tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83423642035973761622024-03-12T17:18:01.957-07:00Diamond Dogs Racing Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger613125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-78997968548477560532020-01-31T16:26:00.001-08:002020-01-31T16:26:31.462-08:00"It came to me that every time I lose a dog they take a piece of my heart with them. And every new dog who comes into my life gifts me with a piece of their heart. If I live long enought, all the components of my heart will be dog, and I will become as generous and loving as they are.” If you Google "Treeing Walker hound," you'll see photos that strongly resemble Chance.<br />
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With a mix of hunting hounds including Mountain Cur, Red Tick hound and Walker hound, fearlessness was Chance's birthright. Red tick hounds are fox hunters, but Walker hounds are mountain lion hunters, and Chance had encounters with at least one...and possibly both.<br />
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On top of his freckle-red forehead he bore the battle scars of a run in with a feisty fox.<br />
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"The last I saw was Chance in hot pursuit of a fox over the hill," Chris recalls. "When he came back, he had two holes in his head," Chance won that battle, and had a similar encounter with a rattlesnake which are native to Sand Coulee, Montana. "He was down below the driveway with the rattlesnake in his mouth, shaking it back and forth. I found the rattlesnake body laying at the end of the driveway." His neck swelled, and he went to the vet for IV fluids, costing more money at the after hours vet clinic.<br />
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But if ever a hound was worth it, it was Chance.<br />
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Despite his shortish coat, Chance accompanied Chris on every training run with the team.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>Chris comforting a young dog during a training run with Chance by his side</i></td></tr>
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In fact, several of the dogs on the Stage Stop team were sired by Chance. So if you see some dogs resembling a Treeing Walker on the team, those are Chance's boys.<br />
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Chance was named by Chris's children, Katrina, Jeffrey and Colter, from the movie <i>Homeward Bound. </i>But he had many names: Da Hound, The King, Mister Man...and sometimes names I can't write here.<br />
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Chance was happiest outside, with the exception of one place: wherever Chris was.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>Always by his side</i></td></tr>
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Easygoing, Chance could sleep anywhere (like his dad).<br />
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This past August, Chance developed a cough. In September, shortly after his 12th birthday, we discovered the cause: a tennis-ball sized tumor in one lung. Palliative care and living out his days without pain became the plan. Chance ate like a king, sausage, fillet mignon, bacon, all the yummy things a dog loves. He ran free baying on the hillsides at various critters. He accompanied Chris on many training runs. </div>
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Chance approached life with a fearlessness many would envy. And when the time came, he approached death with the same bravery and courage - and always with Chris and his family by his side.<br />
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Tonight, the <a href="https://www.wyomingstagestop.org/" target="_blank">Pedigree Stage Stop Race</a> begins in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. This Stage Stop Race, Chris's 6th running, is dedicated to Chance. May we all find his bravery within us.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-14934426437621026502019-01-24T21:38:00.002-08:002019-12-09T09:01:33.097-08:00Hazel's Story, Part 2: the Making of a Sled Dog Nervously, she eyes me as I slip the harness over her head like slipping a t-shirt on a child: first her furry head and then each arm through the arm holes, one at a time. This is all new for her. She watches intently as I slip each of the other dogs into their respective harnesses. At two years of age last month, she is a late bloomer to this blossoming sled dog game. Most have their first experience running in a team at 9 months to a year, but Hazel had some unusual obstacles to overcome.<br />
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Last summer, at only 18 months of age, she was shot with a .38 caliber handgun while frolicking on our property by an angry neighbor with a heart full of evil. If you would like to read more about that terrible incident, please click <a href="https://www.gofundme.com/r3uxus-help-save-hazel&rcid=r01-154839047134-a3ab2c2ce4744ea6&pc=ot_co_campmgmt_w" target="_blank">here</a>. The single bullet grazed Hazel's heart, pierced the lower lobe of her right lung, punctured her diaphragm and lodged inside her stomach; amazingly, after she was shot, she ran to the backdoor and jumped into her safe place: her crate. I rushed her to the emergency veterinary hospital almost an hour away, terrified she would die on the way.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Bewildered, but strong, Hazel stood in the stall at the vet's office awaiting surgery</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2y2iM6Czy64/XEqX1cUYcZI/AAAAAAAAHMc/RKLgS05cr6ckQdu7rKiuy7boyTkX1iGCQCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_1041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2y2iM6Czy64/XEqX1cUYcZI/AAAAAAAAHMc/RKLgS05cr6ckQdu7rKiuy7boyTkX1iGCQCEwYBhgL/s320/IMG_1041.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Finally on much-needed pain medication, Hazel began to rest before surgery</i></span></td></tr>
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It took $8000 and a small army of wonderful people to save Hazel's life, but within a week, she was home recovering. And her recovery was nothing short of a miracle.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">The single but fairly large bullet that almost killed Hazel</span></i></td></tr>
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I created a GoFundMe page to raise money to save Hazel's life, and within a week, we raised nearly $6,000. To date, that page has been shared 752 times on Facebook and viewed 7,258 times. Her story went viral on Twitter, and before I knew it, total strangers - some as far away as China - had donated. Some attached photos of their dogs with their donations and words of encouragement. In a matter of days, I lost faith in humanity and rediscovered it more than ever. In that week, I witnessed what spitefulness and evil looks like as well as absolute unconditional generosity and love. It changed me.<br />
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During the surgery, I learned the veterinary team had to remove the lower portion of her right lung completely because of so much damage and hemorrhaging. I was just happy to have Hazel alive, and my strong, brave girl walked out of the vet hospital the day after surgery.<br />
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But in the back of my mind, I wondered: would she ever fulfill her birthright and become a sled dog? I asked the vet, and she gave the green light for Hazel to try her hand (or paw) at being a sled dog.<br />
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We came home and Wally, the kitten who'd been stuck over 50 feet high in the giant black walnut tree in my front yard for five days who I'd rescued only a couple months before, seemed to know Hazel was hurt. The two survivors developed a very special bond and became inseparable.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Hazel with her faithful partner, Wally, ever by her side during recovery</i></span></td></tr>
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Wally even cleaned Hazel, licking her face while she lounged semi-conscious on fentanyl patches and other sedating pain killers.<br />
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And slowly, with lots of love from Wally and her human family, Hazel returned to her happy self. She walked out into the dog yard again and seemed content.<br />
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This past Tuesday, five months since Hazel fought for her life, I decided to put her in harness for the first time.<br />
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A question I am often asked about sled dogs is how they learn to pull a sled? In my experience, they don't "learn"; they just know instinctively from deep in their veins. Pulling is bred into their blood, and the drive to run, to pull is as innate as any living being's drive to survive.<br />
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It's what they do.<br />
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What's more, it's what they <i>live</i> to do.<br />
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As I led Hazel across the snow to the line of dogs, I honestly was not sure how she would do. I knew I wouldn't push her, and was prepared with extra tug and neck lines to bag her in my sled if needed. But before I could say "hike," she was screaming in harness to go along with her team mates. I called the team up, and immediately, effortlessly, she fell into a lope. She didn't falter, or hesitate. She blossomed. Here she is in left wheel position.<br />
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In fact, when I stopped to give her a rest, she screamed louder than any other dog on the team to go!<br />
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By the end of our short three mile or so run, Hazel had transformed. She now was not only a fearless survivor, she was a fierce and strong sled dog - her almond eyes showing a newfound fire and determination.<br />
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Hazel has taught me about grit. She has shown me what unwavering loyalty and tenacity looks like. She is gentle, silly, athletic and smart. If I could be half of what my dog Hazel is, I would be content. </div>
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Where would I be without these two? </div>
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They may be an unlikely pairing, this Hazelnut and Walnut, but they are best friends and the light in my days. </div>
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To every single person who helped save Hazel's precious life, whether your donation was a little or a lot...THANK YOU! From the receptionist who checked us into the <a href="http://www.metropolitanvet.com/" target="_blank">Metropolitan Veterinary Hospital</a>, to the vet team, Dr. Pierce, Dr. Fox, and all the techs and staff, and to my mother, I want to say thank you...THANK YOU! </div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i7DEfEaRVLY/TOtMjUndL0I/AAAAAAAADfo/l9JVOMKdGyMfX-J7SKFt5Z1F81fBX9vvACPcBGAYYCw/s1600/mush%2Blove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="1500" height="76" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i7DEfEaRVLY/TOtMjUndL0I/AAAAAAAADfo/l9JVOMKdGyMfX-J7SKFt5Z1F81fBX9vvACPcBGAYYCw/s320/mush%2Blove.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-64992768235062164752018-08-09T21:50:00.001-07:002018-08-09T21:51:05.751-07:00"Nous sommes responsables pour ceux qui nous avons apprivoise." - We become responsible forever for what we have tamed. ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sometimes it takes a tragedy to show us what we (and the people around us) are made of.<br />
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A nightmare struck last week that tainted my view of humanity and changed my and my dog Hazel's life. It's not worth mentioning the perpetrator of this violence. If you'd like to read about it, you can <a href="https://www.gofundme.com/manage/r3uxus-help-save-hazel" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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In a nutshell, my beloved Hazel, who was born on our property and has lived out her year and a half of life in blissful, pain-free happiness was shot by a .38 caliber handgun by a man who wanted to murder her on Wednesday, 1, 2018 about 6 p.m. The worst thing was, I was not home when this act of violence happened. I was 30 minutes away visiting with my mom.<br />
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There is no question his intent was Hazel's death and he took aim at the most vital of her organs. The bullet's trajectory shattered one rib, grazed her heart barely missing the superior vena cava, shot through her lower lobe of her right lung, pierced her diaphragm and landed, finally, in her stomach. Pretty much all vital organs in one shot.<br />
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Hazel has been a highly intelligent, sensitive dog from day one. Somehow in a litter of almost all white puppies, born December 8, 2016, Hazel stood out as the only agouti.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Pv9Nu0TUV1o/W20Y1IZ2G9I/AAAAAAAAHLg/4fgi7fEnIPst-jCbDjTGphNLosoP8k9zwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_1442.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Pv9Nu0TUV1o/W20Y1IZ2G9I/AAAAAAAAHLg/4fgi7fEnIPst-jCbDjTGphNLosoP8k9zwCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_1442.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>Hazel and her sister Stella forming a puppy yin yang<br /></i></td></tr>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2mJVGp9VNoU/W20Y0w0ERII/AAAAAAAAHL0/W35ga2YBm_UBYZ9l0Nm8ehrt-rXqac9xQCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_1441.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="906" data-original-width="960" height="302" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2mJVGp9VNoU/W20Y0w0ERII/AAAAAAAAHL0/W35ga2YBm_UBYZ9l0Nm8ehrt-rXqac9xQCEwYBhgL/s320/IMG_1441.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Hazel's parents are two of the best dogs in my kennel: my main leader, Tosh, and quiet but tough-as-nails Fiona.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qnBifmxb61o/W20MgpyNvRI/AAAAAAAAHJY/JDEsUHMO-EsKh-P5p97sEu5gz9YZOu-MgCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_1431.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qnBifmxb61o/W20MgpyNvRI/AAAAAAAAHJY/JDEsUHMO-EsKh-P5p97sEu5gz9YZOu-MgCEwYBhgL/s640/IMG_1431.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EVS3tYqoQo0/W20MfeCxO2I/AAAAAAAAHJc/KiV1hlRR5wstffD2HzTQBu077KOoxFWIQCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_1429.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EVS3tYqoQo0/W20MfeCxO2I/AAAAAAAAHJc/KiV1hlRR5wstffD2HzTQBu077KOoxFWIQCEwYBhgL/s640/IMG_1429.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Naturally pups born from two of my favorite, best dogs of all time would become extra special to me, and Hazel was right from the beginning. Hazel was extremely close to her mom from day one, and still is today.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Lvd4MlP59WA/W20RSM_VSBI/AAAAAAAAHJ8/jaYK1sayL5AsdFn4vHTfO8RhsgpRY_tmQCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_1135.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Lvd4MlP59WA/W20RSM_VSBI/AAAAAAAAHJ8/jaYK1sayL5AsdFn4vHTfO8RhsgpRY_tmQCEwYBhgL/s400/IMG_1135.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7wp99vI5hF0/W20MhGdiG1I/AAAAAAAAHJc/eb7WlTZBhEMfOkMiC-7j1Ly5dca92MmBwCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_1433.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7wp99vI5hF0/W20MhGdiG1I/AAAAAAAAHJc/eb7WlTZBhEMfOkMiC-7j1Ly5dca92MmBwCEwYBhgL/s400/IMG_1433.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>Me and a six-week-old Hazel</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pgOZmDy3CII/W20MjUiJhXI/AAAAAAAAHJg/rg6JSixoaZcvcH7dKPNYrMqht-Gm28p3QCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_1440.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="540" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pgOZmDy3CII/W20MjUiJhXI/AAAAAAAAHJg/rg6JSixoaZcvcH7dKPNYrMqht-Gm28p3QCEwYBhgL/s400/IMG_1440.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>Four-month-old Hazel on a hike at Towner's Woods in Kent</i></td></tr>
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Hazel grew into a tall, leggy, swift and sensitive yearling.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wcjX1BRs7pk/W20MhwvcT3I/AAAAAAAAHJQ/uPGDhjd580gErOt31FKRH7qR8OG5qy73QCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_1436.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wcjX1BRs7pk/W20MhwvcT3I/AAAAAAAAHJQ/uPGDhjd580gErOt31FKRH7qR8OG5qy73QCEwYBhgL/s400/IMG_1436.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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When my very best lead dog and best friend B.B. became sick with a brain tumor, Hazel seemed to know she was hurting and was by her side constantly...<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y5QYr21Q_Zg/W20MirSzcMI/AAAAAAAAHJU/y0vsF-Qp3AgQfl-5vC9EIIXdoCdR28fJQCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_1437.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y5QYr21Q_Zg/W20MirSzcMI/AAAAAAAAHJU/y0vsF-Qp3AgQfl-5vC9EIIXdoCdR28fJQCEwYBhgL/s640/IMG_1437.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>B.B. and Hazel as her 24/7 support buddy</i></td></tr>
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...as if for moral support.</div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nsi4FfAZedI/W20MihsSAfI/AAAAAAAAHJc/9ExZpf__Wy4_yN_6qaM8Pi6OZPUaqyA1wCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_1438.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nsi4FfAZedI/W20MihsSAfI/AAAAAAAAHJc/9ExZpf__Wy4_yN_6qaM8Pi6OZPUaqyA1wCEwYBhgL/s400/IMG_1438.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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Hazel lived a carefree, blissful, happy existence.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dxxgP8b0suc/W20MglKxz2I/AAAAAAAAHJc/edcxej7k0bMcxBYbbGEn2Mg9d5pZ9ZIywCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_1430.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dxxgP8b0suc/W20MglKxz2I/AAAAAAAAHJc/edcxej7k0bMcxBYbbGEn2Mg9d5pZ9ZIywCEwYBhgL/s640/IMG_1430.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sN2HXQ6wW44/W20MgPmxhGI/AAAAAAAAHJc/VfWNfAUK4lEEv2yvkQczJRDCRx8gszidACEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_1428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1068" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sN2HXQ6wW44/W20MgPmxhGI/AAAAAAAAHJc/VfWNfAUK4lEEv2yvkQczJRDCRx8gszidACEwYBhgL/s400/IMG_1428.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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When my rescued cat, Walnut (aka Wally) was stuck in the black walnut tree in our front yard for five days, he met Hazel, and it was instant love. When B.B. died in June, Wally became Hazel's side kick.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-txvvU1Jaz14/W20RRiqErUI/AAAAAAAAHJs/xpcS4cb6tpIsGMTFhyw0DWMSF_zJTEkzQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_1064.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="1242" height="397" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-txvvU1Jaz14/W20RRiqErUI/AAAAAAAAHJs/xpcS4cb6tpIsGMTFhyw0DWMSF_zJTEkzQCLcBGAs/s400/IMG_1064.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>Two boneheads, Hazel and Wally (Hazelnut and Walnut) watching me from my living room window the day after B.B. died</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q1p_oXcxplM/W20RUNQad9I/AAAAAAAAHJ0/0PEKkdU3dvcjAJFJ9y6BTHgNzIEBYoLFACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_1268.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q1p_oXcxplM/W20RUNQad9I/AAAAAAAAHJ0/0PEKkdU3dvcjAJFJ9y6BTHgNzIEBYoLFACLcBGAs/s400/IMG_1268.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>Sharing a dog crate</i></td></tr>
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It's clear, Hazel has been something extra special since the beginning. So when this attempted murder happened, it shook me to the core - which is exactly what this man wanted. You see, his issue isn't with Hazel; his issue is, somehow, with me. I've never done a thing to him, my neighbor, and yet, he hates me.<br />
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But this is not a post about monsters or negative people who do bad things. This is a post about 149 people - some of them strangers - who do amazing things and turned what could have been a tragedy into an astonishing act of compassion.<br />
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When I rushed Hazel to the emergency vet 45 minutes on the other side of the nearest city, I didn't know if she would make it. She was shaking and clearly in shock and had lost a lot of blood.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H74IId6RVbA/W20VPvteMCI/AAAAAAAAHKc/GhHUK_GFXeko3J7kO08P76YSbM2dzEkqgCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_1041.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H74IId6RVbA/W20VPvteMCI/AAAAAAAAHKc/GhHUK_GFXeko3J7kO08P76YSbM2dzEkqgCEwYBhgL/s400/IMG_1041.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>Hazel the first night in the hospital</i></td></tr>
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I had no idea how extensive the damage was. When Dr. Fox from <a href="http://www.metropolitanvet.com/" target="_blank">Metropolitan Veterinary Hospital </a> walked in after several hours, I could tell by the look on her face it was not good news. </div>
