought it was a party
and did what she does: quietly made the rounds, leaning into the
people who clearly needed to snuggle. But when the talks went on for just a tad too long, or the blue sky beaming into the window lit up the spot
where she stood, she decided it was time to play in the snow. Her sighs went stereo. They could be heard in every corner. She was
like the kid with ADD who taps her foot and sighs extravagantly when her person delivers a lecture.
"Gee, I'm sorry. Was I boring you?" said person is always tempted to say.<br />
<br />
Zoe's person tells the assembled that it could go either way depending on what Zoe thinks is going on here: party or
school. This is, of course, a great challenge for a writer at a reading. Well, it's both, one wants to
say, if the purpose of literature really is, as Horace once told us, to
delight and instruct: <i>plaire et instruire. </i>Can you say the same thing about a blog? Can a blog be held to the same standards? We don't know. This is the first time Zoe's person has read something that hasn't been published, let alone shared the posts from this corner in the oral tradition. It's a little scary. Like wearing something that belongs inside, outside. Underwear, say. Or maybe a nightshirt, like the one with down dog paw prints that her friend Rebecca gave her one year for her birthday.<br />
<br />
When she hears her name, Zoe whines audibly. All human heads turn to look at her again. What has she decided? Does she want to stick around?<br />
<br />
She does.<br />
<br />
It doesn't hurt that all the people smell a little like pulled pork. <br />
<br />
Although Zoe's person rehearsed and timed her reading, and was able to get through five posts in her allotted 20 minutes when she practiced in her room, when all is said and done, and done and said, and heads have turned to admire the dog in question again, and again, the writer in this corner only has time for three posts: <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/04/part-ii-day-nine-under-wild-apple-trees.html" target="_blank">Under Wild Apple Trees</a>, <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/04/part-ii-day-16-bark-and-soul.html" target="_blank">Bark and Soul</a>, and <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/05/part-ii-day-32-which-way-do-we-go.html" target="_blank">Which Way Do we Go?</a> She wanted to end with <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/05/part-ii-day-40-pink-twilight-sky.html" target="_blank">Pink Twilight Sky,</a> but hey, the clock has ticked. There is never enough time. <br />
<br />
Zoe listens respectfully to the whole thing, never making another sound, and for a mad instant her person wonders if the two of them might be able to take this show on the road. Maybe they could stop at other dog-loving literary venues. Maybe other dogs could come too.<br />
<br />
Then it's over, and the amazing, dog-loving Puerto Rican-American poet, Martin Espada, is coming to the podium. He will rock and sway, sing and chant, performing poems about immigration, and childhood, and his childhood muses, and the staff at Windows on the World, many of them undocumented workers, who lost their lives in September 11th, and no one will be the same afterwards. It's going to be one of the best poetry readings this dog's person has ever attended. Just before he goes on he'll tell Zoe's person that he lost his dog to cancer last year, and he and his wife still haven't gotten over it. <br />
<br />
And Zoe will miss every minute of it. Someone will leave the room and Zoe will tug at the lead to follow. She's had her fifteen minutes of fame and now it's time to stalk the other Chautauqau dogs out for evening strolls along the lakefront, rest beside the fountain, and lap up a drink at the Victorian hotel.<br />
<br />
She's been inside among warm bodies for too long, and the outside beckons. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFQBPFZ5N1CA4aPb3mK7Vx25AJI0-D-7pMrH0KHk2huFeq6ZEFiwSKbE7UNTmdEN33A9EPyDi8zHi2m0pigFo6HTCpXgssQoxtpCakZCRohp93aFM4m9w6z6XQMeIc64Kdr5jbr49A2I0/s1600/downsized_0616021559a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFQBPFZ5N1CA4aPb3mK7Vx25AJI0-D-7pMrH0KHk2huFeq6ZEFiwSKbE7UNTmdEN33A9EPyDi8zHi2m0pigFo6HTCpXgssQoxtpCakZCRohp93aFM4m9w6z6XQMeIc64Kdr5jbr49A2I0/s640/downsized_0616021559a.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kerry Grant, Natalia Singer, Zoe, Kristine Newman, and Ruby at Chautauqua, photo by Diana Hume George</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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P.S. The dog's person would like to thank the kind and generous Sherra Babcock and Kristine Newman and Diana Hume George at the Chautauqua Writers Festival for opening all these doors to Zoe and making her feel so much at home. Kristine even brought her dog over for a play date and swim to tire Zoe out before the reading, and gave her a toy. These dog-lovers are beautiful humans and Zoe and her person are grateful to have them in the pack.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikyrjgG9W2erI8mlfDHwSFE5Ym9IATYJm-weA-nGyCJMCnrjdltPOT0wxZ5sioKGX3LxaMC0IuTUK7cA_B02cRiqmcbPgDXIf3G1SgOphUq_45MPbbpUA7DP5FU3sCEVjMD21ih24m8Z4/s1600/IMG_5415.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikyrjgG9W2erI8mlfDHwSFE5Ym9IATYJm-weA-nGyCJMCnrjdltPOT0wxZ5sioKGX3LxaMC0IuTUK7cA_B02cRiqmcbPgDXIf3G1SgOphUq_45MPbbpUA7DP5FU3sCEVjMD21ih24m8Z4/s640/IMG_5415.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chautauqua is supposed to be about the life of the mind, but for this dog, it's the life of the body. And in particular, the head scratch . . .</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<br /></div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-71490715623873247432012-06-22T03:00:00.000-07:002012-06-22T03:43:20.759-07:00Part II: Day 57: Summer with Zoe<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The first official calender day of summer was on June 20, and on that day Zoe watched my friends and me do yoga on a boat launch deck at Lake Findley, New York. She thought it looked like a lot of work for such a hot day, so she napped in the shade. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglmUv6lOiAUb3XQMM3WjElCZzm2AigPzRGgY0EthyphenhyphenlapVErTQeB8M8s55pmB0CrlDnlRKRo0tD-yvKTtOWeqKdhxO_ISdL9URD2ZXM_gDkwtP8B3BVKQEU1V8z0_f7puZ0V4iUawSxszU/s1600/IMG_5534.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglmUv6lOiAUb3XQMM3WjElCZzm2AigPzRGgY0EthyphenhyphenlapVErTQeB8M8s55pmB0CrlDnlRKRo0tD-yvKTtOWeqKdhxO_ISdL9URD2ZXM_gDkwtP8B3BVKQEU1V8z0_f7puZ0V4iUawSxszU/s640/IMG_5534.jpg" width="426" /></a><br />
Zoe is back to watching the house, barking at the wandering hound who just roamed past the house as I began this post, swimming in the Grass River, and enduring my endless photo shoots on the lawn.<br />
<br />
In the past week Zoe has:<br />
<br />
eaten barbeque at a picnic for writers at Chautauqua, where she was cooed over by poets and memoirists and novelists and fed bites of pie by an essayist and literary festival director;<br />
<br />
attended a literary reading for which she was the subject;<br />
<br />
watched a wedding procession accompanied by Scottish bagpipes at the <a href="http://www.athenaeum-hotel.com/" target="_blank">Anthanaeum Hotel</a>;<br />
<br />
strolled through pre-season Chautauqua paths and bridges and grasses; <br />
<br />
met six women who spent time with her person in elementary school, junior high, and high school in Cleveland, were well-acquainted with her predecessor, Ginger, the family collie/shepherd mix, and know where all the bones and bodies are buried, what books were read, which teacher had eyebrows like caterpillars, which ones were in the closet, which ones made sexist remarks, which ones made us want to learn, how weekends were spent and what music was playing--think Joni Mitchell, James Taylor, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young--and who kissed which boys and when, where, but not always why, definitely not always why;<br />
<br />
dipped her paws into two Western New York lakes;<br />
<br />
witnessed the dare-devilry of flying squirrels; <br />
<br />
dined out at in the outdoor seating area of a restaurant, reliving her glory days in France when she was served water before her people got their drinks; <br />
<br />
illegally entered a rest stop in the Finger Lakes because her person had to pee and thought they both should get ice cream and was not going to leave her in the car in 93-degree weather;<br />
<br />
was discussed, petted and admired by many.<br />
<br />
The stories and blog posts continue tomorrow . . .</div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-81472875577148341442012-06-13T03:00:00.000-07:002012-06-13T03:45:02.586-07:00Part II: Day 56: Watch the House!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When Zoe first came into my life I got a lot of my first lessons in dog parenthood from Doug, my sister's husband. He could tell from looking at Zoe, even when she was only a little twelve-pound bundle of tail and paw, that she had a lot going on in her head and that she needed a job.<br />
<br />
