Part II, Day 25: Zoe and Friends in Vermont, a Genre-Bending Thriller

Maybe it all started with the toy helicopter.  My husband, a child at heart when it comes to gadgets, and a secret reader of thrillers, startled us one night with the sound.

What was it?

We were in the living room thinking about nothing much at all and suddenly we heard the blades, the sound not of a rescue operation, as we three witnessed once happening in the South of France, but of an army of flies invading our North Country home.

Gold star if you can find the helicopter in this picture

The next day we were packing up, Zoe and I, seeking adventure in the neighboring state of Vermont.

First, as I posted about yesterday, she assisted in minor surgery at the vet's office.  That the patient was herself was no obstacle for her.

Later, we piled into the dog-mobile with our friends Milo, the speed racer, sometimes known as Roller Dog, and Emily, who is Queen Alpha of all Curly Golden-haired Dogs of the Universe.

Zoe and Emily tried to help drive, but their services were not needed.  Glenn had matters firmly in hand.

On the walk, Zoe offered to race Milo, but Roller Dog was not interested in competing.  He follows to the beat of his own drum.  It's the the heartbeat of his human companion, and that person has treats.

Cold was coming, and Zoe said, Bring it on.

There's something about the two of us that seems to attract winter, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Back at the house, Zoe and Tad squared off.  The cat refused to cower and refused to climb down from his perch.  He stared Zoe down and told her not to get any closer.  The stand-off was recorded on film, but only the two characters can tell you what genre their story could be categorized as: domestic comedy, or Western.

We woke the next morning to snow.  Zoe was delighted.

Emily and Milo wondered if they were in a remake of that movie, Groundhog Day.  This was exactly how it went the last time we came to Vermont to visit.  They have visitors from the West, and it snows.  Why?

(For details of that story, the prequel to today's events, go to Thanksgiving in Spring, here.)

Off we went with James, and Zoe and I watched the tender way James lifted the Roller Derby star from the car.  He and Glenn make it all look so easy.

Milo was deprived of one of his two favorite morning games because of all the clouds.  This dog likes to chase sunlight.  He finds a watchband glinting, or sunbeams having a parade, and he follows them and barks.

His second favorite activity is to roll in smooth moss.  It was coated in snow today, but he didn't care.

Zoe has three legs, but she doesn't defer to her only other three-legged associate.  When she saw her chance, she leapt first into the poochmobile and claimed the best four-wheel real estate for herself.

When Milo asked why, she said Ours is not to reason why.

But then the three dogs rode happily back to the house where the cat was hiding in wait.

Zoe and Emily, two top dogs, attempt to commandeer the steering wheel

Zoe is considering the script for Riding in Cars With Boys (and Girls)

Have you ever seen a cuter Golden face?

Glenn helps Milo down.

Milo, Speed Racer, a.k.a Roller Dog, is almost ready, and Coach Emily looks on

Is that really snow?

Don't worry, Emily.  You'll always be Top Girl.

Milo and Zoe agree to the terms of the race.

Glenn and Emily, Milo and Zoe

Whoops, where'd they go?

Milo would rather keep the humans company today

Make me!

This is the closest Zoe has ever gotten to a cat

Zoe shows off her tripod sit formation

With no sunbeams to chase, Milo proceeds to roll in moss

Without the fourth leg as momentum, it took him a while to get up, but he did

Zoe doesn't understand why the others aren't grinning as the snow goes horizontal

First in the prime seat--ha!

Are you talking to me?

Part II, Day Two: Thanksgiving in Spring

Among the kindest of many kind things people have done for us in recent weeks, James and Glenn invited us to come to dinner and spend the night at their place near Stowe on the eve of Zoe's first adventure in Chinese traditional herbal medicine and acupuncture.