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She proceeded to tell me about all the vital organs that were hit by the bullet, and the extensive exploratory abdominal and thoracic surgery needed to save her life. And then the price tag: $6,000 at least, and it could be more. </div>
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It felt like someone kicked me in the chest. The blow that man so clearly wanted to punch me with had succeeded. I sobbed. I panicked. How on earth could I afford this? How on earth could I afford <i>not</i> to? </div>
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Dr. Fox left to allow me to mull it over. I didn't know how, but suddenly in my heart I knew with absolute certainty giving up was not an option. I knew with absolute certainty that I would find a way to save Hazel's life. </div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h3UDKpeYpfE/W20VQcsG2NI/AAAAAAAAHKg/Q0jriXxJLAosPgQkgfGz00g-aSGogoh5ACEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_1101.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h3UDKpeYpfE/W20VQcsG2NI/AAAAAAAAHKg/Q0jriXxJLAosPgQkgfGz00g-aSGogoh5ACEwYBhgL/s400/IMG_1101.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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...to be continued...</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-82122774372259012692018-07-30T22:11:00.001-07:002018-07-30T22:27:14.668-07:00"Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart." A.A. MilneSaturday morning, I opened my mailbox to find a package - something I thought was odd since I didn't recall ordering anything. But that didn't necessarily mean anything because they say the memory is the first to go!<br />
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I opened the package to find a small box, like the kind jewelry comes in. Growing more curious and excited, I opened the small box to find another small black box. Yep, it was a jewelry container. I opened <i>that</i> box to find the most thoughtful, beautiful pendant.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GIDtbfRsLCQ/W1_XNB71gAI/AAAAAAAAHHk/-x5My9pqp-IVcpzao8lKScd3dwz7kqoBwCLcBGAs/s1600/38055984_10216820764051666_4993412768846577664_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GIDtbfRsLCQ/W1_XNB71gAI/AAAAAAAAHHk/-x5My9pqp-IVcpzao8lKScd3dwz7kqoBwCLcBGAs/s400/38055984_10216820764051666_4993412768846577664_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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Seeing this photo - of her from the day I bought her from Larry and Joann Fortier in 2008 - really took me off guard. Then I took it out of the box and read the engraved words on the back:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9zZx8TH7bb4/W1_XNLhn2hI/AAAAAAAAHHw/mWxuYSzxYzgVMQa5zB9bRPcpHT9xQar9wCEwYBhgL/s1600/38026322_10216821250143818_5482701456161112064_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9zZx8TH7bb4/W1_XNLhn2hI/AAAAAAAAHHw/mWxuYSzxYzgVMQa5zB9bRPcpHT9xQar9wCEwYBhgL/s400/38026322_10216821250143818_5482701456161112064_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"We had a damned good run, girl. 5/4/08 - 6/15/18" from my previous blog post</td></tr>
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Since B.B.'s passing, I've honestly tried very hard to not think about it. That first week was so difficult. Trying to explain the death of such a special and beloved dog to someone who doesn't have pets or doesn't get the bond mushers have with their dogs is impossible.<br />
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There were reminders everywhere. Alarms on my phone reminding me to administer her medication three times a day. Cans of Taste of the Wild canned food and pureed canned food left over in the refrigerator. Her spot on the sofa, her "blankey" that I used to prop her head up or cover her when she shook, the sound of her nails clicking on the laminate flooring when she would pace in circles for hours - something common with brain tumors. The days immediately following her death were the same as grieving any loss - constant reminders that scratched at the fresh wound of loss.<br />
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Her passing was very sudden and unexpected on what was otherwise a good day. She ate well that morning and I had high hopes for her to have a good day. But, about 3 p.m. she started having a grand mal seizure that just would not stop. I panicked. What if I had waited too long to put her down? Had I been selfish, keeping her alive for my benefit? I called my vet, <a href="https://richardsonanimalhospital.com/" target="_blank">Richardson Animal Hospital</a>, and even though they were booked up, they worked us in. It was time.<br />
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I drove the 30 minutes to the vet's office with my mom beside me in the passenger's seat and my daughter in the backseat cradling B.B. who continued to seize relentlessly. I knew this would be her last ride. I felt so helpless watching her body convulse.<br />
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When we arrived at the vet's office, one of the techs met us outside and within minutes, administered a deep sedative to knock B.B. out. Finally, after over an hour of convulsions, she settled into a peaceful deep sleep. I said a few words to her and told her it was okay to let go. I wrapped her up in her blanket one last time and carried her into the vet's office. Dr. Stephanie Kaegi's entered and I told her about B.B.'s amazing life.<br />
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B.B. was cremated with her blankey.<br />
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About a week later, the call came that B.B.'s ashes had come back. I made another 30 minute trip I'd been dreading to pick up what remained of such an amazing athlete and my best friend.<br />
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I was pleasantly surprised to find such a beautiful cherry urn held B.B.'s remains with her name engraved in a gold plate.<br />
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Shout out to <a href="http://pawsawhilepet.com/" target="_blank">Paws Awhile Pet Memorial Park</a> for doing such a fabulous job of preserving special furry loved ones in such classy, respectful containers.<br />
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And as I said, I tried to just ... move on. I definitely stifled expressing my feelings because this loss was so painful, so great.<br />
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And then, some anonymous beautiful person sent this necklace as a reminder. Enough time had passed. Had it come immediately after the loss, it would have been painful. But now, its arrival was a timely reminder to grieve properly, to let go but also never forget.<br />
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To whomever sent this, thank you from the bottom of my heart. No dog will ever replace B.B. and I'll never ever forget her.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6A4ZJf0SLas/W1_XNLVTyPI/AAAAAAAAHHs/kheniwbt_KoEFlq189aTgBfmU0NvZSUswCEwYBhgL/s1600/37900922_10216821250343823_2909041195655102464_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6A4ZJf0SLas/W1_XNLVTyPI/AAAAAAAAHHs/kheniwbt_KoEFlq189aTgBfmU0NvZSUswCEwYBhgL/s400/37900922_10216821250343823_2909041195655102464_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thank you, anonymous person. Your random kindness, generosity and thoughtfulness left me speechless</td></tr>
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Until next time...<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-28674031929919379972018-06-13T21:59:00.000-07:002018-07-30T22:32:18.121-07:00When it’s time <div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span data-offset-key="a2qko-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">It's always so difficult to know when it's "that time."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I suppose we should be relieved for them. I mean, after all, if only humans could choose to "cross over" so easily or had help to do so. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was one month ago today that this end-of-life journey started with Big Brown - B.B. - and it has been, to use a cliche, a roller coaster. She has fought so hard, my small but mighty Big Brown, and all of the animals here have rallied around her. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A 4-week-old Big Brown, May 2008</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pXjd3TjHfMs/UDe_MAT_liI/AAAAAAAAEsc/9jJoNXkiV-M8nNSS8T_H7cgp-RlQra-bgCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/Big%2BBrown%2BFeb%2B10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="604" height="313" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pXjd3TjHfMs/UDe_MAT_liI/AAAAAAAAEsc/9jJoNXkiV-M8nNSS8T_H7cgp-RlQra-bgCPcBGAYYCw/s400/Big%2BBrown%2BFeb%2B10.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Big Brown the day I purchased her at 10 months old</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Big Brown as a silly yearling in 2009</i></td></tr>
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<span data-offset-key="eubms-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I remember my third Midnight Run. It was my best finish in that race, and we had a flawless 75 or so miles completed when B.B. mistakenly turned "gee" (right) onto a snowmobile trail instead of the race trail. When I turned the team around, B.B. and her long-time rival, Cinder, who was a good 8-10 pounds heavier, found an irresistible moment to call showdown. As I pulled B.B. in lead around, she came face-to-face with this arch rival, and ... let's just say it took me a minute to tear those bitches apart! Hell hath no fury...</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>That Midnight Run...</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q0J76HaiZAM/UwuSzLO1G9I/AAAAAAAAF2g/5R5ys6qVE5sZ3xb4j2TjDvYsgOGLL9mFgCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/Cinder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q0J76HaiZAM/UwuSzLO1G9I/AAAAAAAAF2g/5R5ys6qVE5sZ3xb4j2TjDvYsgOGLL9mFgCPcBGAYYCw/s400/Cinder.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Arch rival, Cinder</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After tending to a laceration on her right front leg and a nasty cut across the bridge of her nose, B.B. wasn't having any of this “stopping” business. Before I could completely clean the blood off her nose, she pounded her harness, the rest of the team screaming to go. She came roaring up the shoreline of Lake Superior, bloodied but no worse for wear, fighting all the way.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qfYoh-P082k/WxK_fvvfVQI/AAAAAAAAHF4/YmOCrh19EysU3jsPMa3IRExxIB521WEgwCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/23659379_10214681216684319_4864336030393409195_n%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qfYoh-P082k/WxK_fvvfVQI/AAAAAAAAHF4/YmOCrh19EysU3jsPMa3IRExxIB521WEgwCPcBGAYYCw/s400/23659379_10214681216684319_4864336030393409195_n%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Toward the finish of our best Midnight Run. To the right is Lake Superior as we roll into downtown Marquette, Michigan</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As far as the classic things that make sled dogs sled dogs - good feet, voracious appetite - well, B.B. has never cared much for all that. Horrible eater. I swear she'd hardly eat the entire race weekend no matter what race it was. By Sunday, I’d become as neurotic as a first time mom, asking the vet teams to check her for dehydration. She was always fine, and I imagined her rolling her eyes at me like a defiant teenager. Whatever, mom. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Tk_EFz5PtMY/UDe-uNjsquI/AAAAAAAAEsU/tlb4yJrNQrcVENagtixKxv14I8ju9ubbQCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/Ruffian%2B%2528left%2529%2Band%2BBig%2BBrown%2B%2528right%2529%2Bresting%2Bon%2Bou.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="604" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Tk_EFz5PtMY/UDe-uNjsquI/AAAAAAAAEsU/tlb4yJrNQrcVENagtixKxv14I8ju9ubbQCPcBGAYYCw/s400/Ruffian%2B%2528left%2529%2Band%2BBig%2BBrown%2B%2528right%2529%2Bresting%2Bon%2Bou.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Stopping to rest as a yearling with her sister, Ruffian</i></td></tr>
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<span data-offset-key="d7oo8-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">You couldn't bootie this dog either! Hardest damned dog to get boots on! My friends Kathleen and Mike came over from Minnesota to handle for me that year, and </span><span data-offset-key="d7oo8-4-0" style="font-family: inherit;">it took all three of us to get boots on B.B.'s small feet at the checkpoint! </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="3rdj0-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Nope. B.B. did things her way, always, but when it came to her job in harness or with children at an event or presentation, she did it exceptionally well. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="3rdj0-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">And when all of the other sled dogs in the team rode in the dog trailer, B.B. always rode in the passenger's seat of my car. With me. Because she was special. She was my bomb-proof lead dog and my best friend. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EjDfp_EReYw/UHen8rZlLtI/AAAAAAAAE3s/wRB-hJbD9jw5r_YRoQsDx0fhE71nu57SQCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/Big%2BBrown%2Blook%2Bat%2Bthose%2Beyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="402" data-original-width="604" height="265" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EjDfp_EReYw/UHen8rZlLtI/AAAAAAAAE3s/wRB-hJbD9jw5r_YRoQsDx0fhE71nu57SQCPcBGAYYCw/s400/Big%2BBrown%2Blook%2Bat%2Bthose%2Beyes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Such beautiful, almond-shaped eyes</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Curled up after a 40 mile run inside my cabin in the Upper Peninsula, January, 2013</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zOEbb_9YRog/URlMDUVypKI/AAAAAAAAFXw/lISs3PEJAacycDCUj0hyQrxj3LY03RisACPcBGAYYCw/s1600/423005_485968721434493_1932303335_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="736" data-original-width="960" height="306" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zOEbb_9YRog/URlMDUVypKI/AAAAAAAAFXw/lISs3PEJAacycDCUj0hyQrxj3LY03RisACPcBGAYYCw/s400/423005_485968721434493_1932303335_n.jpg" width="400" /></i></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Illustrating proper "line out" technique from our training grounds in the Upper Peninsula, October 2012</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>At camp in the U.P., October 2012</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2-5IzPfxLvM/VPsUntdlQJI/AAAAAAAAGRU/bfDi0SGQrAkQTRnQfxSOlAfurC3q6e6NACPcBGAYYCw/s1600/blogger-image-1303062365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2-5IzPfxLvM/VPsUntdlQJI/AAAAAAAAGRU/bfDi0SGQrAkQTRnQfxSOlAfurC3q6e6NACPcBGAYYCw/s400/blogger-image-1303062365.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Stretched out on my bed</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She has continued with that fighting, true-to-herself spirit through these, her last days. Giving her 1 1/2 tablets of Keppra 3 times a day has been tricky. I've mastered the art of setting alarms on my phone for medication reminders, and Elise has also mastered the complicated art of getting a pill down a doggie throat. B.B. is still finicky, although she has enjoyed the grilled chicken breast strips and hamburger quite a lot!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">But tonight, she couldn't keep her dinner down. Drooling, panting wildly and whining, she paced the floors, finally expelling the contents of her stomach. I gave her a small dose of Phenergan. Slowly, she fell into the steady, easy breathing of sleep, finally relaxed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">People seem to think because I have a couple dozen dogs that somehow this loss gets easier, that numbers somehow mean I love each of them a little less. As I sit here tonight, typing through tears, I can say this. is. not. true. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bracing myself for this loss has shaken me. But, like birth, death is a process.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Surprisingly, this journey with B.B. has reminded me of my father's final few hours of life. As we all gathered 'round my parents’ big bed, watching the rise and fall of my dad’s chest, we moved from the frenzied imminence of expectation to a quiet peaceful acceptance. His final hours held a sort of private sacredness like the quiet and immensely personal intimacy of the first few hours of life. As hard as it was to watch my dad die, I was so deeply honored to share in that intensely personal, private moment with him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s a perfect circle. A closing. In between the place of life and death, right before the light is extinguished in the soul, there is a sort of silence like I’ve never known ... except in one place: winter. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t know how to let her go. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But in that quiet place tonight, I told B.B. it was okay to go.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Rest In Peace, little B.B.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">5/4/2008 - 6/15/2018</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">We had a damned good run, girl. </span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-194814325456351492018-06-02T09:38:00.000-07:002018-06-02T09:46:19.094-07:00"...and miles to go before I sleep." - Robert FrostShe walks gingerly through the grass, picking her feet up high in a sort of prance, as if the grass contains some substance she detests. She lifts her long slender legs, exposing the shaved ring around her left forearm which betrays her gallant attempt to pretend all is well. That ring tells a story; it hasn't been too long since that horrible night of relentless seizures I thought would kill her. The discharge papers from the hospital said <i>status epilepticus</i>.<br />
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That night, as I carried her convulsing body into the hospital, a tech ran toward me.<br />
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"Permission to cath?" the tech yelled to me over the chaos. She wanted permission to place an IV line.<br />
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Life for Big Brown - B.B. - would change irrevocably that night.<br />
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"Yes! Of course!" I yelled back.<br />
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We returned home with Keppra, an anti-epileptic medication B.B. would take for the rest of her life, and questions, mainly, why? Why would a 10-year-old dog suddenly have violent grand mal seizures? My suspicions were that things were not good.<br />
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Since that night we've returned for more tests and x-rays in a more controlled, less acute and chaotic climate, and my suspicions were confirmed. I've put off writing this post because somehow I thought if I didn't write it, it wouldn't be reality. But it is reality.<br />
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B.B. has always been thin, and for a sled dog, a finicky eater. But her weight has held consistent her whole life at 38 pounds. This day, the scales revealed she'd lost five pounds in just 13 days.<br />
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Dr. Kaegi met me in the dark x-ray room<span style="color: #545454; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #545454; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">"Can you see anything?" I asked. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">"Yes," she said as she flipped the lights off "and unfortunately, just as we suspected, it's not good." </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">On the screen were two films, one clearly showing B.B.'s ribcage, heart, and trachea illuminated from behind, and the other of her gut. She's had relentless diarrhea since this whole thing started despite my best efforts to alleviate it with over-the-counter remedies, so we elected to take x-rays of her gut to get a clear picture of what's going on inside. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">On the film on the right, in front of the iridescence of florescent light, beside the darkish mass of B.B.'s heart was another, darker mass. This dark mass, a dull cloud in an otherwise normal film, was home to rampant and unchecked cell division. Cells gone to the dark side and run amok. I pictured them as wild, unkempt, unruly children laughing manically. It was undeniable and evident even to an untrained eye.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #545454; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
Cancer.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The film showed three small <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 16px;">metastases or "</span>mets" within B.B.'s lungs. About 20 months ago, I discovered a small, quarter-sized lump on her chest. I promptly had it removed within a week of discovery, with clean margins that I'd hoped meant cancer would be gone forever. Breast cancer metastasizes to two places, primarily: the lungs and the brain. </span><br />
