Day II, Day 26: What do Hippies Eat for Breakfast?

The special of the day is the "dirty hippie omelet" and two members of this trio order it.  The third person wants it too, but he's on Atkins and the dish has too many vegetables.

The dirty hippie omelet has fiddleheads, homemade sausage, mushrooms, and smoked cheddar.  The eggs are from a nearby farm.

Of the three in this party, one was in the military and now works somewhere with a dress code, another worked many years in marketing and is currently an IT guy, and the third is an English professor, although truth be told, she spent formative years of her youth working at a place that was commonly considered a hippie café, a collectively owned restaurant in Port Townsend, Washington that opened in 1976, the same year as this warm, funky restaurant in Stowe.

The three are eating here for the first time and they are hesitant to leave.  The vibe is so inviting, the home fries perfectly browned, and where else can you get fresh seasonal fiddleheads in your omelet?

Zoe looks at her bowl and says the Dirty Hippie Doggy Special isn't for me

"You have to be careful with fiddleheads," the former marketing guy says.  "You have to blanch them first, to remove a toxin, or you can get sick."  He also has a nutrition degree, which helps when you're trying to figure out what to feed your dog.

"I knew that but I forgot," the former hippie restaurant collective prep cook/English professor says.  "I'm hoping they'll be in season soon at home, and I'm glad you reminded me.  I would hate to get sick eating something good for me."

The slurry is introduced

Meanwhile, the dog is waiting in the car.  The dogs that run with this pack sometimes think they are eating too many things that are good for them, which in Zoe's case means too much to make it edible.

Her food of the moment has kelp in it and that green color looks like grass.  When she wants grass, she eats actual grass.


The three Chinese herbs she takes for bone stasis, immunology boost, and lung cancer look like big doses of garam masala, cumin powder, and coriander, but smell like the medicinal section of a health food store opened in 1976 by back-to-the-landers, as her local one was.  She had gotten used to them, and ate them on her food without balking (when their taste was disguised with meat), but then Zoe's person had to go ahead and add something new to the mix.

after the slurry, the treat

It's called Poly-MVA.  Zoe's person heard that it's helpful in shrinking tumors.  She has recently met a woman whose mother had stage 4 lung cancer, and is now in remission because of taking this stuff.  The same woman's brother was diagnosed with lymphoma two weeks ago and ten days after starting on this health supplement his lymph nodes shrunk back down to size.

The problem is that Poly-MVA reeks of B vitamins.

Imagine your smelliest multivitamin and B-complexes in liquid form.

Zoe looks at her bowl and runs away.

"Dirty hippies," she mutters under her breath, in dog.  "I've been all through France, and I've eaten foie gras and lobster ravioli and the best pâté in Normandy, and they think they can serve me this hippie crap and call it food."

Zoe's person asks the former marketing man with a nutrition degree how to spin this.  He suggests the slurry.  You give your dog the food she really wants, even if it comes from a can, or was served in a Michelin-starred restaurant in France (a place with a dress code that excludes dirty hippies), and you then mix up your hippie ingredients, your herbs and unguents and slithery slime and mud and snake oil and cosmic moonbeams and put them into a giant turkey baster and shoot it down your dog's big trusting maw.

He demonstrates.  Said dog is willing to slurp this concoction down and is promptly rewarded with a treat.

But Zoe thinks this compliant dog votes for the wrong candidates and runs with the wrong pack.  Maybe this dog was programmed by the EST people.  Maybe Christian Scientists had a say?  Maybe the dog hasn't been to France and hasn't sampled enough haute cuisine.

Two humans give it the college try, but the slurry won't go in Zoe's mouth.  She is willing to open her mouth, with some coaxing, but then the stuff just slips right out, all over her fur.

"I think her mouth isn't big enough," the former marketer says.  "Milo has a huge head.  Zoe's is much smaller."

"My husband has often lamented the size of our dog's head," Zoe's person says.   "I think she's beautiful the way she is, but he thinks Zoe is out of proportion.  Her big booty is the first thing some people see."

The dog now has a nasty mixture of expensive hippie potion running all over her gorgeous fur and these people are arguing about her beauty, her proportions, her measurements.  This is the absolute limit.

The dog was clean and shiny, but she is dirty now.  She would much rather soil herself by rolling in something respectable, like a dead deer or maggoty squirrel or fermenting fish, not these hippie herbs and oils.

Later, back at home in Upstate New York, Zoe's other person, the gourmet chef, figures out just what to do.  "I think she was fine having all the herbs and things on her food.  But she doesn't like the taste of the new stuff, the Poly-MVA.  So what if we separate it, and I make a really rich beef stock, like a veal reduction you would use for French country cooking, and we give it to her as a starter course?"

