Part II, Day 61: A Pretty Good Day, Considering

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.

Kerry and Zoe

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.

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 here.)

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.

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, Nice to meet you again, as in, We've done okay, you and I, as in, We can do this part well too, we really can, as in, Thank you.  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.

Dr. Amy T and Zoe

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.

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.

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.

This is our office now

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.

Part II: Day 54: Treating the Patient's Codependent Pepes

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.

gold star if you can find the needles

Zoe appears to be happy about this shoulder needle, for some reason.

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.

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.

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.

She relaxes for 20 minutes with the needles in

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.

"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 . . ."

(Not long ago I wrote a post about the dog's codependent pepes.  Even my very rational husband agrees that this is our affliction.)

"That's the difference between Western and Eastern medicine," Don says.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

He pets her, and we point out all the lumps that have sprouted overnight, it seems, since she started taking the new drug, Kinavet.

"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?"

We point to the place where he removed a lump via laser a while back.  Now a new one is growing there.

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.

"They're not osteosarcomata," Don says.  And he tell us not to worry.

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."

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.

"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."

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.

blissed out after the session, she rolls in the grass

Later, my husband and I dissect the visit.  He's still very worried about Zoe's lumps.  I'm trying not to be.

"Then why didn't you say that?" I ask him.  "Why didn't you say what you were thinking?"

"Because it was obvious to me that part of his job today was to treat you."  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."

That's my girl!

"So maybe that's what he really means by the difference between western and eastern medicine."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Part II, Day 34: Sunday House Call

It's Sunday, 8:30 AM, and the Doctors T are coming for home acupuncture.

When Zoe saw Dr. Don T. last, she ended up having minor surgery for a scabrous cyst and I am relieved that our intrepid dog doesn't hold this against him.  When she enters the house, damp from the rain, from the morning gentlemen's walk, she runs directly to him and does her version of a hug, otherwise known as the lean-in.  When she rolls on her back for a belly rub, we know she's ready for a session.

This is the second time the Doctors T have met at our house to talk shop.  The first time, (which you can read about here), they spoke about Amy's acupuncture course in Florida, for which Don has made some training videos.  When Amy arrives, Don jumps into his instinctive role as mentor/teacher.  She tells him about a horse she treated this week.  Its leg was sore and stiff, but massage didn't help.  If I have understood their conversation correctly, one of the key questions for deciding which points to use is to decide if the problem comes from blood stagnation or xi stagnation.  Blood stagnation creates the kind of stiffness that doesn't feel better after you start moving, and often feels worse.  With xi stagnation, the animal just needs to get the energy moving again, and all is well.  The trouble is, if the horse doesn't like your approach, you might get kicked in the head.  And certain places on the legs that would be good to put needles from a therapeutic standpoint are very tricky to get at with an agitated horse.  I stand back and drink my tea and try to imagine myself in her place, walking into a barn for the first time and trying to approach a horse who is ailing, a horse who has never had needles put in its legs, a horse who doesn't know her.  Dr. Amy T is patient and good-humored, and I can see why the farmers around here want her to be the vet in the practice that makes house calls.

Today Zoe is getting six needles.  Stomach 36 and Large Intestine 10, for immune system stimulation and xi tonic.  Spleen 6 for yin tonic.  Bladder 23 for kidney tonic.  Stomach 40, an influential point for phlegm, which is important, I guess, when there are tumors.  Lung 9, the grandfather point to the original tumor.

Zoe backs up into a corner and tries to hide under the desk.  Sometimes she welcomes Chinese medicine and presents herself to her healers, but today she makes them come to her.  If you look at this picture, the humans are bent over what looks just like a black hole under the desk, but that's our girl.

After the needles are in, she withdraws into herself and nods off.  Don T tells us that he has discovered that less is more--only six needles is fine for Zoe.  Recently he gave quite a few needles to a geriatric dog and this old guy didn't want to move for 13 hours afterward.   Acupuncture can really relax an animal, but as you can imagine, this was not an ideal scenario. 

I do notice that Zoe is exceedingly mellow after today's treatment.  She asks to go outside after the sun dries away the rain, and she sleeps away much of the morning.  I peer out at her once and see her kick her paw once in her half-sleep.  Perhaps after eavesdropping on our conversation, she is dreaming that she's a stiff and cranky horse getting an acupuncture treatment for the first time.