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In the nine days since learning this news, my focus has been on comfort care. We left that office visit with more drugs and probiotics, and I've kept beef, chicken and rice stocked in the kitchen to whet B.B.'s palate. She has good days and not so good days. On good days, she prances in the grass in what's become her trademark high-stepping stride. She eats heartily and goes for car rides. On not-so-good days, she quivers on the sofa, seemingly cold, but simultaneously panting and drooling. On good days, the light is in her eyes and she smiles. On not-so-good days, she seems disoriented, confused, and sleeps a lot.<br />
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This last winter, I took B.B. and four other dogs one what would be her last sled run. Of course, I didn't know it at the time. I wonder now if those mutant cells were working to proliferate even then.<br />
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As she pranced through the grass today, it struck me that these are the final days of her life. But then I remember what an extraordinary life she's led.<br />
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B.B. has become my main education dog, doing presentations and dog sled demos all over Ohio and into Michigan. In March, B.B. attended her biggest school presentation in Logan, Ohio, meeting and greeting about 500 elementary school students as we presented about dog sledding.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-46pdCb_dLn8/WxK5h3DVDKI/AAAAAAAAHDI/WqiQJcnoCzEA0ZtZCCqVgUAyBPMxOyI7ACLcBGAs/s1600/10501861_10204161786825147_4811608404134926505_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-46pdCb_dLn8/WxK5h3DVDKI/AAAAAAAAHDI/WqiQJcnoCzEA0ZtZCCqVgUAyBPMxOyI7ACLcBGAs/s320/10501861_10204161786825147_4811608404134926505_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">B.B. at a library presentation in 2014</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ncfmN8RcLec/WxK5h8j5KpI/AAAAAAAAHDA/TpraRN-n7fEb6UQZw3gXsEtesPX-4Xq4ACLcBGAs/s1600/28950871_10215695385957917_3350282088124252160_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ncfmN8RcLec/WxK5h8j5KpI/AAAAAAAAHDA/TpraRN-n7fEb6UQZw3gXsEtesPX-4Xq4ACLcBGAs/s320/28950871_10215695385957917_3350282088124252160_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With about 500 students of Green Elementary School in Logan, Ohio</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xZi5oB_Ndfc/WxK5h5c9snI/AAAAAAAAHDE/fu606QedxB8vG_9wUUYEYR6UASL-gSapwCLcBGAs/s1600/29027360_10215695388357977_2138763610258669568_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xZi5oB_Ndfc/WxK5h5c9snI/AAAAAAAAHDE/fu606QedxB8vG_9wUUYEYR6UASL-gSapwCLcBGAs/s320/29027360_10215695388357977_2138763610258669568_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My daughter, Sophie, came over from Ohio University to help with the presentation at Green Elementary</td></tr>
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I think of all the dogs I've lost over the years for a variety of reasons: Kahlua, Gracie, Foxie, Gwennie, Thelonious, Mojo, Punk, Feist... and all the dogs I've known, trained and worked with - literally hundreds - over the years, and I don't know if I've spent as many solid hours adventuring and working as I have with Big Brown.<br />
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She has been with me on almost every single race I've done in my mushing career from triumphs<br />
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and through adversity.<br />
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Over the last 10 years, we have spent hundreds and hundreds of hours in the deep recesses of forests in the midwest hiking, camping, running, and racing. She has helped train young leaders...<br />
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And shouldered dogs twice her size into turns.<br />
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We have grown together, from our humble beginnings...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Punderson Sled Dog Classic. Photo by Nicolas Skidmore</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taquamenon Sled Dog Race. Photo by Sigurd Utych</td></tr>
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to larger races...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-apPl4FEpPlw/WxK91SQhcHI/AAAAAAAAHE0/REP8Z_ctbBgqdfO9XGjMw608kVDY1xxKQCEwYBhgL/s1600/546167_3584530452171_938381927_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="360" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-apPl4FEpPlw/WxK91SQhcHI/AAAAAAAAHE0/REP8Z_ctbBgqdfO9XGjMw608kVDY1xxKQCEwYBhgL/s400/546167_3584530452171_938381927_n.jpg" width="255" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Midnight Run. Photo by Aladino Mandoli</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m0aYeC4PJBA/WxK9zKIMUhI/AAAAAAAAHEU/FvSi0QspV4UM9EvzpglUnRstnZ2KVn4mgCEwYBhgL/s1600/1526247_10202833467617997_194524982_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="418" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m0aYeC4PJBA/WxK9zKIMUhI/AAAAAAAAHEU/FvSi0QspV4UM9EvzpglUnRstnZ2KVn4mgCEwYBhgL/s320/1526247_10202833467617997_194524982_n.jpg" width="284" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tahquamenon Sled Dog Race. Photo by Aladino Mandoli</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pxKaZtqyUsU/WxK_fUYbX0I/AAAAAAAAHF4/AeBAopHzZ30UR5t8lx5IUq5rCndQUso3gCEwYBhgL/s1600/22405890_10214378778403551_2984795302936370181_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pxKaZtqyUsU/WxK_fUYbX0I/AAAAAAAAHF4/AeBAopHzZ30UR5t8lx5IUq5rCndQUso3gCEwYBhgL/s400/22405890_10214378778403551_2984795302936370181_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Midnight Run. Photo by Nace Hagemann</td></tr>
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We've run along the shores of Lake Superior...<br />
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in fierce blizzards and storms...<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kWsyIMnzHcQ/WxLADLUfTzI/AAAAAAAAHF8/8SKaOcr5YGkoC5Qi31pSQLfIXI88gkLyQCLcBGAs/s1600/11990647_10207541497235795_3376783049487361478_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kWsyIMnzHcQ/WxLADLUfTzI/AAAAAAAAHF8/8SKaOcr5YGkoC5Qi31pSQLfIXI88gkLyQCLcBGAs/s320/11990647_10207541497235795_3376783049487361478_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And magical places that look like something out of Narnia.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cpzKpvWuY60/WxK_fKC1XvI/AAAAAAAAHF0/sRrqCVDokZMoNrywVlFIT72ijfNzBEVZwCEwYBhgL/s1600/1522440_10202819770395575_647393103_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1600" height="230" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cpzKpvWuY60/WxK_fKC1XvI/AAAAAAAAHF0/sRrqCVDokZMoNrywVlFIT72ijfNzBEVZwCEwYBhgL/s640/1522440_10202819770395575_647393103_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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We've run at night...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_A2MAOC9aVs/WxLADI5JlmI/AAAAAAAAHGI/FCtxZyylniIoghPbhmt7OhdtDvHQr_mngCEwYBhgL/s1600/27164542_10215315723906603_2067923826418908241_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_A2MAOC9aVs/WxLADI5JlmI/AAAAAAAAHGI/FCtxZyylniIoghPbhmt7OhdtDvHQr_mngCEwYBhgL/s400/27164542_10215315723906603_2067923826418908241_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Copper Dog. Photo by Brockit</td></tr>
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We've run alone in the silence only winter can bring.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-58olA1pMKhY/WxK_e4sJtKI/AAAAAAAAHFs/jCqWrmh7fn0RNJjlapTYBypQT48dHQsKQCEwYBhgL/s1600/1507707_10205700116162419_916640091965179131_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-58olA1pMKhY/WxK_e4sJtKI/AAAAAAAAHFs/jCqWrmh7fn0RNJjlapTYBypQT48dHQsKQCEwYBhgL/s400/1507707_10205700116162419_916640091965179131_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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We've camped out...<br />
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And stayed in...<br />
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B.B. has met many people, from tiny ones...<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Wwu04vvUSw8/WxK9z0EgShI/AAAAAAAAHFE/xCsmbE1dsbIWElB13gpk6AGay9f9vIxAQCEwYBhgL/s1600/17480_1338042651380_6803812_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="604" height="266" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Wwu04vvUSw8/WxK9z0EgShI/AAAAAAAAHFE/xCsmbE1dsbIWElB13gpk6AGay9f9vIxAQCEwYBhgL/s400/17480_1338042651380_6803812_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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To grown ups ...<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-70DfHJnrChw/WxK9zqlkllI/AAAAAAAAHFM/VgS3b3pRL7kGdr5OjvRj8KM0vnrura72wCEwYBhgL/s1600/17480_1338042611379_2789644_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="604" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-70DfHJnrChw/WxK9zqlkllI/AAAAAAAAHFM/VgS3b3pRL7kGdr5OjvRj8KM0vnrura72wCEwYBhgL/s400/17480_1338042611379_2789644_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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To people who cared for her...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jvklFAb5nZ0/WxLChByb8TI/AAAAAAAAHGk/CXwdxtdUJXcce9chtNxuC1xhMWwAA7_EACLcBGAs/s1600/285287_10200626633208516_986080801_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="717" data-original-width="960" height="298" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jvklFAb5nZ0/WxLChByb8TI/AAAAAAAAHGk/CXwdxtdUJXcce9chtNxuC1xhMWwAA7_EACLcBGAs/s400/285287_10200626633208516_986080801_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With one of our favorite members of the Copper Dog veterinary team</td></tr>
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We've loved...<br />
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And in the end, that's all that matters, right?<br />
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Thinking about losing B.B. is so painful I haven't wanted to write about it. I intermittently become emotional at the strangest times. I think of all the adventures I still wanted with her. I owe my entire racing career to this dog... and she is so much more than "just a dog." Mushers spend more one-on-one hours with their dogs than anyone I know. The bond that develops is so, so deep from those hours spent in the woods.<br />
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For now, B.B. sleeps contentedly on the sofa as I type. And we wait, cherishing every moment.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-36769512352013345752018-05-14T13:20:00.000-07:002018-05-14T13:28:16.077-07:00"You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed." - Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2d30; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Friday evening, I finished evening chores and was looking forward to relaxing. I showered early and slipped into new pajamas I recently bought when the dog yard erupted.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2d30; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I ran outside to find my beloved Big Brown - B.B. - in the midst of a grand mal seizure. A mean-looking storm was brewing on the horizon. It was exactly seven years ago that she had one isolated seizure, at this same time of year in the same weather conditions. Otherwise B.B. has lived a healthy happy life. She has been my main gee haw leader and run every race with me since 2009. This month, she and her sister, Ruffian, turn 10. </span></div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WFdZ5KpJdO4/WvnQ8_5UjuI/AAAAAAAAHBg/0_bmAF0i8VYdpXA4qgitPeqmSJYmBsFOACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_8439.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WFdZ5KpJdO4/WvnQ8_5UjuI/AAAAAAAAHBg/0_bmAF0i8VYdpXA4qgitPeqmSJYmBsFOACLcBGAs/s640/IMG_8439.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>B.B. (driver's right, spots) and her sister Ruffian (driver's left, white) leading the team during the <a href="http://www.tcsdr.org/" target="_blank">Tahquamenon Country Sled Dog </a>Race</i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2d30; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The other dogs barked incessantly as she writhed and convulsed on the ground. I knelt down beside her, talking quietly. Even though those afflicted with grand mal seizures lose consciousness during the seizure, I still hoped my voice would calm her. Finally she came out of it. Once the clarity of recognition and consciousness came back in her eyes, I picked her up, carrying her slowly into the house. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>The team returning from a training run</i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2d30; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Once inside, I hoped the seizure would be an isolated incident, but almost as quickly as I put her on the sofa, her legs began paddling again as if swimming, her face twitched and her mouth bared teeth in an eerie grimace. Drool foamed into a white froth from her mouth, and she urinated on herself. Her head turned involuntarily to the side and looked like it would spin completely around. This time, the seizure lasted longer. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2d30; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Once it stopped, B.B. looked mildly surprised to find me cradling her on the sofa. She drank some water and shivered slightly; she looked exhausted. I hoped for a reprieve, but like waves, another seizure crashed in on us, and I held her so she wouldn't hurt herself from thrashing. Again, I hoped this was the last. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2d30; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">B.B. had eight seizures in 30 minutes. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2d30; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On the ninth, when she hadn't come out of it in a few solid minutes, I gathered her up, still in my pajamas, and began the 40 minute drive to <a href="http://www.metropolitanvet.com/" target="_blank">Metropolitan Veterinary Hospital</a>, the 24 hour emergency vet clinic. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2d30; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the car, she seized violently, continuously for the entire ride. This is called a <b><i>status epilepticus</i></b>, and requires immediate emergency care. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2d30; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you have not seen a grand mal seizure, let me tell you, it's terrifying. It's easy to understand why, during Medieval and Renaissance times, those afflicted by epilepsy were thought to be possessed by demons. B.B. writhed, the demon that gripped her forcing her mouth open, showing her impressive canine teeth. Drool frothed from her mouth, her eyes twitched back and forth; she urinated on herself again. I felt helpless and honestly feared she might die before we made it to the ER. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2d30; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally, I zoomed into the driveway, picking her up into my arms and ran through the doorway of the animal hospital. It was 10:30 p.m. A code was called and a team of medical professionals rushed toward me from different doorways and took B.B. from me. I ran after and one of them said "Permission to cath?" </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2d30; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Of course!" I said. They told me I wasn't allowed into the ICU. I stood even more helpless in the hospital and finally broke down in tears. </span></div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-otc6M60kQAs/WvnTNzqKLyI/AAAAAAAAHB8/7-ahCPwzUqQa5NdhXEeIGkOXMJukTZDtQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_8178.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-otc6M60kQAs/WvnTNzqKLyI/AAAAAAAAHB8/7-ahCPwzUqQa5NdhXEeIGkOXMJukTZDtQCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_8178.JPG" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>B.B. greets a participant at one of our presentations this past March at Green Elementary in Logan Ohio</i></td></tr>
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I purchased B.B. in April of 2009. She was nine months old, and I had no clue that she would blossom into the best lead dog I've had the pleasure of growing with. B.B. is also my education dog. She travels to schools and libraries across the state talking about dog sledding and the history of the Iditarod, meeting hundreds of children in her lifetime. Kids are B.B.'s favorite humans.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>B.B. looks out over the entire student body of Green Elementary this past March</i></td></tr>
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Because of their athleticism, most Alaskan huskies live extraordinarily long lives for larger dogs. A dog who was my original education dog and came from Eagle, Alaska lived two months shy of her 18th birthday! Although B.B. is retired now from racing at 10 years, she still had a lot of years left for puppy training, education with kids, and as a hiking buddy. I couldn't imagine life without her.<br />
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All of these things scanned through my mind as I waited in the small exam room at the emergency vet. I watched the clock close in on midnight, when finally, Dr. Fox entered the room. She said the medical team managed to stabilize B.B. with Valium and some I.V. fluids.<br />
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"Did you happen to take her temperature when you were at home?" she asked.<br />
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"No," I responded. To be honest, I didn't even think about that.<br />
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Dr. Fox's face looked serious. "B.B.'s temperature on admittance was 103.8. 105 is the cut off where we start to get concerned about brain damage from fever."<br />
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That explained the shivering.<br />
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Turns out, fever is a symptom of persistent seizures according to Dr. Fox. Unfortunately, the fever is an indication of brain inflammation. I was so relieved I decided to bring her in when I did.<br />
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Dr. Fox went on to say that it's uncommon for older dogs to have acute "cluster" seizures without a serious underlying cause, like liver or kidney disease or even brain cancer. Despite having one seizure in 2011, Dr. Fox felt she did not have a history of seizure activity. She wanted to do an MRI, but that would cost $5,000 or more, and to what end? If I discovered B.B. had a brain tumor, I wouldn't elect to do chemotherapy.<br />
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We decided on a conservative medical plan that included an overnight stay for observation, lots of blood work to check liver and kidney function and, if there were no more seizures, I could pick her up by 10 the next morning.<br />
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I asked if I could see B.B. before leaving, and a vet tech led me through a series of doors into the ICU. Six cats sat in separate cages, and several dogs, including B.B. were along the back wall. B.B. was slumped in a stall covered in a blanket. I crawled into her enclosure and sat cross-legged on the floor with her. Her eyes brightened for a second and she lifted her head to look at me, then dropped it again, doped up on Valium.<br />
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"Hi, B.B." I said, trying to sound cheerful. "This is just like a checkpoint camp out. You even have a blankie!"<br />
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She raised her eyes to look up at me through her lids, then fell away again in repose. I felt so scared for her, but didn't want to let her know, so I kept my voice as cheery and up beat as possible.<br />
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This is all new territory for me. For having dogs all my life from the show ring to the starting chute of races, my dogs have all been relatively low maintenance and healthy. Navigating this terrain left me feeling helpless and ignorant to dealing with real health issues.<br />
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The next morning, I called the vet and was relieved to hear she didn't have anymore seizure activity overnight. I arrived at 9:45 to pick B.B. up, and as a tech walked her out into the lobby, I could see she wasn't quite herself. She was "wobbly" and seemed almost a bit drunk. She ran into the glass of the door as we attempted to leave. Apparently this "drunk-like" state is normal after a seizure. All of B.B.'s labs and blood work came back completely normal, however - a good sign. We left the hospital with a script for an anti-seizure medication called <a href="https://www.rxlist.com/keppra-drug.htm" target="_blank">Keppra</a> (Levetiracetam), which is also commonly used to treat seizure disorders in humans.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Espfg2EKd5M/WvnoiwBpnZI/AAAAAAAAHCQ/gy6HS4Z2i_YUyWaeSLO_9OXX6W4mWkxcgCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_8177.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Espfg2EKd5M/WvnoiwBpnZI/AAAAAAAAHCQ/gy6HS4Z2i_YUyWaeSLO_9OXX6W4mWkxcgCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_8177.JPG" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My daughter, Sophie, and B.B. at Green Elementary for our dogsledding presentation in March</i></td></tr>