I "met" James through Annie, a lovely former student, who is currently in the Peace Corps in Zambia with her husband, Andrew.  Annie worked with James at Green Mountain Coffee and sent me an e-mail this fall to tell me that her coworker and his partner, Glenn, had a golden retriever with osteosarcoma, just like Zoe.  She said the dog was on the same path as Zoe is--amputation, then chemotherapy--but was also being treated by an integrative vet.  It's East meets West in Vermont, and also, Boston, where James drives Milo for monthly visits to his oncologist.  The vet that gives Milo the Chinese herbs and pokes him with needles is less than 20 minutes from their house.

We arrive at 4 on a cool, raw day with scuttling clouds and tawny light that feels more like late November than late March.  The house, on four wooded acres, with a deck overlooking the Green Mountain valley, is private and spa-like, and I already feel relaxed before I knock on the door.

Milo is in Zoe's bed, but Zoe is intrigued by the kitchen

Milo and Emily

Inside, the open living room/dining area/kitchen with the panoramic view is more dogcentric than any home I've ever been in.  Milo, who is almost 11, thumps his tail from his C-shaped day bed, and Emily, a golden Chesapeake retriever curly girl, is 12, and before I can bring my bags in Zoe and I are told by these two that we need to keep our priorities straight.  We plop ourselves down for the meet and greet, and then I bring Zoe's plaid bed near theirs before I bring in anything else.  Milo promptly scoots onto it, claiming it as his.  Zoe doesn't mind.  She likes what's happening in the kitchen.  "She can seem a little aloof at first," I say to James, who goes over to her and sits down with her to begin getting acquainted.  "It's just that she has a job to do.  She has to herd everyone and watch the house and keep us safe.  And she needs a little space to watch everyone and everything equally."

so patient, so brave, so good

Glenn and Milo

While James roasts a turkey, Glenn and Milo and Zoe and I head out to walk around some groomed public fields.  I'm in awe of how Glenn and Milo have this routine down.  Glenn lifts all 75 pounds of Milo into the trunk, then finds room for the go-cart.  When we arrive, he carries Milo out and straps him in.  Milo is a tripod like Zoe, but his back left leg can't do its part now.  He was fine at first, but then he had to have radiation on the back leg because of another mass, and then he blew out his knee.  Plus he has arthritis.  But oh, that sweet, young-looking, brave face.  He is all love and all head.  He pushes that head into you and says, "Look into my eyes soulfully, now," and time stops.

true love

Zoe has her big chance.  She is with a comrade.  They are both tripods, both fighting the same aggressive disease.  He is patient and sweet and friendly, a natural-born teacher, and he would be happy to show her the ropes since he has two more months of experience than she does with oncology, pills, and doctor visits.  But Zoe, side by side with her special needs doggy counterpart, takes off.  Milo is feeling a little under the weather today.  He can't go very fast or very far.  Zoe has been in the car all day.  She runs ahead, comes back, runs ahead, and comes back, but then ditches us for the company of some small, swift dogs.  One, a beagle/retriever mix, has been known to run off into the wild, but his person thinks the retriever part of him is starting to keep him close to the pack.  Zoe would love to show off her herding skills and bring the errant dog back, but he's on his best behavior.

Zoe shoots ahead to meet the swifites

Milo meets the dogs in the 'hood

Zoe turns to check on us and make sure we're still there

Back at the house, we sit down to drink the French red wine I brought and to nibble on goat cheese brie and hummus and crackers.  I didn't have lunch, and the smell of the turkey is making me a little giddy.  We talk about our dogs and our pasts.  James and Glenn met over 17 years ago in San Francisco when they were both working for AIDS hospice.  James grew up in Upper Michigan, served in the military, studied parks recreation on the GI bill in Arkansas, and is currently applying his considerable charm to his work at Green Mountain coffee where he gives tours.  Glenn is from Pennsylvania, has a background in marketing, and now works in IT at Green Mountain.  They give me three free bags and I think ahead to the caffeine highs that will fuel future posts.

I notice later, especially when I bring out the camera, that the colors around us--soft sienna, mustard, saffron, and nutmeg--match the coats of their dogs.  This is a golden retriever pooch palace.