Back in the kitchen, my husband, Dr. Amy T and I all admire Don's medical bag.  I remember when old style medical bags were sold as purses at Anthropologie and I coveted one.  My husband makes a joke about the animal doctor carrying his medicines inside the hide of an animal, but Don laughs and says at least it's not naugahyde.  We try to explain naugahyde to Amy, but we need to give her more background.  "Picture polyester pants suits, shag carpets, and fake leather black couches.  It's funny how bad taste can be like an epidemic."  And I realize this is the second time in a week that I've found myself explaining something about the seventies to someone younger than I am.  The other day it was to Zoe.  She had objected to the song "Y.M.C.A.," which we heard blasting on our walk, and even though this serenade happened to take place the day President Obama finally came out in support of gay marriage, Zoe did not want to dance.  This dog prefers mellow, alternative music like the kind Sonya and Alex played for her yesterday when they dropped by to return a book.  Alex turned on his phone and put on the music of the Canadian songwriter Feist, her song "1234," and Zoe wagged her tail.  

A few hours after Zoe's treatment, our friend Eve comes over.   Zoe wakes up from her nap to chase  Blue, Eve's border collie, around the yard.  Inside the house, she runs and pulls her favorite plush squeaky toys out from her box: the skunk, the fox, the beaver.  She darts in and out of tables and legs and rolls on her back and grunts and then asks for a long walk, which we are happy to provide. Our conversation is often interrupted by her demands for attention. 

Eve says, "Wow, I haven't seen Zoe with this much energy in years.  She wasn't like this even before her surgery, before she had cancer.  She preferred to be calm and mellow, and to just sit there looking regal."

It's been about eight weeks since Eve has seen Zoe, and I trust her perceptions.  It's easy when you're with a dog day after day to forget what her baseline normal looks like.

I feel so lucky to have all these people on Zoe's team.   Who knew that in a village of 6,000 people I would find veterinarians who do acupuncture and make house calls?

While I loaded these photos onto my computer, Zoe was outside my window relaxing in the grass, watching the house, waiting for me to feed her dinner.  A day that included two long walks in the woods, a photo shoot in the trillium, an acupuncture treatment, and a mad chase around the yard with a border collie is coming to a close soon.  This is just life as Zoe knows it.  Not bad or good, not special, just normal. 

But every day that feels normal to Zoe is a gift to me.

Hello, I am mellow; I just had acupuncture.  If you want to talk, you'll have to come to me and speak gently.

Part II, Day 14: House Call

In one of those miraculous coincidences that make me love the place I call home, the veterinarian I drove four hours to take Zoe to last month grew up two towns over, and once a month he comes to our county and makes house calls.

For those of you who are new to this post, and others who find the whole chain of associations so convoluted that you would like to review, the line of connections went like this: former student e-mails from Vermont to tell me that her co-worker's dog has the same form of cancer that Zoe has.  I contact this man and his partner and they hook me up with their vets in Vermont and invite Zoe and me for a visit.  We head over in March, have a fabulous time, and Zoe now has new friends, more vets on the team, and more approaches to treating her disease.

Dr. Don Thompson graduated from the university where I teach, and his mentor who helped him get in vet school is my friend and colleague, Dr. David Hornung (Dave).

Dave is the founding member of the gentlemen's walk, although when I used to go on it, before my husband took over, it was a mixed gender club, which, by the way, did not make the jokes any less spicy.

Dave co-led a trip to China in 2005 with my friend, Anne, who blogs about gardens, and for some odd reason, they invited me to join them.  We visited hospitals where traditional Chinese medicine is practiced and learned about acupuncture in our travels.

Now the former mentor and student are seeing one another for the first time in over 30 years.

Meanwhile, two veterinarians named Dr. Thompson are meeting for the very first time.  It would be amazing if they were distant cousins, but to the best of their knowledge, they don't share DNA.

Dr. Amy Thompson diagnosed Zoe's cancer at the end of August in 2011.  I have invited her here to join us not only because she will provide crucial information to the other Dr. Thompson about where Zoe's tumor first presented, but so that she can benefit from his decades of experience.  Amy is studying acupuncture herself, on top of co-owning a thriving veterinary hospital.  Her fifteen-month-old daughter has only, within the last week, started sleeping through the night.  It's another miracle that she could steal an hour of time to come here today.

Dr. Thompson (Don) arrives at 9:20 AM.  When I ask him what kind of tea he would like, he enthusiastically asks for the caffeinated kind.  Yesterday he left Vermont at 4:30 AM to drive to the North Country where he drove around to farms and homes and saw patients for 14 hours.  Among them were the 30 horses of a local judge, whose stallions have quite some kick in them, and various barnyard animals and dogs and cats from around St. Lawrence County.  I happen to know that llamas are among his specialties, but I neglect to ask if he got to see any this weekend.