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Here's what I've learned so far.<br />
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There are three main phases of a tonic-clonic or "grand mal" (a term that's not frequently used anymore) seizure: the aura, ictus, and postictal state.<br />
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In the <b>aura</b> phase, there are marked behavioral changes in a dog, and the dog may become aware that something isn't right. They may act lethargic or nervous, may hide, whine, cling to the owner, shiver or salivate.<br />
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In the <b>ictus</b> phase, the actual seizure takes place. All of the muscles of the body contract, and the dog loses consciousness. Other symptoms include violent paddling of the legs as if swimming, grimacing or showing teeth, dilated pupils with a fixed stare, drooling, urinating, defecating and, in B.B.'s case, turning her head in an owl-like attempt at a 180 turn, and involuntary biting anything that approached her mouth.<br />
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In the <b>postictal</b> phase, there is often confusion, lethargy, disorientation, restlessness, and can even include temporary blindness.<br />
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When we returned home, unfortunately, B.B. had three more seizures that afternoon and one in the middle of Saturday night. Apparently it takes awhile for the proper amount of medication to build up in her system to effectively stop the seizures. So far, there were no seizures for Sunday and as of this writing.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>B.B. resting in bed with me on Sunday</i></td></tr>
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If you have experience with canine seizures and know of any homeopathic remedies or any other information that might be beneficial, I am reading voraciously about anything I can and would love for you to reach out. Please send your ideas, links or helpful tips to the comments section below! Thank you!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-61607207588983863282016-08-20T08:45:00.005-07:002018-04-05T09:54:33.442-07:00Fishing as a metaphor (or is it a simile?)I sit suspended, floating in the dark water, and I wonder what is underneath. That's part of the allure of fishing. There is life - an entire ecosystem - in a world we cannot see. That unknown is also what makes me equally nervous. Fishing is a lot like life. You cast out, never knowing what might hit your line. Will it have barbs? Teeth?<br />
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I've been fishing a lot this summer, and it has me thinking about what the attraction is. As a girl, I went fishing with my dad often, so having grown up with it, I never questioned why we did it. We went fishing in so many places: Lake Erie, the Atlantic, this very lake. He pulled many things from many different bodies of water, from bluegill and sheepshead to giant red snapper, eel, and shark.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>My dad, older brother, and me after a deep-sea fishing trip in the Atlantic</i></span></td></tr>
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I have recently acquired his tackle and fishing gear - so much tackle! Fishermen. Always chasing the next best thing, that perfect piece of fake bait that will catch the big one. Incidentally, my dad was also a salesman. And a risk taker. He could convince the dead to buy life insurance. And he was always chasing the next best thing, even if it meant taking risks.<br />
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So, what is the attraction?<br />
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It's the unknown. The unknown can be scary, but it can also offer an elixir of hope. The unknown can yield the perfect fish. Fishermen are gamblers, ever hopeful, optimistic, hedging their bets that the next cast will bring luck.<br />
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Then, there is the waiting, and here's where fishing becomes therapeutic. In that silence and meditation-like concentration, time stands still and all worry and thoughts dissipate like ripples over the lake. The mind settles too in that quiet space. It's so quiet, it's almost deafening. This silence. Sit. I learned to be still from fishing, my first moments of quiet meditation floating suspended in time on a lake, waiting patiently for a nibble.<br />
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And then it happens. A ripple of movement reverberates up the thin line, up the pole to my fingertips. I pull back. The hook embeds. The catch. I reel in, pulling back every few seconds to ease the journey from water to air. My pole bends, and it's like Christmas. What will it be? Is it big? Will it have barbs or teeth?<br />
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I recently caught a foot-long crappie from the lake by my house. As it surfaced from the dark water, I reeled excitedly, my heart pounding. Its giant mouth emerged first, gulping great heaves of water and fighting futilely against my hook and line. Its big eyes bulged. This "man vs beast" moment is so primal, and I think it's also what keeps fishermen coming back for more. It's survival that clicks in, even though I can buy whatever food I need at the grocery store. It's a deep, innate instinct that hooks us into sports like this. And, the fish also primal, fights instinctively, a drive thousands of years old that says: no. Fight. Stay alive.<br />
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That drive is so strong in fish, their bodies so primal, their hearts keep beating for hours after they're dead. This phenomenon is shared by other creatures, such as turtles and frogs. Long after that crappie was dead, its head cut off, gutted and its body in my freezer, its heart kept beating hours after. If you're brave enough to place the heart next to your own blood vessel, like on your wrist, it will continue beating for hours, syncing up with the rhythm of your own blood flow. This drive to live, to survive, to keep moving forward.<br />
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I inherited many things from my dad: his tackle, his pole, but also his willingness to follow his dreams and the hook of hope for what's around the next bend. Like the fish, my dad's heart keeps beating after death. It lives in me, and in all that have hope for the next good catch.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-40914416815384054682016-08-09T16:35:00.002-07:002016-08-09T18:58:48.105-07:00Summer recap: what we do in the off seasonSo what does a girl do in the off season whose dogs take up much of her time in the fall and winter?<br />
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You would think the answer is relax, but we have been very busy this summer! Clearing trees, creating new puppy paths for daily walks with the dogs on our property, renovating this old farm house, and yakking! </div>
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"Yakking" - my affectionate term for kayaking - has been a passion of mine for about the last eight years. This summer, I have officially passed the yakking bug over to my 12-year old daughter, Elise. She's become quite good at it too. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Elise in the background being cool on her kayak</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: -webkit-standard;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This summer has been unbelievably hot, with a total accumulation of three weeks worth of days at 90 degrees or above, so it was perfect to spend lots of time on the water. </span></span>For her first kayak, I didn't want to invest too much. My <a href="http://www.wildernesssystems.com/us/" target="_blank">Wilderness System</a> is a mid-level kayak that costs about what you'd expect a mid-level kayak to cost. Not knowing if Elise would "take the bait," I opted for an "entry-level" <a href="http://www.sundolphin.com/kayaks/" target="_blank">Sundolphin</a> brand sit-on-top kayak for her birthday in May. She had been kayaking in a tandem yak with me before, but this was the first time completely on her own. I gave her a brief lesson about the basics, and she took to it swimmingly! She's become quite adept on the water too and can easily keep up with me when paddling. We have enjoyed many hours paddling together this summer watching the fantastic sunsets over the lake by the Ranch.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Taken with my "real" camera: on of the amazing sunsets at the lake we kayak on</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Elise's silhouette while watching the sun setting in the west</span></i></td></tr>
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One thing I adore about kayaking is, because it's relatively silent depending on how you paddle, it allows for an extremely up-close and personal view of wildlife. I have seen more wildlife while paddling than at any other time, including by dog sled or backpacking. Elise got to see her first active beaver couple doing beaver things beside their den, muskrats, countless blue heron, falcons, hawks and many other animals.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>A lone beaver swimming in the setting sun</i></span></td></tr>
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We have been doing lots of fishing this summer too. Elise caught a fairly large catfish one evening, and last evening while kayaking, I caught a 12 inch crappie from the same lake. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Elise focusing on her line</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Me and the "crappie" - an unfortunate name for a beautiful fish</i></span></td></tr>
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When it wasn't too hot, we trekked many miles hiking in various places where Pokemon don't go. </div>
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<i>Elise and her sister, Sophie on a family trip</i><i style="font-style: italic;">. </i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Cooling their feet in the creek after a hike</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Sisters</i></span></td></tr>
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We have ventured into less wild places too, like <a href="http://www.stanhywet.org/" target="_blank">Stan Hywett Hall </a>& Gardens in Akron - the largest house in Ohio. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>A view of the hall from the rose garden on the 70 acre grounds</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: medium;">Sophie and Elise in Stan Hywett mansion</i></td></tr>
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And we have ventured into various craft stores and been silly ...</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: medium;">Sophie in Pat Catan's bouncing a giant fluff ball on her head ... </i></td></tr>
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<i>...while a masked Elise watches on</i></div>
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Now we are gearing up for fall training to begin, and that normally begins around Labor Day, but I have little faith that the temps will cool off by then for us to run. </div>
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Here's to a great summer and blanket weather ahead! </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>A grainy cell phone photo from an evening when it was cool enough to cuddle in a blanket</i></span></td></tr>
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Until next time,<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-49037417865536021952016-08-01T08:37:00.000-07:002017-01-25T13:40:22.246-08:00The BenderI watched a man die last night in the<br />
Hollow din of twilight.<br />
He was on a bender, a dance with death that weaved left of center colliding<br />
With a semi tanker, the airbag, metal.<br />
I, too, taunted death, but in my own morose mind, not through wine but through a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bloodletting" target="_blank">bloodletting</a> I so craved.<br />
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But in that moment when I watched you collide in crushed metal and smoke <i>poof</i> that<br />
primal survival part of me took hold and I ran to you. I watched you<br />
gurgle blood and gasp for each shallow breath. I touched you,<br />
felt the heartbeat intent on life, that futile heartbeat.<br />
Silly heart.<br />
It's just a muscle, all brawn. It does not know to quit. And so it pumped and<br />
pumped<br />
until your lungs filled with blood and you gurgled.<br />
I told you it would be alright.<br />
I lied.<br />
But I wanted to believe. I wanted so badly to believe<br />
for you as well as for me.<br />
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Intention is everything.<br />
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Now, I am haunted by the acrid smell of the alcohol and blood on your breath, I am haunted<br />
by the futile gurgle.<br />
Airbag, blood and alcohol<br />
Did you intend to dance with death?<br />
I had been taunting her, too,<br />
But in your death, I found my salvation.<br />
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- for Bradley Dillman 9/29/15<br />
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Special note: for those who are unfamiliar with the term "bloodletting" in an historical sense, please click<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bloodletting" target="_blank"> here</a><a href="http://here./">.</a> </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-6073279148018127252016-07-28T05:20:00.001-07:002016-08-01T08:10:37.564-07:00Processing grief: run your race<div class="s2" style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">
<span class="s3" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">It’s really difficult to admit defeat. I pride myself on my “grit” and tenacity. </span></span><span class="s5" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">Those who know me speak of it</span></span><span class="s5" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;"> and</span></span><span class="s5" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;"> have teased me about my tenacity, and I've developed quite a reputation for fortitude. The Finnish call it "</span></span><span class="s6" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">SISU</span></span><span class="s6" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">."</span></span><span class="s5" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;"> Perhaps it's just a stubborn inability to stop, a will that refuses to allow things keep me from moving forward, but I pride myself on this reputation. I do not let things get me down. Ever. I learned from my days riding horses that you always get back up on that horse - or the sled runners, as it were. I have been in weather that would make others cringe and not stopped.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">But, seven months ago, life handed me a series of sucker punches - quick right/left blows in rapid succession - that left me unable to get my bearings for </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">awhile</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">. I hit the mat, tried to get back up, and was handed another quick one/two punch that caused me to hit the mat harder.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">As a musher, one thing we learn is to be adequately prepared. One of the surest ways to disorient someone is to throw a blow when they're unprepared. I was prepared for the first blow</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;"> when I filed for divorce from a </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">14 year</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">relationship</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">. The next blows - which were much heavier-handed with the loss of my job and the death of my father - I was admittedly unprepared for.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 24px;">The dogs have taught me that, sometimes, it is necessary to hunker down and simply take shelter. Trying to advance forward prematurely can make matters worse. I tried to advance prematurely at one point, but was handed another blow, so I decided to take a cue from the dogs and wait. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">When my dad died, time suspended. I felt like I was free falling but in slow motion. Everything else fell away. It took the wind out of me. Things that were seemingly meaningless took on great meaning, like a small nail file he used to </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">obsessively </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">file his nails with. Grief and loss - this kind of loss with divorce, job loss and the death of a parent all within two months of each other - changes a person forever. I could never have understood this kind of loss previously. </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 24px;">These blows and the time that suspended subsequently froze several months. It seems, looking back, as if I was suspended in time, frozen like a still frame trapped within a film. All was silent in that frozen world and yet, life went on in a haze. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">Now, suddenly, it’s been seven months since </span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">those events, and</span></span><span class="s3" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;"> I am no longer frozen by grief and debilitating loss. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">The dogs never lost their voices; they did not join me in my frozen stillness, and their life has helped breathe life into me again. They celebrate every day with a cacophony of howls that ec</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">ho around the hills of the home</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">. Those howls have fed my soul. The dogs remind me of </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">who</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;"> I am. They remind me of what's important: to hunker down if the storm is too bad, and then move on.</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;"> Keep moving forward. . </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">Slowly, like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz, I’ve oiled my frozen joints and started to move. Slowly, I've started gathering up the pieces. Part of gathering up the pieces is </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">thinking hard about this healing process. </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">Some might judge me for writing honestly about my vulnerabilities. But it seems the surest way to show strength is to, in fact, be vulnerable.</span></span><span class="s7" style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> </span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">Sometimes the truest way to show fortitude is through grace.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">Grace: unmerited, undeserved pardon</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">;</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">poise and steadfastness in the face of adversity. Finding grace during this storm has been difficult at times. Sometimes we show fortitude through fighting back. I tried that tactic, but the storm grew bigger. I thought my anger would protect me. It did not. I made anger my best friend for a time because it seemed like my only safe ally. I felt justified to my anger and I held onto it. I slept with it, fed it, named it, confided in it, nurtured it, groomed it, and whispered dirty things in its ear to keep it near. But I came to realize my anger was not my ally. It didn’t protect me. My anger only fed my pain and alienated those who truly loved me.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">I tried for a time to find a way to soothe the pain. But, there is no way to alleviate it, no magic elixir to wipe away the devastation or the hurt. It’s uncomfortable and messy and it </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">takes</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">time - sometimes a long time. You have to sit with your pain, and nothing will rush healing. You cannot evict pain before it’s ready to vacate the premises of your heart. You cannot cry it away or fight it away or fuck it away or run it away or push it away. Eventually, I had to accept it and sit with it, not with anger as my ally but with a </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">cold, </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">quiet acceptance and patience.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">You can do a lot of things that at first seem unbearable and don't think you can do. The call woke me at 5:13 a.m. </span></span><span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">M</span></span><span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">y dad </span></span><span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">was dead</span></span><span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">. </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 24px;">I scurried out of the house in my pajamas and slippers and drove west to my parents’ house. He was lying in bed exactly how I’d last seen him. His hands were folded neatly, but his mouth hung open and one eye seemed to peek out of its half-open lid. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 24px;">I climbed in bed next to my dad and curled up on the right side of him, resting my head on his shoulder. I remembered as a girl cuddling with him this same way. He’d put his big bear arm around me and I’d feel his curly chest hair against my cheek. He smelled like man, like dad, a mix of Old Spice and sweat. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 24px;">Now, his chest was bony, hollow, gaunt, the outline of his pacemaker clearly visible through his paper-thin skin. The curly hairs that rested there were gray and thin. I sobbed, wrapping my arm around his body this last time. I’d lost both of the men in my life - my father and my husband - within two months of each other. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 24px;">The men from the funeral home came, finally, after my family grieved around my dad’s small body in the hospital bed in the spare bedroom. They put a thin gurney in the narrow hallway. It didn’t look wide enough to hold an average-sized person, but it was perfect for my dad. As they began removing the blankets that covered his lifeless body, I asked routinely “do you need help with anything?” not expecting an answer. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 24px;">Surprisingly, one of the men said, “Yes, in fact,” and asked me to stand at the head of the gurney to steady it for placing my father’s body on it. I did what I was asked. I am the daughter of a Marine, after all.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 24px;">I stood holding onto the cold metal rail at the head of the thin gurney, bracing myself for him to appear. The hallway and time seemed to stretch, becoming longer, narrower, and my head started to spin. I sobbed in anticipation of seeing him carried out of his house this final time, questioning to myself whether I had the strength for this duty.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">And then he appeared. Wrapped in a white sheet, naked except for his t-shirt and an adult diaper, the big man I’d </span></span><span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">known</span></span><span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;"> as my father appeared a gaunt, tiny, frail person in the funeral man’s arms. He carried him like a baby, cradling his head against his arm and chest and walked slowly, carefully toward me. As he lay my father down before me on the stretcher, time seemed to stop, a chasm of black where all sound and everything around me fell away. All there was </span></span><span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">was</span></span><span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;"> my dad. </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 24px;">I looked down at his face from above and great swells of sobs took hold of me uncontrollably. The funeral man placed a navy blue velour blanket over my dad, pulling it taut up to his chin over the white sheet. I could see his thin legs under the blanket in repose and the knob of knuckles underneath where his hands were folded neatly over his rib cage. He looked peaceful finally as I looked down at him there. His mouth finally closed. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 24px;">I pulled the stretcher out of the hallway with the two funeral men, our informal private calling hours now taking place in my parent's living room, and my mom began to wail. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s8" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 24px;">“I can’t let him go!” she repeated, and leaned down and kissed my dad’s sunken eyes and cold cheeks and forehead. I wrapped my arms around her sobbing body. She shook with grief. I wanted so much to protect her from this pain. But I couldn’t. Grief is a process, and it comes in waves, and the waves crashed hard within my parent’s living room that morning.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 24px;">I won't lie: while this storm raged, I didn't think I would emerge. But I have. I sometimes have to pinch myself to ensure it's real.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">And now, I am thankful. Going through a series of adverse events that you</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;"> think you can't walk through, </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">you come out the other side having tools you didn't have going into it. There's new wisdom; there's new grace. </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); line-height: 24px;">Grace. Amazing grace. How do we come to grace?</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">You come to it sometimes </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">moment by moment</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">, hour by hour, letting the days turn into nights and the nights fade into mornings. You may walk around in a haze for </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">awhile</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">. That’s okay. Keep pushing through. You come to it by loving yourself, even on the days when you feel </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">unloveable</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">. You come to grace by showing up, and that can mean showing up for the little things or the big things: brushing your teeth, going to the dreaded grocery store, getting up out of bed when the alarm goes off, filling out tedious paperwork in some obscure office. And you come to it by being real, and vulnerable and honest. Sometimes that, too, is messy. In fact, that can be the messiest part. Owning mistakes - </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">recharting</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;"> the course back to that fork in the road when, if you had only done </span></span><span class="s10" style="font-style: italic; line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">one thing </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">differently, chosen the </span></span><span class="s10" style="font-style: italic; line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">other</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;"> fork, life would have been different - is messy and difficult to admit. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">There is a saying oft repeated in </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">mushing</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">. I’ve said it to myself countless times before pulling the </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">snow </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">hook finally to launch through the starting chute of a race, all dog power, butterflies and adrenaline. It is a quiet mantra in dog racing:</span></span><span class="s10" style="font-style: italic; line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;"> Run your race</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">What this means is this: do not get caught up with worry about what other people in front or behind you are doing. The mind can play evil tricks when we get caught worrying about what others are doing. Worry about yourself. </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">Take care of your dogs. </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">Race how you train. Focus. Be alert. And most of </span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">all,</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;"> enjoy the ride.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">You come to grace when you </span></span><span class="s10" style="font-style: italic; line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">run your race</span></span><span class="s5" style="line-height: 12px;"><span class="bumpedFont20" style="line-height: 24px;">. </span></span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-42756271595634919162016-06-09T21:12:00.001-07:002016-06-10T17:55:04.472-07:00An open letter to Stanford rape survivor and the judge who sentenced Brock Turner (one in six)Dear Stanford Survivor,<br />
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I choose to say <i>survivor,</i> not victim. You don't know me, but I have been where you are. And I write this letter because you gave me the courage to speak.<br />
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In the United States, one in six women has been or escaped rape.<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://rainn.org/statistics/victims-sexual-violence" target="_blank">1 </a></span> Sisters, daughters, mothers, aunts, best friends, coworkers, acquaintances. Someone you know has been sexually assaulted.<br />
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Every two minutes, someone in the United States is sexually assaulted. Girls ages 16-19 are four times more likely to be raped or experience attempted sexual assault. Those between the ages of 12 and 34 are in the highest age bracket for rape. Wounded antelopes in the herd, as you described your own experience.<br />
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Like you, I have been stripped in a strange place, scared, and left to watch blood run down the drain with water. A one in six. I have felt my insides burn from abrasions caused by sand, that grit from a foreign beach scraping me in the most delicate and private places. I have felt helpless.<br />
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Your letter or, what courts call "victim impact statements" moved me. I wish only that it could have moved the judge presiding over the case to see what rape is and to hand down a sentence that fit the crime. To that judge, I say this:<br />
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Rape is worse than murder. At least in death, there is some release and peace. Rape kills its survivor but then forces us to walk on. Rape robs us of privacy, dignity, and, often, a voice We return to life and "normal daily activities" numb in places that should never be numbed. Unlike you, I had no witnesses, no one to verify what happened. I didn't even have the words to describe what happened. Like many rape survivors, I questioned whether it even happened. Was I crazy? Why couldn't I remember the details. I returned to daily activities, but nothing was normal as I'd known it.<br />
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I was raped at 14 by a stranger in a strange place. I never told a soul what happened - literally silenced - until I was 16, and then, when my first boyfriend kept pressuring me for sex, I told him. His response to this most confidential secret knocked the wind out of me.<br />
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He said no one can be raped. Women ask for it: by what they wear, by partying, by going out after dark or to unsafe places alone. <br />
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As Buchwald, Fletcher and Roth say in their book, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Transforming-Rape-Culture-Emilie-Buchwald/dp/1571312048?ie=UTF8&*Version*=1&*entries*=0" target="_blank">Transforming A Rape Culture</a></i>, sexual violence is institutional violence. Rape and violence against women and the institutions that support such violence <i>have</i> to change. The institutions that normalize and minimize sexual aggression in men as "boys will be boys," and shames and holds responsible the victims of these reprehensible crimes has <i>got </i>to change. And that change starts with accountability.<br />
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Accountability does not lie with those who survive their attackers. Accountability lies on those who perpetrate these crimes and on those institutions that turn a blind eye to these crimes or otherwise condone them with a slap on the wrist.<br />
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I carried so much guilt and shame over what happened to me, when I was 17, I literally tried to cut that guilt out of myself by attempting to take my own life. It took me several years before I was able to see that the grit that scraped me in those most sensitive, secret places also scraped in me a thirst for life. That grit walked me through hell and showed me I had the courage to still stand. That grit formed who I am.<br />
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Now, many years later, I have two daughters, ages 12 and 17. I talk to them about that grit. I talk to them about rape. I tell them that we are strong. We come from a long line of strong women: sisters, daughters, mothers, aunts. I tell them we don't deserve this. And I tell them: the institution that gives a slap on the wrist to anyone who would do this has to change. And that change starts with them. It starts with voices. It starts with stories and speaking out. It starts with putting a face to the one in six.<br />
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So to you, Stanford Survivor (I wish so much that I knew your name), thank you. Thank you for your bravery to speak and tell your story. Your voice sent a ripple into the water of rape culture, and that has reverberated through and outraged people everywhere. Thank you for your tenacity and grit. Thank you for the courage to confront not only your attacker, but the institution that didn't hold that attacker accountable. Thank you for telling your truth.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-3467753264080106382016-03-17T15:04:00.000-07:002016-03-17T15:15:19.380-07:00Ode to back-of-the-packers: run your raceAt the time of this writing, there are still 28 mushers running the Iditarod race trail. There is much anticipation as to who will win Iditarod each year, and each year, there seems to be a fight to the finish among the top five teams. There are lots of stories of drama, challenges and adversity. This year's race certainly outdid itself in that category.<br />
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When the winners come in, it doesn't matter what time it is, the crowds gather. Cameras flash, and fans cheer far and wide. Now that 3/4 of the racers have arrived in Nome, it seems things have died down. When those last 28 roll into Nome, do they find the crowds gone?<br />
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I personally tip my hat to the back-of-the-packers, for while many if not all mushers face adversity on the trail, often it is those who are last to come in who face the most adversity, who run their own race despite odds and often in solitude. They're the mushers who run their own race without worry about what the others' strategy is or how far they have in lead. They are the ones who, for them, it's not so much a race as it is an experience, a journey with many places to stop and marvel at the amazing life unfolding.<br />
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Really, I have no business writing this. I am small potatoes compared to any Iditarod musher, regardless of where they finish.<br />
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But this is an homage to much more than the Iditarod. It is an ode to the lifestyle, to those who live outside the lines, those who run their race without thought about whether or not they are good enough. It's a tribute to those who know that just showing up is enough.<br />
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It's about setting goals and sticking to them, despite the odds. Those in the back-of-the-pack are often the ones who face the most adversity, who run in solitude having been left behind by faster teams. They are the ones who can face the toughest set backs, like Minnesota's Nathan Schroeder whose father reported that not only was his team sick with a virus and stalled at the White Mountain checkpoint, but Nathan himself was sick and "coughing blood."<br />
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It takes a special breed of person to run dogs. As Robert Service said in his poem "The Men Who Don't Fit In":<br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 15px;">There's a race of men that don't fit in,</span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 15px;"> A race that can't stay still;</span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 15px;">So they break the hearts of kith and kin,</span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 15px;"> And they roam the world at will.</span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 15px;">They range the field and they rove the flood,</span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 15px;"> And they climb the mountain's crest;</span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 15px;">Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,</span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 15px;"> And they don't know how to rest.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></i>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-size: 15px;">If you're ever able to attend a dog sled race, stick around to welcome the back-of-the-packers. In doing so, you will welcome some of the toughest people with the most fortitude that you will ever meet. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-size: 15px;">*Update: Nathan and Jodi Bailey came into Nome as I was writing this. Welcome in! </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-23703502152534006902016-01-14T16:47:00.001-08:002016-01-15T06:38:34.506-08:00It's a way of life<span style="font-family: inherit;">During a recent conversation, I had to excuse myself so I could head home. I had been away for nearly six hours, and I needed to get home to tend to the fire.</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"You sound like you live like a settler," replied my friend sarcastically.</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I guess to some, we do. My house is heated solely from firewood.</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Early in the morning before dawn, I emerge from the warmth of my flannel sheets into the cold house and head downstairs to stoke the wood stove. I have no propane, so I can't just turn a dial and wait for my house to get warm. I have to work for it. No matter what the weather, or my mood or health, certain things </span><i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">have</i><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> to be done. Animals need cared for. Eggs need gathered. Fires need stoked, and firewood brought inside and stacked. I like to think it builds character as well as muscle. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is no television as in "cable T.V." We entertain ourselves with books, animals, coloring, games and obviously, the Internet.</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Ranch has become a sort of sanctuary. Without the clamor of television, it's so quiet and the sounds of nature fill the air. In the evening, we burn candles after dinner, and the dogs fill our seven acres with song; sometimes coyote join in. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">A neighbor two doors down reported a black bear on his back deck last fall. One evening, across the road in the farmer's field, my daughter and I counted 16 deer. In the evening, we sometimes see half dozen rabbits hopping along in the grass. Foxes bark in the woods around our home. Bald Eagles and Red Tailed Hawks are frequent fliers; bats swoop in the air at dusk in summer. Field mice scurry across the country road.</span></div><div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We move with the seasons and we never, ever stop.</span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Somehow living in solitude and in sync with nature grounds me, and I think it grounds my family. Some may see this way of life as difficult; others, desolate. We see it as beautiful.</span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is not a day that I miss city life. We have lived at the Ranch almost six years, and I can't imagine ever going back to the suburbs, the luxury of turning a dial for heat or the sounds of traffic filling my ears.</span><br>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-13223963831070188632015-12-26T19:55:00.001-08:002015-12-27T21:24:24.391-08:00A Christmas Storm, and a BIG THANK YOU to manyIn the 1997 James Cameron classic film <i>Titanic</i>, there is a scene near the end of the film where main characters, Jack and Rose, hang from the back of the sinking ship waiting for its final plunge into the icy Atlantic. In their final moments above water, Jack tells Rose to take her last deep breath before the ship is inevitably submerged under water. Going under is a definite, unavoidable and uncomfortably terrifying fact; survival is not guaranteed. The most Jack and Rose can do is hang on, try to prepare, and keep kicking for the surface. If you haven't seen the film, here is the clip. <br>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/BJWEQChsN6o" width="420"></iframe><br>
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This fall, I have thought about this scene often. I could say that we may not be racing this season because of El Nino -like ridiculously warm temperatures, but that would be a lie (although the weather-part of that is true. This has been the warmest fall I can remember in northeast Ohio. Indeed, our first race, the Tahquamenon Country Sled Dog Classic in Newberry, MI may not happen in January because, for the first time since many Yoopers in Michigan can remember, there was no snow on Christmas in most of the Upper Peninsula, an area along Lake Superior that usually sees several feet of snow by Christmas). <br>