"When you leave the house, just say, 'Watch the house,'" he told me. The implication was that when I left her to go to work, I wasn't leaving her for long, and I was entrusting her with an important job. The implication was that I'd be back, that this was just a brief good-bye. "Dogs have separation anxiety or they get destructive when they're left alone for two reasons. Either it's because they don't get enough exercise, or it's because they don't feel needed. Working dog breeds like Zoe need both."<br />
<br />
Zoe's main job is to watch me, just as my main job is to watch her. But she is possessive of our house, and when I'm not around for her to manage, this work distracts her, I hope, and gives her a sense of purpose. <br />
<br />
We never asked for a watch dog, never felt the need to scare people away from the house, but we like that Zoe feels useful. She sits at her post outside the door and supervises the construction project going on there as men work on our house. She rests under the deck when she needs a nap or it gets too hot, then bolts out like a shot when another dog saunters past her domain without her prior authorization. She alerts us to the presence of groundhogs, porcupines, and foolhardy cats. We know when the UPS guy arrives or a friend or the pizza guy because she is always on the job.<br />
<br />
So now I have to be away from her for three whole nights. The kind people running the <a href="http://www.ciweb.org/writers-festival/" target="_blank">Chautauqua Writing Festival</a> were willing to break the rules and let Zoe be there with me the entire time, so at first my husband and I thought we would attend the conference as a trio. But I am going to be working all day until bedtime, and we decided it would be better for her if she sticks to her routines at home for a few days longer. She and my husband will arrive on Saturday.<br />
<br />
I'm planning to drive away this morning while she's on the gentlemen's walk because it's so hard and painful to say good-bye, even for only three and a half days. But if I'm still there, packing, I'll say, "Watch the house! I'll see you soon. Watch the house!"<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMr3CTtstIBGljXVh043hIsgPnrNNiiUQmi0h6PZuof2DkdZ9lgdGMTVddsAwT24HMSfc9yoTufqLXM7FRNyzGKPLNHSBEP7zCwApXD0ferz6vT5nXiT3X5wXqCuTxge1F_Vbo_IpI58c/s1600/IMG_5321.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMr3CTtstIBGljXVh043hIsgPnrNNiiUQmi0h6PZuof2DkdZ9lgdGMTVddsAwT24HMSfc9yoTufqLXM7FRNyzGKPLNHSBEP7zCwApXD0ferz6vT5nXiT3X5wXqCuTxge1F_Vbo_IpI58c/s640/IMG_5321.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe says, I don't remember authorizing this random person and dog to shuffle past our domain</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xC0l-sk-wi_tbfIESmQGAZzVakucflvZwB6lP62haJCg3hjWol8oQso6tmggeaeNUaTW4PF2j4hyphenhyphenOBvvfpZGCqtBwLcOQfM05ITf8qKtizSaNOdPbMXrnnvh2WWcda-A-U6sEZyNqPA/s1600/IMG_5323.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xC0l-sk-wi_tbfIESmQGAZzVakucflvZwB6lP62haJCg3hjWol8oQso6tmggeaeNUaTW4PF2j4hyphenhyphenOBvvfpZGCqtBwLcOQfM05ITf8qKtizSaNOdPbMXrnnvh2WWcda-A-U6sEZyNqPA/s640/IMG_5323.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
I look forward to meeting you in this corner again soon.</div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-56647259001726176032012-06-12T04:40:00.003-07:002012-06-12T07:05:42.536-07:00Part II: Day 55: Beauty and the Beasts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23Yr5jeCuJ_g-D8MLcsqQ2vKzbKx5Et0rG2rE88bBaXfxYhz0P19znrQK_efhXQ9dZ8opQHdk-T8quc7GOboaE4exJ4ByuOELC7nljtVfeu5IsuKs3IRi6mAD1czSOCSDaBRkkSQNQsg/s1600/IMG_5260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23Yr5jeCuJ_g-D8MLcsqQ2vKzbKx5Et0rG2rE88bBaXfxYhz0P19znrQK_efhXQ9dZ8opQHdk-T8quc7GOboaE4exJ4ByuOELC7nljtVfeu5IsuKs3IRi6mAD1czSOCSDaBRkkSQNQsg/s320/IMG_5260.JPG" width="320" /></a>The gardener has summoned me: it's peony time. We have talked about my taking a tour of her sumptuous gardens for weeks, but this visit cannot be postponed. Nature waits for no one. And these peonies . . . You will see yourselves, gentle readers, but my camera (well, the human being behind this camera) cannot do them justice.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1H2H7bELjHbJ5d5z33KGeYJEzyoC6G_XQjRi6-xlJsm0CH6-VC9SIu77WjHpe7hebUpPYpB3qG-KsRmFeUW9kTCnmUzqMCJNNUMlftz9Y1QXKfFv2ru-1oMKQPMDnj0UVD3TnElXtBQ/s1600/IMG_5261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1H2H7bELjHbJ5d5z33KGeYJEzyoC6G_XQjRi6-xlJsm0CH6-VC9SIu77WjHpe7hebUpPYpB3qG-KsRmFeUW9kTCnmUzqMCJNNUMlftz9Y1QXKfFv2ru-1oMKQPMDnj0UVD3TnElXtBQ/s320/IMG_5261.JPG" width="320" /></a>I bring Zoe to save time--the woods near campus where I'm taking her on today's walk are halfway to the gardener's house--but I realize it's a mistake as soon as I pull up to the wrong house and call my friend to get her house number. Zoe is whining. She's whining as she does when I've altered her routines and she's afraid she'll be left in a ditch on the road, or in a lab where people in white coats will perform experiments on her--she's whining in the way she does when any of us leaves the house without her permission.<br />
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I can see this patch of enchantment before I see my friend standing outside waiting for us. We pull up and I'm so blown away that I can barely speak. How many words are there in the English language to say, "wow, beautiful, wow, that's gorgeous, wow, these plants are happy here, wow, look at that color!" I'm always humbled by the limitations within the medium I've chosen for making my own kind of beauty. Words can paint pictures but the things themselves--these radiant flowers--point to nothing beyond themselves and need no signifiers: they are just busy being themselves, because that's their job.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrRe61lL5-MCE6uUp-4KKTSpg9CPwB0S-0hPUWl1f2ZQjecqgR4WdX8LzuAjVOGblfOfXUoADEL36AGhLlKkw1anh9LAd7n7C9ezk-O7w4JY74IWhq9_Stb1pJDuaR52ecyDBwcjq1Qx0/s1600/IMG_5262.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrRe61lL5-MCE6uUp-4KKTSpg9CPwB0S-0hPUWl1f2ZQjecqgR4WdX8LzuAjVOGblfOfXUoADEL36AGhLlKkw1anh9LAd7n7C9ezk-O7w4JY74IWhq9_Stb1pJDuaR52ecyDBwcjq1Qx0/s320/IMG_5262.jpg" width="213" /></a>My friend thinks the gardening bug came to her through a great-grandmother, but she and her sister only developed it in their middle years. What is perhaps just as beautiful as the hot pink peonies, red peonies, pale pink peonies, and while we're at it, the irises and bleeding hearts still in fine form (my friend thinks that the house she shares with her musician man-friend is just higher enough in altitude to delay the demise of our favorite May flowers)--is the smile on my friend's face. These lovely gardens surround the house, one after the other, and lazy me can't help but think with
horror of all the hard physical work and time that goes into them, hours and hours of it every day, but the contentment and satisfaction this labor gives my friend that she carries in her arms and shoulders is very moving to behold. Being beauty's architect is soulful work. It takes a lot from the body, and from the earth (although speaking of earth, her mulch from the top-secret location is one of the secrets of her success) but it gives back with gusto.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmUVOrKsw6cqFmO4SiNU2t6QDl-8rtxhP1OZAK4CLdLr8Myg1vMYOx4YFN3_RCJav9i9rsXDbMgRzcolak8geR19_TSUDkbqCtchf4lXMG6cdgvovMN79XYixechcprK7TKFSKdZKKCo/s1600/IMG_5265.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmUVOrKsw6cqFmO4SiNU2t6QDl-8rtxhP1OZAK4CLdLr8Myg1vMYOx4YFN3_RCJav9i9rsXDbMgRzcolak8geR19_TSUDkbqCtchf4lXMG6cdgvovMN79XYixechcprK7TKFSKdZKKCo/s640/IMG_5265.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a neighbor's cows trim their fields beyond the gardens</td></tr>
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Zoe runs around the house as I meet each patch of flowers and learn the story behind each one. This one was moved here because the sun was better. That one didn't like that spot but thrived here. This one is new. This one volunteered and arrived unexpectedly like a stray cat.<br />
<br />
There are many cats that have "volunteered" in these parts as well. I count four in the stories my friend tells me, but I may have missed one. Zoe whines to go inside and meet one, and we oblige her. I have to say that in all my travels, I have never seen a more pronounced display of Cat with Hackles Rising than in the moment Zoe runs into the living room. There is a beauty to this tableau as well: Curious black dog barking at Gray Cat. Gray Cat Saying Back Off, Beast.<br />
<br />
Zoe cries to be inside near the cat but when we go outside, she cries to come back out. She cries to go in again <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_L01q6a-TLjVbZVBuJs9257XojK5URuOwbm1dmtosXz9sgvZyQt_wksoGsSmfhz6LAvAAO23Z0qz_2NuPnpDeeiIO1a_EVy8OzPJvzdw9TWI2wPa8TqWOrHGli3P0wlZGyLWAmWvy4H0/s1600/IMG_5288.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_L01q6a-TLjVbZVBuJs9257XojK5URuOwbm1dmtosXz9sgvZyQt_wksoGsSmfhz6LAvAAO23Z0qz_2NuPnpDeeiIO1a_EVy8OzPJvzdw9TWI2wPa8TqWOrHGli3P0wlZGyLWAmWvy4H0/s320/IMG_5288.jpg" width="213" /></a>when she spies the gray cat through the window and thinks that meaningful contact will now occur. We can tune it out, sort of, until we arrive at a moment that my friend knows will appeal to me in a <i>Secret Garden</i> kind of way. She tells me how her prize peonies have come to her courtesy of the hidden peony patch her 90-year-old neighbor told her she