This solution works brilliantly.  Zoe enjoys her two-course meal, and sticks around in the kitchen while we eat our meal, hoping we'll let her lick our plates, instead of going into duck-and-cover mode.

Vive la France!  Vive hippies, dirty and clean, near and far!  And vive la difference!

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 Three: Yin and Yang

Part I:  Yin

At Vermont Integrative Veterinary Associates Zoe relaxes and waits for Dr. Emily Bond to enter the room while I stare up at the chart of tongues wondering which one looks most like Zoe's.

Once, many years ago, long before Zoe came into my life, my chiropractor/herbalist looked at my cracked, coated tongue and told me I was a mess.  "No sugar, no alcohol, no fermented or processed anything for three months," she prescribed.  She also commanded that I walk outside every morning to move my stagnant qi [pronounced "chi"].  She said if I followed her instructions to the letter, and never cheated once, I'd feel much better.

I did exactly what she said, lost ten pounds, started sleeping better, and had more energy.  The slime on my tongue receded and the witchy crack closed up a lot.  My hair was shinier too, and less dry.  I came back for an appointment and my chiropractor was amazed.  "You didn't cheat at all?" she said.

"No, never."  I really hadn't.

I think she thought I was a weirdo for adhering to her rules so rigidly, but we agreed that I had never looked better.

I think it's fair to say that I'm open to alternative forms of healing.

The first time I went to an acupuncturist was in Cambridge, Massachusetts, when I was 26, and I had to take a cab there because I couldn't walk--not even up and down the stairs of the tube.  I was in great pain because of chondromalacia patella: my right kneecap's cartilage was like a scratched-off Teflon pan.  All because I was too cheap to buy good running shoes, and then I ran my heart out on the roads of Boston to mend a broken heart.  As for the guy, I got over him pretty fast, but my knee was never the same afterwards.  My acupuncturist heated the needles, smoked me with moxa sticks that smelled deliciously like a cross between sage and pot, and after only one session I was able to walk the two miles home.  She made a convert of me, and later went on to help me with my gallbladder when a doctor thought I had stones.  She even tackled my PMS and mood swings almost enough for me to find a new boyfriend--but not quite.

But I don't hold out hope that acupuncture will cure Zoe of her cancer.  I'm always open for a miracle, and I pray to Dog every day that we will find one, but mostly I'm interested in quality of life.  I want to make sure that her immune system is as strong as it can be, and her gastrointestinal track gets every booster it can to handle all the hard-core drugs she's taking.

I want her to feel good.  That's the reason why Zoe and I are here.

You can't see the needles; they're as black as her fur

Dr. Emily Bond is a gentle soul.  Zoe and I take to her at once.  She comes into the room and sits down with Zoe on the floor, and just listens.  This woman listens with her whole self, not just her stethoscope.  It's apparent that she loves animals and loves what she does.  Zoe, who is a reserved dog, is instantly in love.  She leans her head against Dr. Bond.  She even gives her a kiss, which I don't get from Zoe unless there's food on my face.  And when the needles are in, Zoe relaxes into it so deeply she appears to be napping.

"Considering all the things going on, I would expect to hear weaker pulses," Dr. Bond, who asks me to call her Emily, says.  "She has quite a lot of qi.  She's strong.  Really strong."

I had to fill out a form, and one of the questions asked was whether my dog likes to sleep in a warm bed or if she's always on the lookout for somewhere cool.  Zoe is a hottie.  She pants easily and loves the cold.  Always has, even as a puppy in the pound.  She has never wanted to sleep with us in our bed because it's too hot to be around snugglers.  Winter is her favorite season.  She loves to roll in the snow.

"Zoe has too much yang," she says.  "Anyone who gets hot easily, and seeks the cool, has too much yang.  That means a yin deficiency.  We need to give her more yin."

(This sounds a lot like my husband, by the way, who sweats when he eats, turns red even when not embarrassed, and likes to turn our thermostat down to 55.  Now I know another reason why he and Zoe are kindred spirits.  I, myself, am neither too hot, nor too cold.  I'm lukewarm.)

Emily asks me about what Zoe has been eating, the main meats in her dog food.  Chicken and lamb, her two favorite meats, are only going to make her more yang, I'm warned.  Zoe needs turkey and fish.  Those foods are cooling.  Beef is neutral, so I can keep giving her that, in a pinch.  But the chicken broth my husband has been putting on her food to make it more interesting: that's a no.