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The truth is, life has hit incredibly hard this fall, harder than I can recall. Mushers are skilled in level-headed coping skills during adverse and challenging times. But sometimes, life sweeps even the most level-headed off of their feet. Such is the case with this storm.<br>
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In a matter of a short three month period, the dogs and I have faced some of the most challenging changes anyone can face in life: job loss, the death of a parent, devastating betrayal, being subjected to pathological lies and the death of a marriage. Most people would struggle to cope with even one of these major life changes, but being hit with three at once in such a short amount of time has left me often in panic, unable to sleep, overwhelmed by grief.<br>
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The dogs have taught me so much about dealing with adversity. In challenging times, they conserve resources, rationing where necessary and relying on the pack for support. In a storm, the dogs often curl up in a sheltered spot, hunker down and wait. The hardest part of waiting out a storm is to remember to breathe. Like the final plunge of the Titanic, I've been holding my breath waiting to emerge to the surface.<br>
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Christmas found me holding my breath, wondering how we were going to get through this storm. Like the dogs, however, I've learned to trust in my teammates for support. This fall and winter has been extremely humbling, for even thought it's been the darkest period in my life, it's also shown me just how many people are in our corner.<br>
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As Christmas has come and 2015 draws to a close, the dogs and I would like to acknowledge a few beautiful people who have helped us in our darkest moments.<br>
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Thank you to:<br>
<b>Jim Conway</b><br>
<b>Dana Plambeck</b><br>
<b>Linda Mohney</b><br>
<b>Vanessa Ivy</b><br>
<b>Karen Wicks</b><br>
<b>CoeStar Custom Leads</b><br>
<b>Penny Agner</b><br>
<b>Dennis Waite</b><br>
<b>Stan Bontrager</b><br>
<a href="http://www.pawsitiveresultsarc.com/" target="_blank"><b>Pawsitive Results Animal Rehabilitation Center</b></a><br>
<a href="http://dogbooties.com/"><b>Dogbooties.com</b></a><br>
<b>Michael Hawkinson</b><br>
<b>Tawny Knight</b><br>
<b>The Clum Family</b><br>
<b>Connie Starr </b><div><b>Ivy McDonald<br></b>
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We will not be racing this season. But thankfully, we are getting by with a lot of support from our friends - and we know now who our real friends are. <br>
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<br></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-18913541976127462462015-08-02T09:40:00.000-07:002015-08-02T09:45:18.278-07:00A post not about dogs...I smell like lake air. The sun set 45 minutes ago, but I can still see clearly, my eyes adjusted to the shadow enough to paddle my way off the lake and into the narrow canal that leads to shore. Fireflies flicker in the woods on shore. Under the bridge, the lamps of fishermen glow like luminaries.<div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-o0SW-RgCIbg/Vb5JHJFjm0I/AAAAAAAAGTg/f_z7t-nJ1so/s640/blogger-image--1757268602.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-o0SW-RgCIbg/Vb5JHJFjm0I/AAAAAAAAGTg/f_z7t-nJ1so/s640/blogger-image--1757268602.jpg"></a></div><br>
<i>Fireflies flicker</i><br>
<i>Ants await</i><br>
<i>Bubble bees blow balloons</i><br>
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I remember it by heart even now. <i>Miss Spider's ABC's</i> book by David Kirk. I'd read it to her every night before bed, exaggerating the consonant sounds so she would laugh. She was two years old, chubby and needed me. I think I needed her, too. I took her everywhere with me: as a baby, hiking with her in the baby sling and then kidpack; jogging with her in the running stroller, and kayaking. She caught her first fish on my parents' boat when she was just five years old.<br>
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Now, she's 16, and she wants to believe she doesn't need me anymore.<br>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wXD8AFbwuDY/Vb5BF7penkI/AAAAAAAAGTQ/eMoCz6-wkX8/s1600/sophie%2Band%2BYoda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wXD8AFbwuDY/Vb5BF7penkI/AAAAAAAAGTQ/eMoCz6-wkX8/s320/sophie%2Band%2BYoda.jpg" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Sophie and my mom's cat, Yoda</span></i></td></tr>
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It was on a trip to Florida over spring break with family that she discovered there was something wrong. A gulp of ocean water took her by surprise, and she realized it was not only difficult to swallow but then to breathe. A quick trip to the pediatrician turned into another quick trip for an ultrasound, which revealed a large tumor within the right wing of her thyroid.<br>
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We met with an endocrinologist who said flatly, "I don't want to scare you, but given her age, there is a higher likelihood that this is cancer." A biopsy was inconclusive to rule out cancer, so surgery was scheduled to remove that wing of the thyroid. Then she came down with a summer cold/cough and a viral infection in her throat caused surgery to be delayed. Now, after a long summer, surgery is scheduled for this coming Wednesday.<br>
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To me, she is still that chubby little girl, and reading <i>Miss Spider's ABC's</i> seems like yesterday. No parent wants to watch their kiddo go through surgery, or to think about the dreaded "C" word. If this right wing of the thyroid is removed and is conclusive for cancer, she has to go back in for surgery again to remove the entire thyroid.<br>
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But we have lots to be grateful for. I've learned thyroid cancer is highly treatable with radioactive iodine. And it seems everyone I know knows someone who had thyroid cancer and went on to live a normal, healthy life.<br>
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We remain optimistic and hopeful.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-21529971953198983822015-03-09T20:31:00.000-07:002016-12-12T10:32:30.686-08:00CopperDog recap and top 5 mushing myths debunkedI put my sled away today. The dog trailer is cleaned out and put away as well. It would seem the season has come to an end. And I haven't even updated here!<br />
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At the very top of a map of Michigan is a wide strip that runs along Lake Superior known as the Upper Peninsula (U.P.). This area of Michigan is confusing to most of the U.S. population and even some Midwesterners. The U.P. is like no other place I've ever been, and has an identity and culture all its own. Separated from lower Michigan by Lake Michigan and the Mackinaw bridge - the "Mighty Mac," - the U.P. is a stones-throw away from Canada. Once, on a pier in Whitefish Point, I walked to the end and my cell phone thought I was in Canada.<br />
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If you continue to look at that map of Michigan, and the U.P., you'll notice at the top of that long strip a peninsula, called the Keeweenaw.<br />
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Some call Grand Rapids in the lower part of Michigan the "thumb," but the Keeweenaw is the real thumb. Jutting out into Lake Superior, the Keeweenaw is the "thumbs up" of the U.P. - the fat phalange that says "Say yea to the U.P., eh"; the hitchhiker of Lake Superior; the universal symbol of approval. This particular phalange gets quite cold in February. Best bring some mittens.<br />
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Snow whirled around in the arctic equivalent of a dust devil on the horizon as we headed across M-28 again for the second time in two weeks. Only this time, it was a balmly 10 degrees. The dogs were tired of riding in their dog boxes - individual wooded dog compartments that, in my case, sit atop a 13-foot flatbed trailer. A traveling dog condo on wheels. We had traveled 582 miles, and still had nearly 200 miles to go to Calumet, the little thumbnail in the thumb of the Keeweenaw, the very tippy-top of the Keeweenaw Peninsula.<br />
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Dog races, for me, are a blur of traveling hundreds of miles, scrambling to mandatory musher meetings, gearing up and heading out on the race trail for hours. This particular race - the 40 mile portion of the <a href="http://copperdog150.org/" target="_blank">Copper Dog 150 </a>- is especially blurry. I worked until 5 p.m. Wednesday evening, and left with eight dogs early Thursday morning traveling 760 miles. Our veterinary check was at 11 a.m. on Friday morning, leaving little time for dilly dally. Or sleeping. Our start time for the race was 8:18 p.m.<br />
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It may all sound exhausting from an outsiders perspective. Many have remarked that it sounds "stressful," or "draining." But this is what gives me energy, fills me up and brings me joy. Which got me to thinkin'...<br />
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As I drove across the U.P., I thought of all of the things others have said to me about this sport. These mushing myths are so common, I can't begin to recount how many times I've heard them. Aside from debunking the most common myth -- that sled dogs are all Siberian huskies (that only happens in Disney films) -- I thought I'd set the record straight about some of the other myths I hear so often. Here goes.<br />
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5. <b>"Do you ever sleep?" </b>I seem to hear this often. I think it's because most of the races I run are at night. Um, yes I sleep. In fact, I guard my sleep time like a proverbial mother bear guards her cubs. And while it might be true that mushers have a higher tolerance for functioning without regular sleep, most mushers I know make up for the sleep they don't get when they're not racing. I prefer running dogs at night, though on this particular race last weekend, my headlamp malfunctioned. Not to worry: mushers are required to carry a spare as part of their "mandatory gear" for just such an occasion. Only my spare was a cheap-o 80 lumen dim flicker I'd bought at a local feed store for $15. Luckily, unlike the Jack Pine two weeks earlier, we ran under the light of a perfect 3/4 moon and clear, star-filled U.P. sky. But I never want to run a race in the dark again! I've already purchased a new headlamp, and I am catching up on sleep - hence the slow blog post.<br />
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4. <b>"Your dogs must love the cold!" </b>While it is true that Alaskan huskies are made for cold weather, not all of them are equipped to run headlong into a blizzard at 30 below. Like people, their coats vary; some of them are shorter coated, have less body fat or just prone to being chilled. In fact, we mushers carry just about as much gear to protect our dogs from the cold and wind as we do for ourselves. We slather goop onto our dog's paw pads and cover their feet with booties to protect them from ice and snow. During the race this past weekend, I ran two of my dogs in custom-made jackets to protect them from the temperatures. And, when it gets <i>really</i> cold, mushers have special covers made to protect a dog's "private parts" from frostbite. <br />
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3.<b> "I expected your dogs to be bigger." </b>This is probably the number one thing I hear at sled dog demonstrations, races and from non-mushers. I can't speak for other musher's teams, and the sizes of Alaskan huskies varies, but, in general, the average size of my males is about 55 pounds and 45 for the females. My main leader, Big Brown, is 37 pounds. The dogs were bred for speed and endurance, and the fact is, Malamutes are pretty darned slow! My typical response to this comment is "you don't see many large marathon runners, do ya!"<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">My tiny main leader, Big Brown, on my bed</span></i></td></tr>
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2. <b>"You must love this weather!"</b> <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">a coworker said to me as several more inches of snow fell the week before we left for the race. My retort is always the same. There is a Swedish saying "there is no bad weather, only bad clothing." </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Taken during the "storm Neptune" a few weeks ago, do I look thrilled? No. </span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Mushers have no higher tolerance to cold than anyone else. And, with back problems and a family history of Rheumatoid arthritis, I feel the cold, lemme tell ya! When you go swimming, you dress appropriately, right? Well, the same is true for mushers - or any other winter athlete. If you're going to spend hours outside in the cold, you dress appropriately. We invest in good gear, and that usually starts with excellent base layers, wool socks, winter parkas and snow pants specifically made to protect against severe winter cold.</span></div>
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So many people seem to shut themselves off to the unique beauty, awesome silence and pristine views of winter. As we ran the last 15 miles of the race last weekend, I turned my headlamp off (trying to reserve some of the battery). Shadows danced with us across the snow-covered forest and on as we ran along a frozen lake. The moon seemed to reflect off of each tiny crystalline snowflake that rolled on into the distance as each tree, bush and rock created long shadows across the white tundra. I thought about how many would never see that beauty simply because they shield themselves off from winter. I want to be open to take in all of life and what it has to show me. In all seasons.<br />
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1. <b>"What kind of dogs are those?" </b>This is, by far, the number one remark I hear. Numero uno. The most common myth - that all sled dogs are fuzzy, blue-eyed beasts - is one propagated by Disney. This is not to say that there aren't Siberian huskies at sled dog races; there are. But the more common type of dog is the Alaskan husky, a "mutt" if I'm being honest. Alaskan huskies are not an AKC registered breed. But they have pedigrees carefully traced back to some key recognized players in the sport of dog mushing: Roxy Wright-Champaigne, Doug Swingley, Lance Mackey, Mitch Seavey. Some Alaskans have blue eyes, but some have brown or even gray and gold colored eyes. Some Alaskans have fluffy gray coats, but others have shorter coats that are black, brown, spotted, or any variation or combination in between. Alaskan huskies are a varied breed.<br />
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So, to recap, we placed 10th in the Jack Pine in a veritable blizzard the likes of which I've never run dogs in. We placed 14th out of 21 in the Copper Dog in a very fast field of teams. Considering I didn't think I would be able to race at all this season, I am quite pleased with the fact that we were able to manage two races and place solidly in the middle-of-the-pack.<br />
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That's a wrap on the 2014-2015 season! Stay tuned for puppy harness breaking! And as always...<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-76568641358365253782015-02-20T20:02:00.000-08:002015-02-20T20:03:28.448-08:00Eben Ice Caves and The Midnight Run - some photosThe day after winter storm Neptune swept dramatically through Marquette, the snow cleared and the sky became beautiful and blue. We decided to stop by our friends, the Curtices, who live in Rumley, a tiny place (can't really be called a "town" because as far as I know, there is only a general store) about 30 minutes outside of Marquette just outside of Chatham. My daughter Sophie and I decided to take a hike with Caitlin Curtice to the Eben Ice Caves, a place I had always wanted to stop but never had been to. The following are some photos from the Eben Ice Caves.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">looking up</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VVXhYg9lpII/VOgBFoqrVyI/AAAAAAAAGOA/b8JW4rDSFQ8/s1600/Dropping%2Bice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VVXhYg9lpII/VOgBFoqrVyI/AAAAAAAAGOA/b8JW4rDSFQ8/s1600/Dropping%2Bice.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">looking up again</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rvPkiBOdQ8s/VOgBITNuezI/AAAAAAAAGOQ/1OP1V5FDfkw/s1600/Ice%2Bwall%2Blow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rvPkiBOdQ8s/VOgBITNuezI/AAAAAAAAGOQ/1OP1V5FDfkw/s1600/Ice%2Bwall%2Blow.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A wall of ice</td></tr>
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I also shot some photos of our friends at the <a href="http://up200.org/" target="_blank">Midnight Run</a>....<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xvo2eQKW23E/VOgCTDjmKMI/AAAAAAAAGOw/pdeGboTSrLg/s1600/Joann%2Band%2BDaisy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xvo2eQKW23E/VOgCTDjmKMI/AAAAAAAAGOw/pdeGboTSrLg/s1600/Joann%2Band%2BDaisy.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joann and Daisy</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Larry and Zeus</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martha and Bebop</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CrIK8mufCSY/VOgCSjXaRaI/AAAAAAAAGOk/a5topWw_58Y/s1600/Martha%2Blow%2Bres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CrIK8mufCSY/VOgCSjXaRaI/AAAAAAAAGOk/a5topWw_58Y/s1600/Martha%2Blow%2Bres.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another of Martha and Bebop</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JpCP3QkkqsY/VOgCTHRYceI/AAAAAAAAGO0/eyu6CC61WlE/s1600/Mike%2Band%2BAmy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JpCP3QkkqsY/VOgCTHRYceI/AAAAAAAAGO0/eyu6CC61WlE/s1600/Mike%2Band%2BAmy.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mike Bestgen preps lead dogs while Amy is ready at the helm</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GFnHGsCD_a8/VOgCTksBvzI/AAAAAAAAGO8/HA4Q1nhxIiM/s1600/mike%2Band%2Bmegan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GFnHGsCD_a8/VOgCTksBvzI/AAAAAAAAGO8/HA4Q1nhxIiM/s1600/mike%2Band%2Bmegan.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friends Mike and Meagan before the race.<br />
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Next stop: <a href="http://copperdog150.org/" target="_blank">CopperDog 40</a>! </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-91448817698949282682015-01-21T09:38:00.001-08:002015-01-21T09:47:27.789-08:00When the heart says yes, but the body says noThe snow falls effortlessly, slowly gathering on his gray head as he sits on the roof of his house. It's quiet, save for a dog barking in the distance. He appears stately, as almost a statue, until he slowly raises his head skyward, opens his long mouth and howls.<br />
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Soon the others emerge from their houses, shaking off sleep and greeting the day. Bright-eyed and eager, they join his lonely song, a cacophony of 16 dogs singing, and they say "let's go." But there is no going for me. They see me and stop their chorus in unison. They eye me, all looking at me expectantly, waiting. <i>When</i> <i>are</i> <i>we</i> <i>going</i>. There is no going for me, and that is heartbreaking. Heartbreaking beyond what I'm able to convey. Days like today are what mushers - and sled dogs - live for.<br />
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I'm not one to let pain stop me. I joke often that my middle name is "tenacious." A very special person once told me that I train and race dogs "against all odds." I pride myself on that.<br />
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But sometimes, things happen that force our hand. Like a football player with a sudden injury forced to sit out the season, I now mull over the "should haves" and "if onlys." <i>I should have worn the back brace. </i>Regret is a bitter pill.<br />
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A bone density scan showed degenerative disc disease in 2007. I get it honestly. My mother's mother had rheumatoid arthritis, her fingers curved in deformed "S" shapes. Still, she crocheted. My aunt had back surgery when I was young. I remember hearing stories of her in traction. My mother has the tell-tale signs of her mother's genetics as well. And, two years ago, I saw my first rheumatologist.<br />
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For the last two years, I've struggled with the glaringly obvious effects of this "disc disease" - what I call the result of a life well-lived. Backpacking, long bouncing rides with my mountain bike, and miles and miles of cross-country running in college undoubtedly jarring tiny fragments into my L5. The last nine years on the back of a dog sled undoubtedly further eroded bone, like water washing away rock. This erosion. Spine turning to dust.<br />
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I was in denial. This past spring, I took up trail running again, determined to be stronger for the upcoming dog season. It hurt like hell, but with my back brace - a black nylon support wrapped around my waist - and firmly gritted teeth, I could bite through the pain. I worked up to four mile runs, sweated out sets of crunches to firm my core and stabilize the spine, muscles forming support for bone. I was determined. Tenacious.<br />