At doggy dining time, James feeds all three dogs at once, topping up Zoe's boring food with some cat food to help the medicine go down.  I watch him give Milo his meds.  Several pills go on his tongue.  James wears gloves, like we're supposed to but don't, and when I marvel at this he says he only put them on to impress me, and that he hardly ever does it either.  Then Milo gets a reward: dried liver treats.  After dinner, Milo gets a baster-full of what they call a "slurry" of Chinese herbs, slippery elm, mushrooms, and a variety of herbs and antioxidants that Glenn, who has a nutrition degree, has been reading about and adding to since the diagnosis.  Milo swallows it all and puts his heavy head in James' hand with gratitude.  James asks if I've noticed that Zoe might have lost her taste for beef marrow bones since she started chemo.  He has created new bones filled with a frozen health drink he makes himself with almond butter and fruit.  All three dogs chomp these down, then suck out the delicious center with a sound like happy people slurping oysters.

Dinner is the succulent turkey, roasted brussel sprouts that have been sauteed with bacon and shallots, mashed sweet potatoes, and a green salad.  Dessert is fresh berries with lemon curd and yogurt.  The dogs get little nibbles of everything.  This is my idea of comfort food--gourmet comfort food.  I'm in heaven.

Where is that flying kitty off to now?

These guys are fun and funny, generous and sweet.  We talk about politics (same allergies to certain bullies and bigots), our respective travels, the move from a very fast-paced urban life in San Francisco to rural Vermont, their remodeling work on the house, and then it's dogs, dogs, dogs.  I would be writing everything down, I should be writing everything down, but Glenn beats me to it.  They also give me a book on dogs and cancer, and a novel I've been wanting to read (with a dog protagonist: The Art of Racing in the Rain.)  I give them Dog Years by Mark Doty, my favorite dog book, but I wish I had more to offer them than that.

As Dog is my witness, you will talk to me

sacked out pups; Zoe's got the bone

Zoe is a shy dog, but she takes to these two humans right away, and cozies up to them, trying to steal attention from the other two dogs.  But the star of the show, as far as she is concerned, is that acrobatic cat, who flies up the stairs, runs to the bedroom headboard, then leaps to the kitchen counter and to the top of the fridge.  Zoe is enthralled.  This is as close to a cat as she has ever been, and still, the cat is elusive, but that's okay: Zoe loves the thrill of the chase.  The cat is not going to snuggle with her, or share her toys, although Zoe did sneak downstairs and nibble from her bowl.

The next morning, we wake up to Winter, the Sequel, and I have to spend some time scraping off my car.  James and I take all three dogs on a snowy trail.  I'm touched when I watch the way James, as Glenn did yesterday, helps Milo in his cart.  He has to lift the cart a little to help Milo pee, and later, before we get into the car, he cleans up Milo's bottom.  He does all this with such sweetness and patience and grace.  Milo just beams and waits, leaning that big soft head against his person.

A few days later, after Milo visits the chiropractor, he will get his mojo back.  Check out his stunts on you-tube.  He's so inspiring.  When I asked if it would be okay for me to share this link with blog viewers, Glenn wrote, "I like getting the word out about dogs with disabilities and their ability to have a great life!"  So please share:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PvBeWh3-r4U

What I'm learning is that while Zoe's diagnosis has made us think about the future in a less expansive way, she has also opened our hearts and brought a wider world to us, leading us to people and other dogs and other experiences and houses and lives we would have never known about, were it not for her. 

Usually, after visiting someone's house, I have to put Zoe in the car first, before I pack the trunk, so that she knows she won't be left behind.  If not, she cries.  This morning, for the first time in all our years of traveling together, Zoe won't get in the car.  In fact, she won't leave the yard.  She just parks herself in front of the door to the Vermont Comfort Pooch Palace and looks at me calmly, with her superior knowledge, waiting for me to realize that she knows best.  It's a version of her "hell no, I won't go" look, but less defiant, more calm and beatific, until I call her again, and again, and again, and finally she comes running to see what other surprises are waiting for her down this valley road.