could transplant on one of the days when he remembered her name. When we cross the road so she can show me the mother load--it's just a few yards across the way--Zoe's cries through the window are so piercing that if an animal-lover heard her they would think Zoe was being abused.<br />
<br />
"Next time, this dog is not coming with me," I tell my friend.<br />
<br />
But my friend is very patient. She says that she understands that Zoe is a member of our family, just as the cats are for hers. And one of the most deep and satisfying relationships she has in her life is with her horse. "There's so much to see when you look into a horse's eyes," she says.<br />
<br />
She's still upset by something terrible she witnessed earlier today. She was at Agway and a boy ran in, distressed because his beagle had jumped from the car when his stepdad parked in the lot, and now the dog was running around out there. When the stepfather found the beagle, he beat her. He beat her again when she was inside the car. We are sitting on the front porch of the house as she tells me this, admiring the beauty of the gardens, the bouquet of peonies she has picked for me, and this story has us both on the verge of tears.<br />
<br />
"Some people shouldn't be allowed to have pets. Or kids. Or any living being under their command," we both say in our own way.<br />
<br />
We talk about the intelligence of animals and how people still have a long way to go to understand the range of talents and ways of knowing and sensitivity the creatures we both love possess. My friend volunteers at the local stables as part of a group that leads children with cerebral palsy around on the horses. The more gentle, patient horses are picked to do the honors. They are the ones who understand what this encounter is all about. Her horse is one of them. Her horse understands that this is not going to be a vigorous ride, and that the rider is not going to be alpha and predictably dominant, but is not necessarily afraid either. Her horse understands that what happens in these "mixers" is just a sweet inter-species exchange that helps the riders find joy in their physicality, in the moment, in encounters with other sentient beings. "My horse just kind of gets it," she says. "And really likes it."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">this stuff is like gold</td></tr>
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But not all of our animal lovefest is about their high emotional IQs and spirituality. Zoe needs grooming. I need to wash her butt and now and then I get a whiff. I mention this to my friend, but she has seen it all. Our tales about animals move on to the grotesque. A white cat runs off after word gets out that a dog is on the premises. When my friend rescued her, this kitten had severe frostbite. My friend took the kitty to the vet when she thought its ears and tail smelled bad. The vet just tugged on the ears and they . . . fell right off! He told her that the dead part of her tail would fall off too, in its own time. One morning my friend saw her cat in the kitchen playing with something: her own amputated tail. The cat was fine with this new development. She hears and navigates perfectly--enough so to fly out of town when a dog comes knocking.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia82rny5Bi6Yf5-IG9_YIZ9gsZXafoHCDdr5F_tcZjS06UBp_O-xcDaeeMEhFMy4t1K9YipSms-SAqbbjOjibSJYzFlkcA7k-DdFfcaeak5Rtoi7EfoWAjG35DxK4nEwAQFnzPX6J0arQ/s1600/IMG_5277.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia82rny5Bi6Yf5-IG9_YIZ9gsZXafoHCDdr5F_tcZjS06UBp_O-xcDaeeMEhFMy4t1K9YipSms-SAqbbjOjibSJYzFlkcA7k-DdFfcaeak5Rtoi7EfoWAjG35DxK4nEwAQFnzPX6J0arQ/s320/IMG_5277.JPG" width="320" /></a>Meanwhile, my dog eats all the cats' food before I can stop her, then stares provocatively inside the screen door to Gray Hat with Hackles. In an earlier post I gave the various animal characters lines from action films. Now I imagine that white cat saying to Zoe, before it headed to a distant pasture, "Want a piece of me?"<br />
<br />
It's time to go home for dinner. I carry those gorgeous hot pink peonies in my lap all the way back in the car, careful not to squash an iota of petal. And then I find a place of honor for the vase in our kitchen.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzIdbgRS7bu_KXg2QBF6TNTFmjCgPbnPLF7KFjCFH4bj4_Zx2sgXi6aaA4niZE9e4KtDV5R9fiXJJyC6vKxVV-qf_riVQeEN5PAvQ0nxjfaFmrgn-EsPvElznJPGhTjDQ2tF-6tQEomSI/s1600/IMG_5280.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzIdbgRS7bu_KXg2QBF6TNTFmjCgPbnPLF7KFjCFH4bj4_Zx2sgXi6aaA4niZE9e4KtDV5R9fiXJJyC6vKxVV-qf_riVQeEN5PAvQ0nxjfaFmrgn-EsPvElznJPGhTjDQ2tF-6tQEomSI/s640/IMG_5280.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How can I begin to describe the magic of this peony?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1SbPAWflMJZBpkZ3LyQWoTEwxn1aL9LTjKu5njf-u7krgjy2UU69_OzZRJXaFDqj09-jOOcmvto-FAC_08SlLURD8ZSGSNyfSYAvl2Q1gidVWJ0s369OBqYWRDrC2CUjhPRfKHOHdmOA/s1600/IMG_5282.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1SbPAWflMJZBpkZ3LyQWoTEwxn1aL9LTjKu5njf-u7krgjy2UU69_OzZRJXaFDqj09-jOOcmvto-FAC_08SlLURD8ZSGSNyfSYAvl2Q1gidVWJ0s369OBqYWRDrC2CUjhPRfKHOHdmOA/s640/IMG_5282.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">peek-a-boo!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDLWMI40c1B9KWHaCNxhbJ5PfyV1gsEtXU5wv-dmyZWJFwvBpI0LR0m7fMJi07hTcYI1KPy8YZMv-f_bdzuk3n8Lw-GwT_iKLEEDv__RJhyphenhyphenQib-7yyP8U4k4lbaDFxJ2gaXt1bQKhYxRM/s1600/IMG_5285.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDLWMI40c1B9KWHaCNxhbJ5PfyV1gsEtXU5wv-dmyZWJFwvBpI0LR0m7fMJi07hTcYI1KPy8YZMv-f_bdzuk3n8Lw-GwT_iKLEEDv__RJhyphenhyphenQib-7yyP8U4k4lbaDFxJ2gaXt1bQKhYxRM/s640/IMG_5285.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feline hackles, as art form. Feline hackles as performance piece. Feline hackles as architecture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiU4D6JmWrad0KdDNJCDE6guWflVM2v860q_GHUyXguOrojy9tcaSYPYjh_ACDJ5Kih_18HAlBFVmjXikLnH2E529iUaVyrxA1G65AtnVzsVg8I1HDYKm-IEA6PxXEk-UMuKR0sjAe2vM/s1600/IMG_5294.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiU4D6JmWrad0KdDNJCDE6guWflVM2v860q_GHUyXguOrojy9tcaSYPYjh_ACDJ5Kih_18HAlBFVmjXikLnH2E529iUaVyrxA1G65AtnVzsVg8I1HDYKm-IEA6PxXEk-UMuKR0sjAe2vM/s640/IMG_5294.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cat is looking at her from the other side, saying "Ha!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-5R7dGq2OvHK1_abfgqJD2B-HTUf4ZA50LzTyIhT8xPTTyqHzl4NkyELga2cw7hWMFzMVtYgKfPRi1LGEpd8q5UJ7JlY0TXXQ9Zy2nymD-ptjWb5WncEEm-VrL3yOyVOEUF52XgtkKQ/s1600/IMG_5291.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-5R7dGq2OvHK1_abfgqJD2B-HTUf4ZA50LzTyIhT8xPTTyqHzl4NkyELga2cw7hWMFzMVtYgKfPRi1LGEpd8q5UJ7JlY0TXXQ9Zy2nymD-ptjWb5WncEEm-VrL3yOyVOEUF52XgtkKQ/s640/IMG_5291.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I carried them home on my lap and now they are in the kitchen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
To see more photos of these peonies, taken by the gardener herself, <a href="http://cassidyhillgarden.wordpress.com/2012/06/11/peonies-peonies-and-more-peonies/" target="_blank">go here.</a><br />
<br />
Namaste, gentle readers. Even if you don't have a green thumb like my friend does, I hope that you have at least one person close to you who is an architect of beauty, and you can schedule a visit soon.</div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-48632366529529984072012-06-11T04:38:00.001-07:002012-06-11T05:10:12.937-07:00Part II: Day 54: Treating the Patient's Codependent Pepes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On Saturday Zoe's integrative vet, Dr. Don Thompson--Dr. T., Don, I never know what to call him--comes to the house at lunchtime. It's Zoe's monthly acupuncture house call. I am in my studio writing and Kerry is in his shop turning a bowl when we hear Zoe barking wildly, and we know the visit has already begun.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGIRL9ey9wpN0HdWNvYvClQpNRYEG6TUoIIWzqoxTkh48CMMWwQSH9GhyAQTX6ug12DuweucTzLJD3qz0gmAX7lxTm09deqsWzQRjVBliM5OZeFOVMxNsYgxRdwIWEQYDkfv73jJkTPtg/s1600/IMG_5216.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGIRL9ey9wpN0HdWNvYvClQpNRYEG6TUoIIWzqoxTkh48CMMWwQSH9GhyAQTX6ug12DuweucTzLJD3qz0gmAX7lxTm09deqsWzQRjVBliM5OZeFOVMxNsYgxRdwIWEQYDkfv73jJkTPtg/s400/IMG_5216.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">gold star if you can find the needles</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhal87a0RL1Ni2bch51s4c4G5MGwHnAYApSFVDym7oSiP1B5ddjbj9uo4Lld6WCUc4uAyu-XbzcLqvMButFhvE3_obYiDi72sb_WbP6f2Ra-JewBU-IWxFnSQXyVHm3bM9x_CFVS-8eoCo/s1600/IMG_5217.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhal87a0RL1Ni2bch51s4c4G5MGwHnAYApSFVDym7oSiP1B5ddjbj9uo4Lld6WCUc4uAyu-XbzcLqvMButFhvE3_obYiDi72sb_WbP6f2Ra-JewBU-IWxFnSQXyVHm3bM9x_CFVS-8eoCo/s400/IMG_5217.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe appears to be happy about this shoulder needle, for some reason.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have never seen this man look quite this tired. I was planning on calling the other Dr. Thompson, Amy, Zoe's local vet, to come over and join us as she has on the two previous visits. She is following an acupuncture course herself, and Zoe is her patient, so these house calls are an opportunity for her to learn more about her craft with a dog she knows fairly well. But when we texted each other early this morning she told me that her husband would be working on a fence today and she would have to bring her young daughter with her. Zoe is still a little afraid of children who are too young to write papers and meet a professor in her office hours--the pre-verbal, pre-driving demographic still spooks her a little--which could be distracting and disrupt the calm vibe, but I thought maybe my husband and I could play with the child while she and Don got down to business, all in the spirit of Bring it On.<br />