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Friday, winter finally set in. Excited, I loaded nine dogs in the dog trailer, strapped my sled to the roof, and we headed to Punderson State Park for our first run with the sled. I met my friend Ron there with his dogs. In my haste, I forgot the back brace. I never went without it last season on any sled run.<br />
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The trails were gorgeous, and despite the lack of a good base, I hooked six dogs for a 10 mile run, then another.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-GdC69jqxq8k/VL_br_5i7vI/AAAAAAAAGMI/GsNbrgKFb8U/s640/blogger-image--652113789.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-GdC69jqxq8k/VL_br_5i7vI/AAAAAAAAGMI/GsNbrgKFb8U/s640/blogger-image--652113789.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>My six dogs with Ron and his six leading ahead of us</i></span></td></tr>
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On the second time out, I noticed my sled kept tracking to the right. To compensate, I rode with more weight on my left side. I also noticed during that second run that the area in my back with the herniated disc began to hurt. Our second run was short.<br />
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When we returned to the staging area, I hobbled through the pain to unhook, unharness and put the dogs away. I put the rest of my gear away, but mentioned to Ron that I was in a lot of pain. I felt better on the 40 minute drive back home, but as I started to get out of my car once at home, my left leg practically gave out from under me. Breath-taking pain shot through my back and down my leg. I limped inside.<br />
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Saturday morning found me in excruciating pain and unable to walk. I ended up at the emergency room where I received injections of morphine and toradol, both powerful pain relievers. I filled scripts for vicodin, two kinds of muscle relaxers and an oral steroid for inflammation, and was on bed rest for the remainder of the weekend.<br />
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The best laid plans of mice and men. And mushers.<br />
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At the time of this writing, I am still awaiting results from x-rays. But the tech allowed me to take a peek at them after I had them done, and what I saw wasn't pretty. Spinal stenosis - a narrowing of the spine - with a possible fracture on the vertebrae, and undoubtedly, sciatica - a pinched nerve that shoots pain down the leg.<br />
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For the safety of my dogs, other mushers' teams and myself, I have withdrawn from my favorite race, the 90-mile Midnight Run. I am able to walk now thanks to medication, and I am still debating on running the IronLine and Copper Dog 40, which are shorter, six-dog class races.<br />
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My heart wants to be out there on the trail with them. More than anything. But my body says no. And the argument that has ensued between the two is heartbreaking. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Where my heart longs to be</i></span></td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-62458676169670605332014-12-24T10:14:00.000-08:002014-12-24T10:17:38.662-08:00Mushing in Ohio: mud and diligence <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Training a team of sled dogs is not an easy task. It is often chaotic. It requires dedication and is back-breaking and messy. On a recent training run, I kept smelling dog poop. I suspected it was on one of the dog's harnesses or tug lines - something that happens frequently - but every time I checked when we were stopped, I saw nothing. Imagine my surprise when I realized, on finishing the run, that the glob of doggy doo-doo was in my <i>hair</i>! It had flown off the back tire of the four wheeler and flipped up onto my head!<br />
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It requires sacrifice. Inevitably, every year, there are nights when, after a long day at work, the last thing I want to do is trade in my heels for Muck Boots and head out into inclement weather for several hours in the night. But as I pass people snug in their houses watching reruns of Seinfeld for the umteenth time, I look up at the stars overhead, or see a pair of glowing eyes watching me from a thicket of trees, and I know where I am is better and that there's no place I'd rather be.<br />
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Training a team of sled dogs in northeast Ohio certainly has its challenges. When other mushers are on sleds, I am still on the four wheeler at Christmastime this year. While there hasn't been any snow in northeast Ohio this winter, there has been no shortage of moisture. Mud has become like my second skin. The dog's harnesses are so muddy when we return from training runs that they can practically stand up on their own. I'm so sick of mud, I could scream.<br />
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This season has brought a slew of unforeseen challenges in addition to the normal challenges of training a team in Ohio. For one, in October, when training runs are typically kicking into high gear, I was focused on trying to save Mojo and Feist, my two pups who died of parvo. It was emotionally and financially draining, and my training regimen and pocket book quickly became depleted. It seems I have played catch up in both areas ever since.<br />
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Additionally, a year and a half ago, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder. Without going into too many boring details, there have been moments this season when I honestly felt my body wasn't going to allow me to do what I needed to do to train up the dogs. I pride myself on having high tolerance for pain, and the ability to function well even with a lack of sleep or in pain and around chaos. But this season, some days have been practically debilitating.<br />
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I have done what I could, trying to take things in stride. As John Lennon said, life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. It is a rookie mistake to set out at the beginning of a season thinking race plans are set in stone. Whenever living creatures are involved, there are always unknown variables, and first and foremost, mushers are taught to deal with adversity and always be prepared with Plan B. At one point, I resigned to potentially sit this year out race-wise.<br />
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Plans are fluid. Since I started mushing nine years ago, I have always attended the <a href="http://www.tcsdr.org/" target="_blank">Tahquamenon Country Sled Dog Classic</a>. Unfortunately, because life happens, this will be the first year we will not be at that race since I started this sport. I am behind on training miles with where I would normally be at this time of the year, and rather than pushing the dogs, I have chosen to forego this favorite race in favor of a new race happening at the end of January: <a href="http://theironline.com/" target="_blank">The IronLine Sled Dog Race</a>. This will give us more time for training runs and conditioning.<br />
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As Christmas Eve rounds the corner and we settle in with family, friends gifts and merriment, it is 55 degrees and raining here in northeast Ohio. More moisture. More mud. Doesn't feel much like Christmas. So I must rely on pictures to help me remember.<br />
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Merry Christmas - may the season bring peace and lots of doggy howls (and not doggy doo-doo).<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-72976946982684833762014-11-17T16:11:00.001-08:002014-11-17T16:17:11.198-08:00Mid-fall updates: "Watch out where the huskies go, and don't you eat that yellow snow..."Several thoughts come to mind this time of year regarding training. One, and I've said this before, November is "make it or break it" month as far as training. The runs get longer, the temps get colder (at the time of this writing, it is like full-blown January instead of mid-November), and this is the time when running dogs isn't necessarily always fun. Today, we did a touch over 15 miles, and it was 24 blowing, blustery degrees with six inches of fresh, heavy snow.<br />
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<i><span style="color: #474747; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px;">Dreamed I was an Eskimo</span><br style="color: #474747; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="color: #474747; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px;">Frozen wind began to blow...</span></i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The team stopped along one of the snow-covered trails we run on </i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #474747; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px;">Training was compromised somewhat during October because of Mojo and Feist contracting parvo; my days were consumed with caring for t</span><span style="color: #474747; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px;">hem. We are subsequently behind a bit on miles to where I would like to be. But we are hitting it hard again with runs every other day and the dogs are looking strong. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Under my boots 'n around my toe</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Frost had bit the ground below</i></span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>A panoramic of my favorite spot on our training trails</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #474747; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px;">This is also the time of year to count our blessings, and I count seven of them every day: their names are Buddha, Bonanza, Blaze, Cisco (The Cisco Kid), Voodoo, Halo, and Mirage. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Elise and Halo</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Sophie and Voodoo</i></span></td></tr>
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The rest of the puppies are thriving and growing like crazy. I cannot wait to harness break them in the spring. They will no doubt bring the kennel into a new level of competitiveness in the future.<br />
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Plans are underway for the 2014/2015 racing season. They are <a href="http://diamonddogsracing.blogspot.com/p/20122013-team-members.html" target="_blank">here</a>. If you would like to sponsor a puppy or an active member of the race team, please throw us a bone. We are currently actively looking for sponsors for this season.<br />
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As always...<br />
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....and watch out for the yellow snow</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-83948912240739195022014-10-21T17:36:00.000-07:002014-10-21T19:33:31.369-07:00And then there were seven“Raw love, like raw heartache, could blindside you.” Jodi Picoult<br />
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I hadn't had a litter of puppies for three years when Cinder's litter was planned, and after waiting that long to have a litter, I was beyond excited to welcome them into the world. Watching them come into the world, take their first breath and blossom into unique creatures is giving birth to a dream. I wanted to protect them all, keep them safe, shelter them. But I couldn't.<br />
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Never was a dog as aptly named as Feist. We called her Feisty girl, and her name came quite naturally when, at one week of age, I picked her up and she growled at me. Click the video below to watch.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/DvCJXxGKs0w?list=UUtmsWFHRqr15rUp7wfORizw" width="560"></iframe><br />
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Later on, when her eyes were barely open at ten-days old, I carried her out to the big dog yard to begin acclimating the puppies to the sounds and smells of the kennel. As the adult dogs barked excitedly, tiny Feist growled at them, apparently unaware of her size. She was the female runt, so tiny, but her attitude was big. She had so much personality. When the other puppies toppled over her, she got up and barked at them angrily, as if to say, "Hey! Back off!"<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Um-Dpeyu8Jk/VEaConK2fqI/AAAAAAAAGE0/o5L1u0KNnEE/s1600/Feist%2Bday%2B16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Um-Dpeyu8Jk/VEaConK2fqI/AAAAAAAAGE0/o5L1u0KNnEE/s1600/Feist%2Bday%2B16.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Feist at two weeks</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Feist at four weeks</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LpluWkqGSO8/VEaF0zmBzWI/AAAAAAAAGFQ/AxG13LkwpTs/s1600/Feist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LpluWkqGSO8/VEaF0zmBzWI/AAAAAAAAGFQ/AxG13LkwpTs/s1600/Feist.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Feist at eight weeks</i></span></td></tr>
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It was from one of these episodes that Feist emerged from the puppy play pile limping one day, right around the time Mojo was becoming sick but before we knew what he had. I brought her in the house but tried to isolate her to my bedroom, away from Mojo who was in the living room. I rubbed her shoulder with liniment like a big sled dog at a race. She seemed to love being bedroom puppy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-IBakdzGdmVw/VEaFIoqxguI/AAAAAAAAGFA/3As3rRBBcIY/s640/blogger-image--1667726917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-IBakdzGdmVw/VEaFIoqxguI/AAAAAAAAGFA/3As3rRBBcIY/s400/blogger-image--1667726917.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Little Feist resting on my bed</i></span></td></tr>
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She learned lots of things, like what a computer was...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WbXwwiPafqE/VEbqwndiO0I/AAAAAAAAGGc/44PUXZvXpzI/s640/blogger-image--771841955.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WbXwwiPafqE/VEbqwndiO0I/AAAAAAAAGGc/44PUXZvXpzI/s400/blogger-image--771841955.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Feist sitting at my desk with me</i></span></td></tr>
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... how to snuggle <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Cozied up on my bed</i></span></td></tr>
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...and how to pass time in close quarters with her people.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-VQ7b5m7k8LU/VEbqq3JkEQI/AAAAAAAAGGM/bDhc-O2-EWg/s640/blogger-image--125983071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-VQ7b5m7k8LU/VEbqq3JkEQI/AAAAAAAAGGM/bDhc-O2-EWg/s400/blogger-image--125983071.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Feist and Elise playing</i></span></td></tr>
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She missed her siblings, but I figured in just a few days, she would be outside with them again.<br />
<br />
When we received the diagnosis of parvo with Mojo, Feist had already come in contact with the virus through our clothes. I braced myself for the worst when he died. She seemed to recover from the shoulder injury and was playing and doing well, when she suddenly vomited. My heart dropped to my stomach.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QIRRFaKwODE/VEbz5aPCEoI/AAAAAAAAGG8/f54ebOv5TE0/s1600/IMG_4988.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QIRRFaKwODE/VEbz5aPCEoI/AAAAAAAAGG8/f54ebOv5TE0/s1600/IMG_4988.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Feisty girl</i></span></td></tr>
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Without skipping a beat, I kicked medication into gear, starting subcutaneous fluids, Amoxicillin and Metronidozole. I contacted my family vet and we made a trip in again, this time for Reglan, an anti-nausea drug. She weighed 9 pounds and 14 ounces. I was hopeful. We were going to beat this together. Feist was strong. She was <i>Feist</i>, after all. She was far healthier than Mojo was when he contracted parvo, and she was a fighter.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6HqiiWQf9ms/VEbzn6NnOUI/AAAAAAAAGG0/SYN97bMGHKw/s1600/IMG_5151-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6HqiiWQf9ms/VEbzn6NnOUI/AAAAAAAAGG0/SYN97bMGHKw/s1600/IMG_5151-2.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Feist received about 50 ml of subq fluids every 12 hours to prevent dehydration</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We fought hard together for eight days, through Feist's vomiting and horrendous diarrhea. I stayed up with her 'round the clock because, luckily, I was between terms at the college and had nothing but Feist to care for. I sunk everything I had into her. We slept together for two solid weeks.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2XS9q7sYgSA/VEb0dUJbFaI/AAAAAAAAGHE/PcrgS6-nz9w/s1600/IMG_4865.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2XS9q7sYgSA/VEb0dUJbFaI/AAAAAAAAGHE/PcrgS6-nz9w/s1600/IMG_4865.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
And then, finally, the puking stopped. And slowly, the diarrhea stopped. Her appetite returned. I was overjoyed. But then, joy turned to panic when her temperature soared to 105.1. A temp of 106 can have fatal effects for dogs. Dogs release body heat in two ways: panting, and through their paw pads. I put her in a tub of cool water just over her ankles to attempt to quell the scorching fever; she lapped up water heartily from the tap. I rubbed alcohol on her paw pads. I called the vet. They recommended 1/2 of a baby aspirin, which I gave to Feist. Her appetite left as surely as it had returned.<br />
<br />
Then slowly it seemed we rounded another corner. Her temperature gradually lowered to 103, then 102. Her appetite returned. She ate; she drank. She even wagged her tail at me. Again, I was elated. Only I noticed her laboring to breathe. I thought she possibly had developed aspirate pneumonia from the times I had forced her to drink with a syringe. I called my vet again.<br />
<br />
On Monday afternoon, Feist and I again drove to the vet, but she was really laboring to breathe. She groaned when I touched her, and even whined when I picked her up. I grew very concerned. It didn't occur to me that our ride to the vet might not end well.<br />
<br />
Feist was down two pounds. My vet listened carefully to her breathing through a stethoscope. She recommended a chest x-ray and a blood draw to check her white count levels. I opted to start with the blood draw.<br />
<br />
I waited just a few minutes in the room with Feist, watching her breathe, her eyes sunk in, and a slow realization began to take over me. Feist may not leave.<br />
<br />
The doctor returned to tell me shocking news. Feist's white blood count was 0.01. I shook my head in disbelief. She was doing better! She ate and drank well just the day before. How could this be?<br />
<br />
Mojo's white count was 2 when he died; Feist's was below that, and she was still fighting. But her little body could not fight anymore. It had used all of its limited resources and there was nothing left. My vet said even if they kept her and gave her IV antibiotics, her expectancy of recovering was 1% and she may need a blood transfusion. Faced with this prognosis, I made the extremely difficult decision to have my vet end her suffering.<br />
<br />
_________________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
How can such a small creature teach me so much? About fighting; about loving. What are the lessons here? I think there are many.<br />
<br />
In the time since Mojo was first diagnosed with parvo, I have read a lot about this insidious virus. I wanted to be one of those "My dog beat parvo" stories. But not all stories have a happy ending.<br />
<br />
I have learned a lot from talking with others who have experienced this devastating virus too. And what I know is this:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>It is hearty. It can live in soil for months or even years, and despite vaccinations, some dogs can contract the virus. My puppies had two vaccinations when they contracted it.</li>
<li>It is sneaky. Feist made a bold move into what looked like recovery, only to slump deeper into the illness in a way that left me feeling raw, helpless and debilitatingly sad. According to my vet, this is common with parvo. Riding the emotional highs and lows with Feist was exhausting. </li>
<li>I can't stress this enough: it is <i>hearty</i>. And it is <i>crafty</i>. When Feist showed signs of the virus, I received a very long email from mushing friend Roy Smith and detailed instructions from my vet about decontamination. </li>
<ul>
<li>The only thing that can kill parvo that is reasonably priced is bleach: 1 cup per 1 gallon of hot water. In the week that Feist fought this virus, I decontaminated every solid surface in my kennel with this solution: bowls, buckets, poop scoop; I scrubbed the puppy pen, which is lined with landscape bricks, four times with hot bleach water. </li>
<li>Pay attention to your clothes! We bleached the bottoms of all of our shoes. And I wore "parvo" clothes with Feist and "non-parvo clothes" out into the kennels. I scrubbed my hands AND face when moving from contact with Feist to contact with the rest of the kennel. These are precautions I DIDN'T take when Mojo was first in the house because I didn't know what we were dealing with. </li>