Dr. Thompson (Amy) arrives a few minutes later.  She has sent Don the original x-rays she took of Zoe's cancerous bone, and he now knows that the tumor first presented itself in the gallbladder meridian, which is a wood element, and that it needs to be "disciplined" by its "grandfather," two elements away, in metal, the lung and large intestine meridian.

This is an innovative treatment.  Don read a study in which a doctor in Norway claims he cured women of breast cancer with one needle.  He found the grandfather sites to where their tumors presented, and after his three one-needle treatments, the tumors disappeared.

I have an open mind, but I don't expect miracles.  I just want Zoe to live as long and as well as fate and medical intervention will allow.

Zoe with her stuffed beaver, near her person's notebook

Dr. Honung (Dave) arrives, and it's been so long since the two men have seen each other that I'm not sure they recognize each other.  But in a minute or two the thirty years collapse, and they are comparing notes about people they know in common and studies each thinks the other needs to read.  Dave has invited his former student to do a guest lecture in one of his classes this fall. 

It's very moving for me to sit back and watch these two things happening at once: the former teacher and former student reuniting on our kilim rug, the young vet who made the crucial diagnosis learning from and assisting the senior vet in treating my Zoe.

As for the dog in question, she grabs onto her squeaky toy and sighs, waiting for all the talk to subside so it can go back to being all about her.

Zoe's tongue is too purple: a sign of blood stagnation, which you might expect to see in a canine cancer patient.  But when Don "listens" with his fingers to her femoral artery, the pulse is steady and strong, not "slippery," which one often finds in a cancer patient.  His job today is to clear stagnation, bust up dampness, break the heat, and tonify her xi. 

Does Zoe know she's a lucky dog?  She now has three people tending to her at once.  Dave, whom she adores and walks with every morning, helps keep her calm and in place; Amy holds her upright and speaks soothingly to her; and Don puts in the needles.  Amy puts a needle into Zoe's front paw and checks to ensure all the needles are in position before she helps Zoe lie down again.  Zoe takes all this standing up and lying down and poking in stride.

Seven needles go in.  Stomach 36, TV 14, Intestine 11, Liver 13, these are among the places on the list today. 

We learn more about Zoe's yin deficiency, which makes her "air conditioning" system a little wonky (i.e., she pants a lot and is always looking for a cool place to sleep and hang out) and we learn that when a seasoned vet feels on the yin side of a patient's body, his or her own pulse will become fainter if the patient lacks yin.

Dr. Thompson (Don) thinks she looks good.  Dr. Thompson (Amy) remembers how even when Zoe was in terrible pain when she first met her last summer, how strong she seemed, and is still.  "I'm not even treating the will to live point," Don tells us.  "She doesn't need it."  Then he explains to Amy where that point is.

I feel at once honored and overwhelmed: I am writing things down, but I won't remember half of what I see.  Multiple conversations are going on at once.  Amy is studying at the acupuncture school for vets in Florida where Don does guest lectures once or twice a year and their talk gets fairly technical.  She'll be adding acupuncture to her practice when she's done, in August, and Don encourages her to add herbs, the Chinese herbal medicines that Zoe is taking, which we buy more of while he's here.

Don not only makes monthly house calls in his home community, but he brings dog food and medicines.

The visit was meant to take thirty minutes, but Don stays over an hour.  Reuniting with a former mentor and teaching new techniques to a young colleague can't be rushed, and even still, he doesn't get to finish his tea.

But there are more dogs and cats and horses and cows to see, and many more hours to go before this traveling vet begins his four-hour journey home.

And in this hour, three decades have collapsed, we've traveled by story to Vermont and Florida and China, and Zoe has been tended to by the vet who saved her life--she would probably have not lived to Christmas, were it not for Amy's diagnosis--and the vet who has added to our line of defense and who thinks Zoe's going to be with us longer than we first believed.

"I'll see you in a month," I tell him, as he leaves, and it feels good to think of time in this way.  Since August of 2011 I have lived with Zoe day by day, everyday.  I have loved every minute I have shared with my sweet dog, but now and then, it's nice to believe I can leapfrog forward in time, just a little. 

Dr. Hornung, Dr. Don Thompson, and Dr. Amy Thompson (clockwise)

Dave and Amy support Zoe while Don goes in

Here's the next spot

feeling for the point on Zoe's leg

just chillin' with the tiger, while the needles are in

This vet who makes house calls needed an indestructible laptop, and now he has one

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.