<br />
But that's not going to happen. This man is exhausted. He left at 3:30 from Stowe, Vermont this morning to drive to the North Country and he is only halfway through the 15 house calls he has to make today. The next one is in Harrisville, which sounds far, even though I don't know where that is, exactly. Not our county, anyway. He won't get home until 11 PM tonight. I offer him tea, but he's worried that he'll overload on caffeine and get the shakes, so we settle on Strawberry Serenity Kombucha. I'm so suggestible myself that when I drink this stuff the word "serenity" works on me before I've even finished a bottle, but I realize that not everyone reads a word on a label as a command, so I just hope for the best.<br />
<br />
After he puts in the needles, we fill him in on all that has happened with our dog in the last month. Namely, the bad news we got on May 18 about the size of Zoe's lung tumors, how the biggest one was now 4.78 centimeters, and the oncologist's prognosis then: one month to three. We're a week away from a month already, but Zoe's still full of zest. She's supposed to head out with us next weekend for a short vacation.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ1VzyFNp1SkixLtVp7Nr4lACaflXFDdZdev1OFq0L__qr_oKq1qDIsL_X5rzD5vhDwqs88Z1LXF0tF7W1K6QlH9FYUFis9HVAaRPutAkIWHjhG6_dM4J2TweRcpW0Es86sarvM3tV7z8/s1600/IMG_5218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ1VzyFNp1SkixLtVp7Nr4lACaflXFDdZdev1OFq0L__qr_oKq1qDIsL_X5rzD5vhDwqs88Z1LXF0tF7W1K6QlH9FYUFis9HVAaRPutAkIWHjhG6_dM4J2TweRcpW0Es86sarvM3tV7z8/s400/IMG_5218.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She relaxes for 20 minutes with the needles in</td></tr>
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<br />
He tells us, "This dog is not going away any time soon." He doesn't mean travel. He means die. "From what I could see, with that greeting she gave me in your driveway, she's still very engaged with life. She's got lots of time left." He says he doesn't need to press the will-to-live point, for example, because her will is very much in evidence.<br />
<br />
"This is how it is for us," I say. "We think she looks great. And then we get these grim numbers and the grim prognosis. And I get all upset, and try to hide it from Zoe, but I know she senses it, and then she probably wonders what she did wrong when she feels my sadness, and then when she sniffs out unhappiness, she's not so happy either. It's one of those feedback loops. But those dips never last long. We get back into our routines, and all is well, and Zoe sees you, and I start to think . . ."<br />
<br />
(Not long ago I wrote a post about the <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/06/part-ii-day-46-dogs-codependent-pepes.html" target="_blank">dog's codependent pepes.</a> Even my very rational husband agrees that this is our affliction.) <br />
<br />
"That's the difference between Western and Eastern medicine," Don says.<br />
<br />
He asks about the India trip. On a previous visit, I asked if he thought it would be okay for me to leave her in late July and early August for a two week work trip. He has said consistently that he thought Zoe would be in good shape then, that it would be okay for me to leave. If I went by the oncologist's prediction, I would be gone for Zoe's last two weeks of life in the most optimistic of her scenarios.<br />
<br />
"The trip is being postponed to sometime after Christmas," I say. "It's better this way." I explain that my husband is having surgery in July, and of course I don't want to miss a minute of the time Zoe and I have together this summer. Except for a short trip coming up this week, I'm hunkering down.<br />
<br />
Don shoots me a look, but doesn't comment. The way I interpret it, he thinks that Zoe will hang on that long, and that I'll be in more conflict about traveling then than I would be this summer. But I really can't read minds, even though I try to all the time.<br />
<br />
Today's acupuncture points, which he writes down for me, are just the general tune-up points that go with treating a dog with cancer who is in overall good form. Stomach points. Spleen points. Bladder points. Six in all.<br />
<br />
He pets her, and we point out all the lumps that have sprouted overnight, it seems, since she started taking the new drug, Kinavet.<br />
<br />
"It's ironic, in that that drug is supposed to be for inoperable mast cell tumors, which isn't Zoe's cancer. But is it just a coincidence that now she's getting lumpier every day, now that she's taking this drug that shrinks tumors?"<br />
<br />
We point to the place where he removed a lump via laser a while back. Now a new one is growing there.<br />
<br />
I've just been assuming they're all cysts, the kind dogs get increasingly as they age, and not dangerous at all. Kerry's not so sure. One of them started bleeding last week.<br />
<br />
"They're not osteosarcomata," Don says. And he tell us not to worry.<br />
<br />
We talk about all the good indicators. How Zoe's appetite is strong, although she is getting pickier again. How Zoe's still walking five miles a day without showing signs of exertion, and still cuddly and sweet when she wants to be and still bossing people and critters around in the yard. "The other night I asked her what she wanted to do when I took her out after dinner and she pointed to the street," I say. "In the early days, I would take her on four walks a day. One was the after dinner stroll through the neighborhood. We stopped doing that long ago because I didn't have the time. She seems to want to do that again now. So we did it twice this week."<br />
<br />
He knows the geography here, since his family has a house around the block, and he's impressed with the ground Zoe covers on this walk, especially since it's an extra one after she's already walked her five miles. <br />
<br />
"That's what you have to do with a cancer patient," he says. "Just make them happy and do what they want to do, the things that keep them interested in life. That's very important."<br />
<br />
We talk about my husband's hip replacement surgery planned for next month, and when I mention some pain I woke up with today, Don channels his wife, who does Chinese Traditional Medicine for humans. He shows me the points to press near my right knee for the inflamation along my left elbow, the tendon going down to my ring finger. "That's the triple heater meridian he says." I'm not that optimistic that we can treat it this way, but I'm open, and here's the thing: the next morning, most of the pain has lessened and as I finish this post now, Monday morning, there's just a little of it left in my finger and the rest is gone.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAlD_Tox9O9nyThXm6_KamJmTg2zRovUPFXfOuOqOfiX4VsyXGiI08pGOIyZkPG0cByR9MizCxghOx2-vMB1qgO524pRKhpLqEGBAotp0BNlbAasQYwwUjmR6mSPodnfCg2gVCV5HpTt8/s1600/IMG_5242.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAlD_Tox9O9nyThXm6_KamJmTg2zRovUPFXfOuOqOfiX4VsyXGiI08pGOIyZkPG0cByR9MizCxghOx2-vMB1qgO524pRKhpLqEGBAotp0BNlbAasQYwwUjmR6mSPodnfCg2gVCV5HpTt8/s400/IMG_5242.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">blissed out after the session, she rolls in the grass</td></tr>
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<br />
Later, my husband and I dissect the visit. He's still very worried about Zoe's lumps. I'm trying not to be.<br />
<br />
"Then why didn't you say that?" I ask him. "Why didn't you say what you were thinking?"<br />
<br />
"Because it was obvious to me that part of his job today was to treat <i>you.</i>" I think about this for a minute. "He wants to make sure that you are as positive and optimistic as you can be. Because he believes that your moods and your beliefs will affect Zoe's overall prognosis." <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Z-IdWXydw-sYxTkyJGIhzhk9g8-sdmK5xhtiFb2KMIiIXOI9qYkUDTUd4Wqd358akXqkUu9NK7oyER9AlIRojIOxu9rM3pDm_xfkQgTA2CZB8q-2sUe6EGsrENYnWVYkRCW7aUG-pMQ/s1600/IMG_5250.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Z-IdWXydw-sYxTkyJGIhzhk9g8-sdmK5xhtiFb2KMIiIXOI9qYkUDTUd4Wqd358akXqkUu9NK7oyER9AlIRojIOxu9rM3pDm_xfkQgTA2CZB8q-2sUe6EGsrENYnWVYkRCW7aUG-pMQ/s400/IMG_5250.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's my girl!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"So maybe that's what he <i>really </i>means by the difference between western and eastern medicine."<br />