Part II, Day One: Another 108 Days

It's the beginning of April, the trees, confused by late March's summer weather, are budding a month early, and Zoe and I just returned from a road trip to Vermont and Massachusetts in which she:

• walked and ran five miles a day (except for driving days);
• met, hiked alongside, dined with, and had a pajama party with Milo, the golden retriever who has the same bone cancer as she does, his pack sister, Emily, their human family, James and Glenn, and meanwhile made the acquaintance of a certain wily, nimble, provocative, refrigerator-vaulting cat; 
• visited her saucy, smiley cousin Sadie, whose herding instincts take the form of tagging the humans in the flock with a rag or stick or squeaky toy on each walk, and who has been known to do a leap-frog over Zoe, horizontally; 
• had acupuncture twice, liked it, and booked in again for mid-April; 
• embarked on a new chapter of more adventurous canine dining (raw meats!  oats!  kelp!  holy health food store!); 
• chased one UPS truck to the street and then sat in smug, self-satisfaction in a pool of sunlight on my sister and brother-in-law's deck, telling us all by her haughty look: My work is done here now; 
• shoved her saucy, smiley cousin aside on the couch to find the best position for watching Michele Williams become Marilyn Monroe on family movie night; 
• and returned home to the North Country to assume her favorite position on the deck guarding the house and ruling the people inside it.

Zoe and I agree: it feels good to be home again.

And it feels good to be back on the beat, writing about daily life, even if this new season will definitely challenge my dog and my husband and me to be stronger than we thought we were, because spring has sprung with much uncertainty.

For today's meditation, I opened up to this teaching from Your True Home, the Everyday Wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh:

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, and we are not sure if we'll be alive tomorrow.  This is all part of impermanence, and this feeling of insecurity can make us suffer.

How can we face this feeling?  What is our practice?  I think living deeply in the 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.

Gentle reader, this is my mission for the next 108 posts (which might not happen on 108 consecutive days; I'm giving myself a little leeway this time . . . )  To cherish the moment and do what I can to make life meaningful for my dog, myself, and our little pack, even as Zoe's future is uncertain.

We know that the nodules in her lung were shrinking during most of the winter, when I began writing "Winter with Zoe," and then they got a little bigger as we began a new season and a new kind of chemotherapy treatment.

But today, as I write, she is very much alive.  Her coat is shining, her eyes are bright, and she is on an hour-long walk with her favorite beagle and her favorite golden retriever, and three of her favorite men, including my husband: what we refer to around here as the gentlemen's walk.  Before she left a few minutes ago, she ate her new food with gusto, then tossed around the squeaky beaver, looking murderous and delighted at once.  She's baaaaack, and she's ready for a good Sunday, and she might even con us into doing something foolish, something April foolish, on her behalf.

I have a backlog of stories to share with you.  I look forward to taking this ride with you again, gentle reader, and I wish you a most relaxing Sunday and start to the new month. 

Day 94: Packing in Secret

All of you dog people out there know that it's not a good idea to get the suitcase out too soon.  For spring break, I've been packing in secret.  When I do laundry, I leave some things folded on the table in the laundry room and yesterday, I hauled the red suitcase out of its hidey-hole and set it up there as well.  Zoe would never think to look here.  She avoids the laundry room.  It smells like soap, and bleach.  And when the machines rumble, they remind her of storms.

The next step is to gather the books and audio-books and electronic devices in a relaxed way, as though we're just cleaning up, and to set them on the dining room table without bagging them up.  Any container arouses suspicion.

While I was walking Zoe, my husband bagged up some road snacks and wine for our trip.  It was a good stealthy move.  He's a master at this.

While he does the morning walk in his car, I'll put our luggage in mine. 

Pillows and dog blankets, her bowls and food, they won't hit the car until she's in it and knows for sure she won't be left behind.

And once that happens, she has on her eager road trip face.  We will listen to mysteries, snack, watch winter morph into full-on intoxicating spring in a measly few hours, smell spring flowers, and we'll arrive at the beach, Zoe's favorite human-friendly dog hotel in the whole world.  

All the secrecy, the borderline lying will be worth it.