Dr. Emily Bond is yin herself.  She doesn't talk a lot.  She listens.  She creates a space that others fill.  She seems wise beyond her years, and lets Zoe tell her the story, and waits for me to fill in the details.  We have a lot in common because she was an English major.  She loves literature; she even has been reading my blog just so she'll know Zoe well in advance and how to treat her best.  She has a soothing presence I can't describe, but Zoe picks up on it immediately.  Zoe trusts her completely, and I do too.  I know I will do everything she suggests even though we recently bought a giant bag of dog food.

Zoe's tongue, by the way, is too red, and has a little stagnant purple center.  "That's a sign of being too yang," she says.  "But it also shows she has a lot of emotion.  She feels a lot.  A lot.  She's very sensitive."

When she says that, I stare at Zoe's purple heart, that was given to her by her oncology team for bravery.  (That story is in the link above and right here.)

Zoe and I are reluctant to leave.  We feel a kinship with this young woman who has only been a vet since 2010.  She's the vet who always treats Milo for osteosarcoma, whom I wrote about yesterday.  I hope we will meet again.  Zoe has never taken to a vet quite so quickly.  This is almost a miracle in itself.

Part II: Yang

Four days later, we return.  This time Zoe runs up the ramp and gets to the door first, eager to enter.  How many dogs race their people to enter a vet's office?  Today we're working with Dr. Don Thompson, who started the practice, and is about my age, and will be seeing Zoe regularly now because--get this--he's from the North Country, where I live, and once a month he comes to my area to see his family and make house calls.

Are we lucky or what?  It feels like fate.

I used to say, about where we live, one of two things, depending on my mood:
1) Canton, New York is far from the known world.
2) All roads lead to Canton, New York.

Both are true, equally, even today.  It's a four-hour drive to this vet clinic, so coming here is not something I can do without a lot of planning.  And yet the senior vet here makes house calls.

Dr. Thompson is exuberant and warm.  He hugs instead of shaking hands.  The best part is what he's wearing: a bowling shirt in bright Hawaiian colors of dogs on motorcycles.  "Call me Don," he says.  It's a first name-only practice.  My students call me Natalia, so we're all alike in that way.

Dr. Thompson agrees that Zoe's tongue is very red.  And when he listens to her pulses, he's knocked out by them.  "She's got a really strong lung pulse," he says, which reassures me, since the bone cancer's "mets" are in her lungs.  "This dog has a strong will to live."  Just for good measure, he includes the "will to live" site in the places he puts in the needles.

Again, Zoe seems to feel every needle go in, tilts her head with wonder at the strange pulses and energy sensations, but she likes it.  She started the session up on his examining table but we carry her down to the floor where she can rest.

And while Zoe rests, Dr. Thompson--Don--holds forth.  I learn so much in our hour together.  About the five elements, how the "grandfather" of the area afflicted--where Zoe's tumor started on her leg--can be triggered to "discipline" the cancer, how tumors are started because of too much dampness in the body, among other things, and how Zoe can also eat rabbit, if she wants.  The very yang animals are the ones that move fast, and although rabbits run away quickly, they are also very shy, which is yin.

Coincidences abound.  Dr. Thompson went to St. Lawrence University, where I teach.  He goes through the list of his mentors and I tell him which ones are still around and haven't retired yet.  I explain that his teacher, Dr. David Hornung, who helped him get into medical/vet school, is one of the gentlemen of the morning gentlemen's walk that Zoe goes on daily, and so the circles are complete.  We agree that I'll invite his old mentor to the house for when he comes to give Zoe a treatment on April 14.

Zoe is facilitating a reunion between teacher and student.  I love this!

Don has lectured in China, and was recently asked to write a chapter for a textbook being authored by one of the foremost experts on traditional Chinese medicine for animals, a Chinese vet who now lives and practices and teaches in Florida.  We look at the map of China together and I try to remember all the places I went to on a trip led by David and my friend Anne, whom I mentioned on another post because she is starting a wonderful gardening blog.  (If you love gardening, go to the hyperlink on the left, or go to my home page and click on the blogroll blog with "cassidy hill garden" in it.)  I feel like we could talk away the rest of the afternoon and never run out of things to say.

As quiet as Emily is, Don is loquacious.  I like them both.  I feel, after the two visits, that Zoe has been treated to the full spectrum of yin and yang.

And I have too.  The two balance each other.

Afterwards, Zoe and I do run into Emily, who is helping a woman with her crated cat.  Zoe leans against her like they're old friends.

A couple Saturdays from now, Zoe will see Don at the door with his needles and herbs.  She'll bark, but probably not for long.  By now she's used to all the attention.  And besides, all roads do lead, by hook or by crook, to ours in Canton.

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.