<br />
Western medicine is more about what the x-rays show: the dimensions of the tumors and their location, the numbers. The composition of the blood. But beyond all that I don't understand about acupuncture meridians--what we really mean when we say a needle is entering a bladder point or a stomach point--integrative medicine entertains the notion that our thoughts and feelings can have a tremendous impact on our health.<br />
<br />
I used to resist this way of thinking. I objected to it on political grounds. I thought it was kind of a blame-the-victim thing, like, if you get sick, it's because you're Debbie Downer. I strenuously object to any belief system that over-emphasizes the role of the individual in health and wellness and doesn't name and critique, say, the polluters in our environment that make us sick: industry. <br />
<br />
I'll never forget the trip I took to the site of the World Trade Center a month after the attacks. My friend Cathy and I walked there from our hotel in Gramery Park and I smelled the damage half a mile before we arrived. The acrid taste in my throat, the headache, the dizziness, the disorientation, the heaviness in my lungs: it hit me pretty fast, but what upset me most was the sight of all those people and dogs at work without masks. The EPA had just put on its web site that there were no dangerous emissions at the site. I knew in my body that this was a colossal lie. And just this week I heard a story on the radio that all kinds of cancers are showing up for people who worked or lived near the site, and some people will be able to receive compensation. But it's no compensation when our environment is making us sick and the agencies charged with protecting us are willing to suppress that information because of political pressure.<br />
<br />
But on the other hand, since I started meditating I've read the science about how our ways of thinking and of dealing with stress affect the brain. I firmly believe now that the feedback loop we create by negative thoughts, emotions, and stress can change the layout of our brain until being perpetually anxious is our new normal. And I also believe that meditation can undo the damage. Through meditation I've learned to witness my thoughts as though they were birds alighting on a branch of a tree. They land, they sing, and they fly off.<br />
<br />
Every day, the same message: it's not just that Zoe's good days are contagious, but that mine are too. We are kindred. We are soft-wired to one another.<br />
<br />
And every morning I search for the stillness inside to help me see the tree branch that is right before me without needing to know where and when the next bird will land. </div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-31213592283268598482012-06-09T03:00:00.000-07:002012-06-09T03:32:53.185-07:00Part II: Day 53: Good Bad Dog!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yesterday at lunchtime I was working on a scene from the novel when my character arrives in France only to discover that a thief has made off with her wallet. It's one of the few truly autobiographical elements of the story--that is, this happened to me once. It was just this week that I decided to give my character that same crappy experience so that she could know firsthand what it's like to be in Europe as a middle-aged non-student with No Money At All. I never figured out who got my wallet and how, and neither does my character, but she has her theories. The bad guys win, just this one time, but her inner resources get a good workout.<br />
<br />
Things were tense there in the train station in Toulouse. My character had been up all night on the flight getting there, and she was hungry. It was lunchtime here, but I wasn't thinking about the here and now. But then my husband opened the door to my studio and called to me from the stairs: "Didn't you hear me yelling out there?"<br />
<br />
I hadn't heard a thing. I'd been very far away listening to an imaginary person's stomach grumbling.<br />
<br />
"Zoe almost ate a baby groundhog. She came very close to catching it. I kept yelling at her and yelling at her, and she was ignoring me. She chased it to its little lodge in all the sticks, and had her head right inside, but then she finally stopped."<br />
<br />
In the old days, if Zoe was in bad dog killer mode, she wouldn't have stopped. We've seen her eat live bunnies. We saw her get scratched up by a little badger when she stuck her snout deep into its hole.<br />
<br />
I was so sorry to have missed this. The camera sat on my desk, unused for a couple days now. No groundhogs were photographed on my watch. The picture you see here below of a groundhog and its baby looks exactly like what we see in our yard every morning, but it was taken by someone else:<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqCzz9yTJ8-aqay1rFO8sK2XzaRrQBlSHgkIzw61Bma-JDJKm4JwxyLhqpCLiwBCAAYBaVxqu2wgl1BQUUxlPz3n0_TvZJkWSqbsd2h7b8zViSzi7qspePum5yVNsPhodFyOOrUYXbE10/s1600/groundhog+and+baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqCzz9yTJ8-aqay1rFO8sK2XzaRrQBlSHgkIzw61Bma-JDJKm4JwxyLhqpCLiwBCAAYBaVxqu2wgl1BQUUxlPz3n0_TvZJkWSqbsd2h7b8zViSzi7qspePum5yVNsPhodFyOOrUYXbE10/s640/groundhog+and+baby.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://i39.photobucket.com/albums/e172/PATMAN68/Groundhogs1.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.turtletimes.com/forums/topic/68144-baby-groundhog-pics/&h=683&w=1023&sz=166&tbnid=SFCv57bYIKRwyM:&tbnh=86&tbnw=129&zoom=1&usg=__iirE3b2sAD45RRJWnpED345fWEU=&docid=ogZx3Q-pDUfQNM&sa=X&ei=vnnST9mvIamS0QGSn7W1Aw&ved=0CFsQ9QEwCA&dur=183</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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I used to be so upset when Zoe did things like this, but instead I patted her--she was panting now after the exertion and looking pleased with herself--and said, "That's my girl!"<br />
<br />
Later I gave her the Chinese herbs Emily and Don have prescribed to her, in capsule form. I wrapped them in cream cheese and got all six of them down that way. I've started giving her these alternative medicines again this week, in this way. She only eats canned food now, as I mentioned in an <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/05/part-ii-day-45-storm-wall-and-some-good.html" target="_blank">earlier post.</a> She's like the daughter of vegans who gets fed up and goes on a hunger strike until they bring her home some burgers and fries. After I gave her these capsules, I sat beside her eating my lunch. Today it was quasi-hippie/farmer fare: an organic salad with arugula and quinoa and chick peas and goat cheese feta <i>and</i> an all-beef hotdog (the beef from a local farm) and Zoe got very interested in my plate. She sat and begged for some hot dog bites. She was so insistent at one point that she grunted, then flashed me a winning smile.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJh4G-iB96ZM7X5NYk_nDWbeYCKaC-7yc4-n8ZXqfX2tB8-GwgoERUxNlTlZBPtXnK8xmSK7hYF8am-yeOgM2fGEFlKh3mwba_aX-9UT1lXILruQXHS8cjGeHmWthtn649hD7yFk1UuV4/s1600/IMG_0237.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJh4G-iB96ZM7X5NYk_nDWbeYCKaC-7yc4-n8ZXqfX2tB8-GwgoERUxNlTlZBPtXnK8xmSK7hYF8am-yeOgM2fGEFlKh3mwba_aX-9UT1lXILruQXHS8cjGeHmWthtn649hD7yFk1UuV4/s400/IMG_0237.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
All of this, of course, is extremely bad doggy etiquette. I remember when I first gave her tidbits at an outdoor party when she was a puppy. Before that, it hadn't occurred to her that my food could be hers. Another guest at the party who was an old hand with dogs warned me that Zoe would never <i>not </i>want my food after this. Because of my slip, because I liked having my cute little puppy licking my fingers, forever after, my friend predicted, she would always be a nuisance at dinner parties setting her head in peoples' laps, not all of whom would be as dogcentric as we are. I did it anyway. And I have to tell you that my guests have always said one thing about Zoe's begging: she's polite about it. She does it demurely, quietly, and isn't insistent. But of course these are people who are sitting at our table being wined and dined. What else are they going to say?<br />
<br />
But now, Zoe doesn't beg like she used to. When we bring our dinner out to the deck, instead of straining on her tie-out to come up and join us and get in on the action, she sometimes prefers to nap. <br />
<br />
So now, when Zoe reverts back to her wolfy ways and stalks a critter, or reverts back to her spoiled-humanized-center-of-the-universe-replacement-for-children ways and asks for me to share what I'm eating with gusto, I am very happy. Her hunger for meat, living or otherwise, is a hunger for life. Bon appetit, Zoe. Bon appetit!</div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-15524148717538782132012-06-08T03:00:00.000-07:002012-06-08T04:25:51.386-07:00Part II, Day 52: Just Chillin'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm probably the only person in the North Country who is sad to hear that it might get up to 80 degrees on Sunday. When Zoe and I head outside on these cool June mornings, I rejoice when I need a fleece jacket. She loves the cold, and I love what she loves--as long as it doesn't involve eating a maggoty deer leg or squirrel.<br />
<br />
These early days of June have been so achingly sweet. How did I ever leave the house and go to a job? We're never apart now for more than an hour or two. We sit on the balcony and watch the river. She does her doggy meditation, I attempt my human form, she goes on the gentlemen's walk with my husband, and I write until lunch. We roam the yard looking for things to smell, and we sit on the rocks and stare at the water moving steadily as breath. We walk in late afternoon.<br />
<br />
Yesterday she startled some grackles away from their favorite backyard willow, but she ignored the baby groundhogs who could have been lunch. She doesn't chase every bunny she sees now, but she stares them down until they're out of harm's way. For a while before dinner after our walk I swung myself in the hammock and watched her chew on grass and thought about nothing at all.<br />
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It occurred to me the day before yesterday that I could make each day with her feel like two if we share more activities together, so that evening instead of just roaming the yard for one last time before bed I asked her what she wanted to do. She pointed to the road. When she was a puppy we used to walk after dinner through our neighborhood so that she could practice being on the lead, and invariably she would tug to go to Rebecca's house on State Street, where she could play hide and seek with her cats. She did that again last night, but Rebecca wasn't home, so we popped in on Diane and Fred and while I admired their remodeled kitchen Zoe chased around the cats. Their boxer had to be restrained because it's his job, not hers, to manage the cats, but Zoe learned a little bit about boundaries, and that's never a bad thing for a dog to learn.<br />
<br />
Cool nights. Green grass. Furry black dog. Leaves plumping up and filling the trees while light winds carry the aromas of early herb gardens. The great blue heron, the big blue sky. A full moon on Monday, then the transit of Venus on Tuesday, and now as the week winds down, just the peace that comes after one of those big stellar shakedowns.<br />
<br />
I work on the France novel, then go out to the yard to pet her, then head upstairs again. This is my work now. This is my job.<br />
<br />
Sweet early June. I will never forget these days. How I long to make them pass slowly, as slowly as it takes to write a 500-page novel, as slowly as it takes for some of us (moi!) to learn what peace is and how it's always accessible right here, right now, in a single moment of an otherwise unremarkable day in June.</div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-55998234539226665082012-06-07T04:08:00.000-07:002012-06-07T04:08:00.422-07:00Part II: Day 51: Porcupine Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A few weeks ago <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/05/part-ii-day-30-wild-life.html" target="_blank">Zoe found a porcupine </a>hanging from our backyard maple tree and was not all that happy to see him. She yelled at him for the better part of an hour until he climbed back down in his sleepy, plodding way and hopped into the back and beyond.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I had never seen a porcupine up close before. Once, I pulled a baby porkie's spines from Zoe when she was still a puppy, so my one intimate contact with this critter wasn't a positive one--although in retrospect, Zoe and I got off easy from that close encounter when you consider that most dogs who square off with porcupines have to be put under in a vet's office so that the quills can be surgically removed. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">For today's post I've invited Erin Siracusa, the St. Lawrence University class of 2012 valedictorian, a fine writer and naturalist, to submit a little excerpt from her senior honors project about porcupines. </span> </div>
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<b>The Porcupine</b></div>
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by Erin Siracusa </div>
<br />
Tuesday mornings are “porkie
wrangling” mornings, at least that’s North Country vernacular for the so-called
catch and release tactics of biologists who harass porcupines. A short drive
brings you to the edge of the Kip Tract, a parcel of forested wetland in the
St. Lawrence River Valley. There are fourteen Havahart<span style="font-size: 10pt;">®</span> traps along a prescribed path which winds through the
undergrowth, all of which have been baited with half an apple the night before.
The narrow footpath is easy to lose in the dark, often altogether disappearing
for a few meters before reappearing on the other side of a swampy bog. But in
the early light of sunrise there is a certain anticipation as you move through
the woods, adjusting the weight of your pack across your shoulders and smearing
bug dope, the mosquitoes already singing musically in your ear.</div>
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It usually
takes two people to handle a porcupine. One will squish it in the corner of the
trap with a large metal object that looks like a multi-pronged fork and the
other will, with utmost care, inject the porcupine with a mixture of ketamine
and medetomadine. After a few minutes the porcupine will cease to exhibit the
physiological responses associated with an animal under threat. Its quills will
no longer erect and its tail will cease the sharp slapping motion. Effectually,
the porcupine will be immobilized. In that space of time we will have created a
moment in which we can pull smelting gloves up to our elbows and pick up this
porcupine, this wild animals that we have stunned with our chemicals. We can
run our bare fingers through its short dense underfur, we can measure it and
weigh it, we can take a clipping of its ear and insert a PIT tag under its skin
with a 12-gauge veterinary needle. We can poke and prod its genitals and put
ointment in its still-open eyes so they don’t dry out. We can clip electrodes
to its lips and stick needles under its skin and run an electric current
through its body in order to determine its mass body index. <br />
We do all this because we care
about these animals, because we want to know how much fat they’ve stored and if
they will make it through the long North Country winter, because we have a
human preoccupation with obtaining knowledge and understanding the way the
world works. We do it because these animals are poorly studied and even more
poorly understood, because myths create misunderstandings and misunderstandings
alter the shape of our interactions with the world. Because porcupines are
killed as a nuisance species and a pest and most of the time hunters have no
idea what they are killing. They kill porcupines because they are in the way,
because they are slow and easy targets, because porcupines eat their maple
trees and damage their sugar shacks or because they protect themselves from an
overcurious dog. In doing this we break
a barrier, we cross a line. Quills say get this close and no closer and we
disregard that warning. I cross a line of objectivity when I hold a baby
porcupine to my chest and watch it wake with the lethargic movements of a
drug-induced sleep. We create a space in which the laws of nature are altered.
We chase these porcupines around the woods with their drunken, stumbling
movements, their motor function still impaired from the remnants of drugs in
their system, plucking them off trees like misbehaving toddlers, afraid that
they will get hurt if they try to climb too soon.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic4bgUFK2dso8_l-Wcv7zMA-He4TveH1au4VoYAPfOQUXDA8L6_OjmkIfdGva_4350EwmC3x4qxR-oZ8ksFTXqYQ-_TeN0n04alBhdC1nYC_-W4szBiZzG8fOZQMYd44EBzfpEoeHjrU4/s1600/Erin+with+porkie%5B2%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic4bgUFK2dso8_l-Wcv7zMA-He4TveH1au4VoYAPfOQUXDA8L6_OjmkIfdGva_4350EwmC3x4qxR-oZ8ksFTXqYQ-_TeN0n04alBhdC1nYC_-W4szBiZzG8fOZQMYd44EBzfpEoeHjrU4/s640/Erin+with+porkie%5B2%5D.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erin and her porcupine muse</td></tr>
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The thing is, when you come
down to it, porcupines are cute, with their softly furred faces and dexterous
hands. I find my self rather enraptured at the way they lumber ungracefully
about the woods after being drugged, occasionally tipping unceremoniously onto
their side, as if the weight of the left-half of their body were just too much.
And the soft way their pink tongue might poke out at the side, licking the
outer edges of their lips in a roundabout, lizard-like way. Sometimes I talk to
them, coo to them like a mother might to a child taking their first steps. They
become surprisingly human-like in the way they sit on their haunches with their
forepaws in the air, gracefully handling flowers and catkins between tapered claws.
We name them: Jack, Eva, Carlos, Lyra, Stekel, Sage, Godzilla, Beba, Mira,
Aspen, Zena, Roze, Tater Tot. I even smell them sometimes, when I’m far from
the woods, their dark, musky smell. It comes to me in the way that odd snips of
memory do, a flash, an essence of something that isn’t there, but you
desperately wish was. And I am reminded of the way that porcupine quills burrow
under the skin, their tiny barbs gripping with every muscle contraction,
lucidly clutching onto tiny fibers, unparalleled in their ability to sink in,
to disappear slowly until one day you hardly realize how deeply they’ve found
their way into your life.<br />
<br />
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</div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-26974503886332719192012-06-06T03:59:00.003-07:002012-06-06T12:17:39.701-07:00Part II, Day 50: An Hour in June<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Zoe and I have said
good-bye to two beloved dogs from our circle in a span of four days. That's a lot to take in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">One we knew for seven years. He and Zoe ran together, swam together, vacationed together, and would have chased sheep together if his people and I had been ranchers in a parallel life. The other was Zoe's patient and courageous guide into the world of the three-leggeds. All I can do now is sit and hold these two loving pups in my heart, sifting through memories of tails thumping, eyes gleaming, wet noses, butt sniffing and snorts. I can still feel the comforting weight of one of those sweet dogs on my feet. This fellow taught me the meaning of play. </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Fun-loving and prankish in his
youth, always affectionate and stout-hearted, his voice-over in the animation would be read by Albert Finney. </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">I can still feel the gravitas of the other one as he lifted his big head to meet Zoe and me and invited us into his world for this spring season of new life and change, endings and beginnings, telling us not to take ourselves and this situation we are surprised to find ourselves in too seriously, telling us not to be afraid. When I think of him, I will remember how he chased sunbeams on his walks and looked for cool patches of moss to roll in. A soulful Tom Hanks would do his voice-over. Both these dogs taught those who loved them a little something about happiness, about feeling the earth beneath our paws and feet. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">I sit outside for an hour with Zoe, inviting the essence of these two dogs we have both loved to join us here in the green grass of June. All we can do to honor their lives and their passing
is to share some minutes here loving the life that beats in us still.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">What looked
like rain cleared early this morning and now the sky is a tranquil, flawless
blue. The dog and I watch a light wind stir up the willow leaves above us.
Some of them scatter to the grass and one falls on my lap. Zoe leans against me. We rest in one place like this for a long time,
and then we find another. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjEx4hahjdIzHaLiVFVvhMRevI8R0cFoCRaFcdcmGrGilB5z8Hxc1FwE5WOyqV2nm5Ysee4YabbKrM1gfc-DqCI-r-ygBdneNWNAA44Brzu_KS9YKNAzHpqirhODnp8rgLE0lMYTlZ3ME/s1600/IMG_4664.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjEx4hahjdIzHaLiVFVvhMRevI8R0cFoCRaFcdcmGrGilB5z8Hxc1FwE5WOyqV2nm5Ysee4YabbKrM1gfc-DqCI-r-ygBdneNWNAA44Brzu_KS9YKNAzHpqirhODnp8rgLE0lMYTlZ3ME/s320/IMG_4664.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Earlier this
hour I brought my lunch out to the big flat rock in the river. The dog sat beside me in the tall grass and begged for bites of it.
She looked happy and puppyish, working it with her big brown eyes, and
in my eyes she was every age she’s ever been: the scared eight-pound pup I brought home from the pound, who put the “dog” in
the word “dogged” as in “dogged my footsteps” when we went on our first walks
across the river. The punk-ass year-older and terrible two-year-old
who once ran from my side into the road to chase a kid with skates up the hill,
causing the woman beside me to say, “Thank
goodness; I thought she was perfect, and what a lot of pressure that would be
for you!" The three-year-old maturing
dog who was part of a pack of four dogs that circled the table in our
friends’ wedding banquet in a mad frenzy, causing us to suspend all toasts so
that we could pay homage to that moment that not one of us who was present will
ever forget. And she is still the dog
who for several years has run on a certain beach in North Carolina dodging
jellyfish, the dog who has seen much of the Northeast and Midwest, Georgian Bay
in Ontario, and perhaps more of Ottawa—a certain animal hospital—than she would
have liked. She is still the
six-year-old voyager who traveled all through France and a bit of Sardinia and
Spain and was shown to tables in fine restaurants where she was given a water
bowl before her people got their drinks. But above all she is a North Country dog, a dog of river trails and pine forests, snow and rain.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">One of the dogs I mourn this week was present for many of these Zoe incarnations. It is inevitable that this would be so because his person, a beautiful and wise woman, and I are very close friends. The other dog came along late in the game, along with his amazing people--generous, patient, and kind, my role models and guides through Zoe's cancer--reminding me that one of the blessings dogs bring us is that they make us meet human beings we would have no reason to know otherwise. This has been true for Zoe all along, even now. I have met some of you, gentle readers, because of this dog, in person, or through the blog, and I am so grateful to have made your acquaintance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVTy304k293x-Jbwmew-9wqD9MWdXW7DMtURuRh1ufuC7NIxCVX4Y41n0zl0MESPkYTtXbP5_HCOvzyyOWaofDbuWRD7AtB8wpW1rc223sq748PkPwfkK4aKaRkljq4TeSy1Rf_NiF0uE/s1600/IMG_4703.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVTy304k293x-Jbwmew-9wqD9MWdXW7DMtURuRh1ufuC7NIxCVX4Y41n0zl0MESPkYTtXbP5_HCOvzyyOWaofDbuWRD7AtB8wpW1rc223sq748PkPwfkK4aKaRkljq4TeSy1Rf_NiF0uE/s320/IMG_4703.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Now, on this June afternoon, we are
just two living creatures feeling a gentle wind on our skin. She turns her head from side to side in her
“I’m cute and I know it pose” and then offers me her paw to hold, presenting it
like a papal ring. The leaves and grass
are so green now and the sky, bluer than a dream of blue sky, brings
out the amber glow of her eyes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">What we have
these days is very tender and sweet, even if it is the most sober kind of
happiness. Even when my heart is filled
with sadness for the dogs who have left us in recent days and weeks and I feel
a foreshadowing of loss and sorrow to come our good days like this one are miracles to me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">The days
lengthen every day now. Just as on the
solstice we know we are at the pinnacle, that all days thereafter will shorten in
the lazy yawn of summer, I let the daylight do its work today. Sorrow’s soft underbelly is the joy of every
sweet memory. When I pat
that part of my dog, the soft white of her, the fur still shaved down where we
once took pictures of her heart, I know that our lives will always be
entwined. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Thoreau wrote
in his journal in January of 1855, “Perhaps what most moves us in winter is
some reminiscence of far-off summer.”
Today in June I am remembering a day in winter when Zoe stared at the
iced river for hours and I thought how lucky I was to share that afternoon with
her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style";">Now I know because
of writing and living “Winter with Zoe” that in the winter of our lives, a
summer sun burns still. And if we honor winter in summer we won’t
let the warmth of June rush away from us without taking that sunlight into our
bodies, feeling it on our skin in this cool
green grass.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ0bFLAlYJFg2QGzFQf88U6U5fCEqKAMtT67DWctlIuZ8KVAoG_hqJwSav7Xz9F6tYD4VviwtxLt8P6JhlghuY6LM5MCUSmjUXBRVKs5oHDTjFpwdEL5oIwn9KBuOKU8-3_yJcLZNHtCY/s1600/IMG_4707.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ0bFLAlYJFg2QGzFQf88U6U5fCEqKAMtT67DWctlIuZ8KVAoG_hqJwSav7Xz9F6tYD4VviwtxLt8P6JhlghuY6LM5MCUSmjUXBRVKs5oHDTjFpwdEL5oIwn9KBuOKU8-3_yJcLZNHtCY/s640/IMG_4707.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-80838693361970402812012-06-05T03:30:00.000-07:002012-06-05T03:30:01.290-07:00Part II: Day 49: This Morning, This Cool, Rainy June Morning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqppQcpG8rcnxlG-yxhG6wv1SOeajsEeAnbhV6fUDKsl8lk9lG4RtWVQ9MP-yJriysDDgEKqQMkdEw7el6xGT9ttDDg4a0MZgglz84foXU4AuRje6Uu7huo4TmwhB5UMDjchv4_NHw0o/s1600/z+on+balcony+for+meditation+post.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqppQcpG8rcnxlG-yxhG6wv1SOeajsEeAnbhV6fUDKsl8lk9lG4RtWVQ9MP-yJriysDDgEKqQMkdEw7el6xGT9ttDDg4a0MZgglz84foXU4AuRje6Uu7huo4TmwhB5UMDjchv4_NHw0o/s640/z+on+balcony+for+meditation+post.jpg" width="426" /></a>6 a.m. It's cool and damp out here, sweater weather for the dog's person, comfort weather for the dog with the thick black fur coat. We contemplate purple pansies, pink snapdragons, gymnastic squirrels, groundhog mamas and their young, and invite the great blue heron to bring his girlfriend over for our appraisal. The wind stirs the poplar outside the studio and a branch bows down to us in an unsteady way just as I bowed last night in yoga class in sun salutations with knees slightly bent--cool nights bringing me unusually tight hamstrings--and I say, this is the life I was meant to lead. We listen, we watch, and I wrap myself in a blanket and drink coffee. Our dog hates heat and if cool is what she wants, so be it. I say, <i>I'm in: let's go for summer-lite.</i> Let there be lettuce and asparagus, let there eventually even be corn and tomatoes, I certainly don't want our farmers to suffer, but if this lovely dog likes a mild cool morning with nary a bug, what's the harm?<br />
<br />
We watch the mist swirling above the river and I think I can see fish or creatures imitating them riding the current. The hammock swings empty in the yard; no one wants to lounge there and read in this weather. I picture the August me out there with sunglasses and a book and I hope there's an August Zoe too, underneath that hammock swatting flies away. But hope, Thich Nhat Hanh says, is dangerous. It makes me forget that the perfect moment is this moment right now. It makes us chase things we can't see. It makes us put our happiness in hock. <br />
<br />
And right now the dog is eating, walking, running, playing, cuddling, smiling in her doggy way, and she knows this is her world so of course as the day wakes up and people get to work she will supervise the construction going on across the river--across her river. Right now the dog is beside me sharing a new day, this Tuesday morning. This is our moment, and although I want a million more of these I will horde the ones I have by writing about them here and now.<br />
<br />
Namaste, gentle reader. Namaste.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4449645734341845460.post-74336304820728305532012-06-04T03:00:00.000-07:002012-06-04T04:05:38.812-07:00Part II: Day 48: Zoe and Rebecca and Katniss, Another Interspecies Mixer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Those of you well-acquainted with this corner know that my dog, Zoe, has aspired to befriend a cat for quite some time, to no avail. When she tugs me over to State Street to Rebecca's house, where Webster the cat lives, said cat in residence disappears. (I wrote about Zoe's back history with cats and with Webster some time ago, and that post can be found <a href="http://winterwithzoe.blogspot.com/2012/01/day-27-zoe-rebecca-webster-interspecies.html" target="_blank">here</a>.) Zoe will sniff out Webster's hiding place and park there looking pleased with herself, but the two never interact beyond the phenomenon of Zoe risking a mauling and possible blindness by sticking her head under the divan where Webster is crouched in the fetal position. Now and then she barks to him a message that sounds like "Show your face! You're weak! Tom-cat up!" I don't think he cares one bit what she has to say.<br />
<br />
Well, now that there's a new cat in town and Zoe's had a chance to come courting, we know just how bold and sassy this canine ambassador is. The answer: not so much.<br />
<br />
This weekend we stopped over to meet the new addition to Rebecca's cat palace. Her name is Katniss, she was rescued by our friend Diane, and she is the size of Zoe's head.<br />
<br />
This kitten is not afraid of dogs. She sits there and watches with detached amusement as dogs roll on their backs, bark at her, stick their snouts near her face, eat snacks, lap up her water, expel gas, and play with her mouse toys. Nothing fazes her.<br />
<br />
Rebecca had to hold Zoe by the collar to get her to appear in the same photographic frame of little Katniss. Zoe was panting in fear.<br />
<br />
Was it Katniss's mojo? Maybe she's just got that alpha vibe that turns other creatures into pools of terror and supplication.<br />
<br />
Or maybe Katniss just fits into Zoe's category of Unidentified Animate Object. She is certainly the smallest animal Zoe has ever seen of the pet variety.<br />
<br />
Katniss got bored with the scared dog routine eventually and decided to climb up her pedestal where she could reign over her kingdom from on high.<br />
<br />
Faced with the chance to interact further with this self-possessed kitten, Zoe took off. She ran laps through the house, heading up and down and finally settling near the divan where she could intimidate the hidden Webster who is approximately four times the size of his adopted sister.<br />
<br />
Later, when she knew we were leaving, and I already was buttoning my raincoat, Zoe realized that she had a reputation to maintain. She stood beneath Katniss's high perch and barked at her. What was she saying? <i>Want a piece of me? How'd you get up there? Be a dog! </i> We didn't know.<br />
<br />
I'm a veteran of junior high mixers and I know that there isn't a lot of mixing that takes place. We, the students of Newton D. Baker Junior High, in Cleveland, Ohio, circa pre-Watergate, called them Friday night canteens, and in retrospect it was an act of incredible generosity and courage for the teachers and parental chaperones to decide they would give up a weekend night to supervise hormonally-challenged seventh and eighth graders in a big school gym. Mostly the boys held up their part of the wall and watched with feigned disinterest while the girls jumped around in a big pack in low-riding tight bell bottoms and screamed. It could have been the music we were listening to that made us scream. When I think of that time, however, and search for a soundtrack, my mind goes blank. I just hear girls bending over to screech random things in my ear, and the distant baritone of boys whose voices only stopped being mezzo-soprano about five minutes ago mumbling a language I had yet to learn.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTcVaisOQwTK7-3Wwu58dd5ToiUhniJ6YjCqo2g15gnF3drsn8-x9Lp1J4p9yb96c0kft8puG_VZ76MXGXgaFAHX0E6Zvoft3clk3NnAHv3SLFE8Y2rxfIzmJn_9g2jTRpbVf1KD8k6ek/s1600/IMG_5108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTcVaisOQwTK7-3Wwu58dd5ToiUhniJ6YjCqo2g15gnF3drsn8-x9Lp1J4p9yb96c0kft8puG_VZ76MXGXgaFAHX0E6Zvoft3clk3NnAHv3SLFE8Y2rxfIzmJn_9g2jTRpbVf1KD8k6ek/s640/IMG_5108.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meet Katniss. She's an imperturbable kitten, and she weighs as much as my morning toast</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7-O1mneOZtYpmC2YYoXzgOMi_NnMAxof32sUH67KHhqmjJeJxEk-dKbntVJJkQ84lapCbLj0_BKNYzuOmRhgeOkXhzbRG8k3jhoCggUtkRQDjAMJwojwYSEnuvqpRbQmIRSOXg2X4jtE/s1600/IMG_5110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7-O1mneOZtYpmC2YYoXzgOMi_NnMAxof32sUH67KHhqmjJeJxEk-dKbntVJJkQ84lapCbLj0_BKNYzuOmRhgeOkXhzbRG8k3jhoCggUtkRQDjAMJwojwYSEnuvqpRbQmIRSOXg2X4jtE/s640/IMG_5110.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe's licking her chops for . . . the greenies next to the kitty. Rebecca is holding this brave dog in place.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWydtK9RnDck8f3Zq3c7dmy8GOu1SeveUM-pv0KU1NyHDOSAtZcFl9eNnFLKlBFGuIsl5FYkF9dxe8nqNAVZTyjvOsH5wtrFFpujEFRLntvYxUxPTUcuaS0AlN9HvSOyWigNwJGIgsT8Q/s1600/IMG_5133.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWydtK9RnDck8f3Zq3c7dmy8GOu1SeveUM-pv0KU1NyHDOSAtZcFl9eNnFLKlBFGuIsl5FYkF9dxe8nqNAVZTyjvOsH5wtrFFpujEFRLntvYxUxPTUcuaS0AlN9HvSOyWigNwJGIgsT8Q/s640/IMG_5133.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a dog-free perch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihq0ZCznNHmF04KdLgxrw11mO2kRsgA4THCXR7XgHoXxg9mk5KvUGxi0FQXWX2q9A4nSZ9hSPvr2hFvnVKYS7fC8iLFKtyNcy4kacblpzv-6IghMy0Zuhk2Ui40CYzfzRN-fjd_xOYv4/s1600/IMG_5135.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihq0ZCznNHmF04KdLgxrw11mO2kRsgA4THCXR7XgHoXxg9mk5KvUGxi0FQXWX2q9A4nSZ9hSPvr2hFvnVKYS7fC8iLFKtyNcy4kacblpzv-6IghMy0Zuhk2Ui40CYzfzRN-fjd_xOYv4/s640/IMG_5135.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe likes it in the next room where she can feel superior to the hidden Webster-cat and can still watch our every move</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMwVIMOGXrGFKAqcaJCljve3rN2XP3ZI3BTlGIAwM2tn6cHm8eeuBEt7MxdCY7M-0InJMINttSoKZizkNiHKpZZy3v5-sFzZ4cFBkfyyx1Egvx3_-VAnplRz_tWMjfPcuiHYBYP58GiIY/s1600/IMG_5153.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMwVIMOGXrGFKAqcaJCljve3rN2XP3ZI3BTlGIAwM2tn6cHm8eeuBEt7MxdCY7M-0InJMINttSoKZizkNiHKpZZy3v5-sFzZ4cFBkfyyx1Egvx3_-VAnplRz_tWMjfPcuiHYBYP58GiIY/s640/IMG_5153.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You think you're so smart, little cat, just because you can climb. But, can you fly?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8EttDoR581d4XlfI3f5EIyLJIMZOCP5t2BjWc-Hu-ccZwSov8Q-QFmzvuPObn0MpHm_-YO9BWx7OixMWAQHE3tiIIYuBLPUcPM6hHGwZc2Q1P1BvyUc07BhBu6ei5xnJ0VyTm28Owjr4/s1600/IMG_5154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8EttDoR581d4XlfI3f5EIyLJIMZOCP5t2BjWc-Hu-ccZwSov8Q-QFmzvuPObn0MpHm_-YO9BWx7OixMWAQHE3tiIIYuBLPUcPM6hHGwZc2Q1P1BvyUc07BhBu6ei5xnJ0VyTm28Owjr4/s640/IMG_5154.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do you think they are friends now? We'll have to see what happens next time . . . </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It is the way of all mixers that much is lost in translation.<br />
<br /></div>Natalia Singerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09503578469055410701noreply@blogger.com2