</ul>
</ol>
<br />
Parvo is something I wouldn't wish on anyone. The "Ebola" of the dog world, it virtually eats away at the gastrointestinal tract until it becomes liquefied. Its victim, gripped with nausea, cannot keep anything down; vomiting and extreme, often bloody diarrhea cause rapid dehydration and anemia. And despite subq fluids, rapid dehydration is almost inevitable. As my vet explained, the parvo strips the GI track to such a degree that liquid can leak into the body, filling the lungs, surrounding the heart, and rendering the victim potentially septic. This is what she suspected happened to Feist, and why she was laboring to breathe.<br />
<br />
I thought Feist was healthier than Mojo. I thought I had all of the medications and IV fluids, we had a jump on fighting the virus, and I was armed with more knowledge. I thought we could beat it. I thought "This is Feisty girl! The girl who growled at the adult dogs in the dog lot when she was 10 days old! If anyone can beat this, Feist can!"<br />
<br />
The kennel lost a 12 week old champion yesterday. I miss her so, so much, and I have cried from grief about not only the loss of Feist, but the loss, now, of two of my pups, and just how very scary this virus is.<br />
<br />
I am devastated. Perhaps it is because she slept with me every night, in the nook of my shoulder and neck, for two weeks, but I am taking her death very hard. She seemed to constantly want to be near me in those final days. Some might say "Jeez, it's only a pup," or "it's only a dog" or "it's only..." But, this has completely blindsided me.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YL3d_0xg5To/VEcW1wM9HGI/AAAAAAAAGHk/awg7og2GkCc/s1600/IMG_5243.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YL3d_0xg5To/VEcW1wM9HGI/AAAAAAAAGHk/awg7og2GkCc/s1600/IMG_5243.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Feist, snuggled in my shoulder. This is where she liked to sleep. </i></span></td></tr>
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Every day when I go out to the puppy pen to the seven other crazy, healthy monsters, I thank God for them and all of their craziness, for that's how puppies are supposed to be.<br />
<br />
I will never, ever forget my Feisty girl. I love you Feist.<br />
<br />
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<br />
For Feist: July 28, 2014 - October 20, 2014<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-86540129487345895122014-10-11T20:22:00.000-07:002014-10-15T11:31:53.999-07:00“This is a good sign, having a broken heart. It means we have tried
forsomething.” Elizabeth Gilbert<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">This is a sad story. It is one I debated on even writing, but there are lessons to be learned here, so I decided to share. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">This is Mojo's story. </span><br>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Mojo is a very special puppy born on July 28, 2014 from Cinder. Even though he is gone, I cannot bring myself to write about him in past tense. </span><br>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">His father, Elrond, is a champion lead dog from the home of one of my best friends, Sharon Curtice, up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Mojo is a runt, like his father. </span><br>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">I hate that word - "runt." Runt, small thing, weakling, underling. Such a negative connotation. There was nothing small about Mojo. There is nothing small about his father either. </span><br>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">From the very beginning, Mojo was special. I called him my little freckled boy. </span><br>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br></span>
<br>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t8VPwj4-Zus/VDnkNjbScEI/AAAAAAAAGDU/0k5wSy-m-C0/s1600/Mojo%2Bone%2Bweek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t8VPwj4-Zus/VDnkNjbScEI/AAAAAAAAGDU/0k5wSy-m-C0/s1600/Mojo%2Bone%2Bweek.jpg" height="400" width="265"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Mojo at one week</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">He had the most adorable speckled nose, and seemed to be split with a little stitch from God right down the center, from the middle of his forehead, right down his belly. And he was super relaxed and flexible. </span><br>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br></span></span></span>
<br>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zdk0HHNdk7I/VDnmdqkb1XI/AAAAAAAAGDg/g6SSx9rCCZk/s1600/10616098_10204421812845635_3645423267843307849_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zdk0HHNdk7I/VDnmdqkb1XI/AAAAAAAAGDg/g6SSx9rCCZk/s1600/10616098_10204421812845635_3645423267843307849_n.jpg" height="400" width="300"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Puppy Yoga, Mojo style</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">From the very moment Mojo was born, he was different. When I first wormed the puppies at 10 days of age with Pyrantel, a relatively well-tolerated, gentle wormer, he reacted strangely. His belly became distended and he cried and cried for hours. I felt helpless. Finally, he settled down.</span><br>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">When his eyes opened a few days later, I noticed something else that was different about Mojo. </span></span></span><br>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br></span></span></span>
<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="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5eVyI39BdFQ/VDnmqLI8dNI/AAAAAAAAGDo/d_WSMVkllK0/s1600/10610573_10204428438531273_507099296982269978_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5eVyI39BdFQ/VDnmqLI8dNI/AAAAAAAAGDo/d_WSMVkllK0/s1600/10610573_10204428438531273_507099296982269978_n.jpg" height="300" width="400"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Mirage (left) and Mojo (right). His right eye was "off" - puppy "lazy eye"</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> And yet, he grew and thrived at the farm. </span></span></span><br>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br></span></span></span>
<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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bUZ-vToN5AE/VDnnil42qiI/AAAAAAAAGDw/A8hxvtU_Fds/s1600/runt%2Blow%2Bres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bUZ-vToN5AE/VDnnil42qiI/AAAAAAAAGDw/A8hxvtU_Fds/s1600/runt%2Blow%2Bres.jpg" height="213" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mojo at two weeks<br>
<br></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gIs-WDapxSw/VDnn0XNIIGI/AAAAAAAAGD4/tUm1N40ydFI/s1600/Mojo%2Bday%2B33%2Blow%2Bres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gIs-WDapxSw/VDnn0XNIIGI/AAAAAAAAGD4/tUm1N40ydFI/s1600/Mojo%2Bday%2B33%2Blow%2Bres.jpg" height="213" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mojo at four weeks</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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jEtwAtPr2S8/VDnoLnhNrkI/AAAAAAAAGEA/3A_-e2hGWog/s1600/Mojo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jEtwAtPr2S8/VDnoLnhNrkI/AAAAAAAAGEA/3A_-e2hGWog/s1600/Mojo.jpg" height="213" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mojo at seven weeks</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">He still had that "lazy eye" but he was thriving and blossomed into a gorgeous boy who wasn't that much smaller than the others. Suddenly, he was my favorite pup. He had a fantastic attitude, and though he was small, he was always at the front of the puppy pack on our jaunts around the puppy paths. Before long, Mojo quickly stole my heart. </span></span></span><br>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br></span></span></span>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RF_b4jhZ2_0/VDno6ntPOhI/AAAAAAAAGEM/QJnHYCFu0bE/s1600/10659176_10204637619560668_5096109647089065577_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RF_b4jhZ2_0/VDno6ntPOhI/AAAAAAAAGEM/QJnHYCFu0bE/s1600/10659176_10204637619560668_5096109647089065577_n.jpg" height="400" width="300"></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br></span></span></span>
He quickly became Elise's favorite too, and we doted over him, bickering over who would get to hold him. She usually won :)<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="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TzJTFn-7xkY/VDn2wXxt38I/AAAAAAAAGEk/o7z_64dEoFk/s1600/Mojo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TzJTFn-7xkY/VDn2wXxt38I/AAAAAAAAGEk/o7z_64dEoFk/s1600/Mojo.jpg" height="266" width="400"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Handsome Mojo at 8 weeks</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I gave the puppies their first vaccinations on September 22. By September 30, I noticed Mojo was off. He had loose stools, and seemed listless, stopping to nap soon after I let the puppies out of their pen. While the other puppies were busy racing around, Mojo found quiet places to rest, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of puppy playtime. I brought him inside, kept him warm, fed him bland foods like rice and chicken. He was still eating well, He would perk up, only to fall into a slump again.<br>
<br>
Finally, last Sunday, I contacted friends and race veterinarian husband-wife team, Kathy and Phil Topham. Phil was kind enough to see us on a Sunday morning. I suspected something called <a href="http://www.beaglesunlimited.com/health/coccidiosis-diagnosis-treatment-and-prevention" target="_blank">coccidia</a>, which usually presents with foul-smelling, sometimes bloody diarrhea and lethargy - Mojo's symptoms. Dr. Topham ran a test for coccidia and it was positive. He opened a can of Prescription Diet A/D and Mojo lapped it up heartily. We left with <a href="http://www.drsfostersmith.com/product/prod_display.cfm?pcatid=1449" target="_blank">Albon</a>, several cans of A/D and were relieved, ready for Mojo to be on the mend. Mojo weighed 8.5 pounds.<br>
<br>
Only things got worse. He stopped eating almost completely. We began force feeding/hydrating him. After several days on Albon, his condition deteriorated. We switched to <a href="http://www.medicinenet.com/metronidazole/article.htm" target="_blank">Metronidazole</a>.<br>
<br>
I made an appointment with my regular vet for some tests and subcutaneous fluids for Mojo. A test for giardia came back negative, but what I feared the most - the test for <a href="http://workingdogs.com/parvofaq.htm" target="_blank">Parvo</a> - came back positive. And not just a little positive. The test operates like a pregnancy test, with a bubble turning blue if positive. It was bright blue. In the words of our vet, it glowed.<br>
<br>
A blood panel also showed his white count was two, and the vet was concerned he was already septic. He had a heart murmur - something that had developed since Sunday.<br>
<br>
Still he fought. We gave him 50 ml of saline fluids at the vet's office, and he sat up and tried to scratch the needle away. We flushed Amoxicillin and B-12 vitamins into the IV to try to jump start therapy. Mojo was down to 7.4 pounds.<br>
<br>
We went home with a bag of fluids, lots of needles, and Amoxicillin prepared for a long night.<br>
<br>
Only Mojo had other plans.<br>
<br>
When we woke at 7:15 this morning, Mojo was gone. His little body could take no more.<br>
<br>
Burying a puppy is just ... wrong. And yet, the deeper I get into dogs, the more of a reality it seems. Stuff happens. Life is fragile. Tenuous. <br>
<br>
What I know is this: when Googling "Parvo Symptoms," vomiting invariably comes up. This symptom doesn't necessarily have to be present. Mojo's symptoms did not include vomiting at all - only very foul-smelling watery diarrhea, anorexia (lack of appetite), and lethargy.<br>
<br>
What I also know is Mojo became sick despite being vaccinated.<br>
<br>
What I also know as of the time of this writing is: all nine of Mojo's litter mates are thriving, with voracious appetites and minds full of mischief.<br>
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What I also know is, I keep replaying the last two weeks of Mojo's life in my mind, wondering if there was something I didn't do, should have done differently, could have done better.<br>
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But what I am left with are sad thoughts of a future lost. Mojo will never get to know what it's like to run with a team of sled dogs on the beautiful snow under the night stars. I'll never get to see him blossom into the leader I had a hunch he would have become. I'll never get to see him grow into his big feet.<br>
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I am so sorry, Mojo. You fought valiantly, and I did all I could. I love you.<br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Elise holding Mojo</i></span></td></tr>
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For Mojo. July 28, 2014 - October 11, 2014<br>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><i>“When you leave,</i></span><br>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><i>weary of me,</i></span><br>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><i>without a word I shall gently let you go.” </i></span><br>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> -- Kim Sowol</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-38678052865193494552014-09-16T21:15:00.004-07:002014-09-16T21:15:52.877-07:00Puppy UpdateI'm beginning to think the Ohio tourism slogan "so much to discover!" was written with puppies and not Ohio in mind. The puppies - a.k.a. the "little monsters" - were seven weeks old this week and have settled into their home outside in their own private kennel run with mama, Cinder. Every day they spend hours outside of the dog kennel ...discovering. And it seems, like some fish and reptiles do, the puppies have also grown tremendously to adapt to their bigger space.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OnDTw2_LOF0/VA_Q86zpU6I/AAAAAAAAF_Q/ePuNe4DPKiQ/s1600/Halo%2B5%2Bweeks%2B2%2Blow%2Bres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OnDTw2_LOF0/VA_Q86zpU6I/AAAAAAAAF_Q/ePuNe4DPKiQ/s1600/Halo%2B5%2Bweeks%2B2%2Blow%2Bres.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halo, also sleeping in the dirt under the propane tank...</td></tr>
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And they are increasingly adventurous. On our daily puppy outings at the ranch, they venture around the property, wagging at the other dogs...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-pAxHXnOpp_g/VBh_lkyL2bI/AAAAAAAAGBo/fEsj9gPirQU/s640/blogger-image-561340821.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-pAxHXnOpp_g/VBh_lkyL2bI/AAAAAAAAGBo/fEsj9gPirQU/s640/blogger-image-561340821.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Buddha brazenly barks at kennel patriarch, Yeti</i></span></td></tr>
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...running along the puppy paths ... </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Elise: official puppy trainer/herder</i></span></td></tr>
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and making other discoveries like garden hoses...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Halo and the garden hose</i></span></td></tr>
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...giant holes dug by the other dogs out of summer boredom ...</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Buddha and Halo rest inside one of Tosh's giant excavation projects</i></span></td></tr>
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...chickens...<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ce8LpwKC-Lg/VBkIgLEKOqI/AAAAAAAAGCk/QHPDnAThg6w/s1600/Come%2Bhere%2Bchicken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ce8LpwKC-Lg/VBkIgLEKOqI/AAAAAAAAGCk/QHPDnAThg6w/s1600/Come%2Bhere%2Bchicken.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>"Come here, chicken!"</i></span></td></tr>
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...and even coffee! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-fhGZMLxKcxk/VBh_sxj0sII/AAAAAAAAGCA/rwRYiBIpxS8/s640/blogger-image-721987448.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-fhGZMLxKcxk/VBh_sxj0sII/AAAAAAAAGCA/rwRYiBIpxS8/s640/blogger-image-721987448.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Blaze slurping from my coffee mug</i></span></td></tr>
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They have discovered that pulling on your sister's tail is great fun....<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vgbuGkfJi4M/VBkI3GcZ_5I/AAAAAAAAGCs/5uWC6XRIG9I/s1600/big%2Bbrothers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vgbuGkfJi4M/VBkI3GcZ_5I/AAAAAAAAGCs/5uWC6XRIG9I/s1600/big%2Bbrothers.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>BIG BROTHERS! UGH!</i></span></td></tr>
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...and how to annoy your very big brothers...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-25UE_3-yex0/VBkJienD8BI/AAAAAAAAGC8/Pq5L6sEHlq8/s1600/Tosh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-25UE_3-yex0/VBkJienD8BI/AAAAAAAAGC8/Pq5L6sEHlq8/s1600/Tosh.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Three-year-old, Tosh, rolls his eyes at me as if to say, "mom, can you make the toddlers go away?"</i></span></td></tr>
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...and the joys of running...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lhnHgufbrjs/VBkJFqz5fVI/AAAAAAAAGC0/WKMdZSaysaU/s1600/sled%2Bdog%2Bor%2Bbird%2Bdog%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lhnHgufbrjs/VBkJFqz5fVI/AAAAAAAAGC0/WKMdZSaysaU/s1600/sled%2Bdog%2Bor%2Bbird%2Bdog%2B2.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Cisco</i></span> </td></tr>
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There are more puppy portraits on the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/DiamondDogsRacingKennel" target="_blank">Diamond Dogs Facebook Page</a><br />
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Sweet dreams ....<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-weDjHBmemcQ/VBkK0S2KvBI/AAAAAAAAGDE/XmOFZ8zZCTc/s1600/puppy%2Bspoon%2Blow%2Bres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-weDjHBmemcQ/VBkK0S2KvBI/AAAAAAAAGDE/XmOFZ8zZCTc/s1600/puppy%2Bspoon%2Blow%2Bres.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
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and, as always...<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kd_geiwiO8E/TPMyxLvptiI/AAAAAAAADhA/yRoGgkNNRos/s1600/Mush%2Blove%2Bblack%2Bbackground.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kd_geiwiO8E/TPMyxLvptiI/AAAAAAAADhA/yRoGgkNNRos/s1600/Mush%2Blove%2Bblack%2Bbackground.jpg" height="87" width="320" /></a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8342364203597376162.post-90250679923339494942014-09-16T09:14:00.001-07:002014-09-16T09:20:17.947-07:00"I am so over this damsel in distress nonsense." Daphne, TheScooby-DooMovie, 2002<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A few months ago, some friends were teasing me about a reputation I have developed. My friends, Sandy and Karyn, "rescued" me, my two kids and my dog crew last fall when I had not one, but two flat tires on the dog trailer on separate occasions during a trip to Michigan. After that, we had a good laugh. I said, "I'm going to develop a reputation for these kinds of things!" Sandy replied without missing a beat, "I think you already have!"<br />
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I have a vehicle that is four years old for a reason. I wanted something reliable for the amount of driving I do, but also fuel efficient. I abandoned my V8 truck last summer for a fuel-efficient SUV, but hauling a 13 foot dog trailer through blizzards proved too difficult for it last season. I drove 10 hours in a snow storm to Newberry, Michigan for the Tahquamenon Country Sled Dog Race in January, only to have 18 inches of snow fall over night. I woke up stranded the morning of the race. Were it not for a friend and fellow musher, Ron and his big diesel Dodge, I wouldn't have made it to our first race of the season.<br />
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This pattern continued throughout last season. It seemed every time I went to a race, some small disaster was sure to follow. Freezing rain and snowfall trapped my little SUV at the hotel in Marquette, MI before the <a href="http://up200.org/race-info/midnight-run/" target="_blank">Midnight Run</a> last year. And once again, I got by with a little help from very good friends who, by now <i>had</i> to be growing weary of my damsel in distress nonsense. This time it was Sharon Curtice, and her brother Paul.<br />
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Amazingly, I went to my final race of the season last year, T<a href="http://www.copperdog150.com/" target="_blank">he Copper Dog</a>, without mishap.<br />
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This weekend, I had planned a trip to the <a href="http://www.800poconos.com/" target="_blank">Pocono Mountains</a> to meet friends Susi and Eric, who were adopting two of my dogs. The girls and I had really been looking forward to the five-hour drive through the mountains and forests of Pennsylvania and a mini-vacation with like-minded folks.<br />
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But Friday night, my car had different plans.<br />
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I work nights, and as I fired her up to head to work at 5:15 p.m., I heard a noise. It's never good to hear strange noises coming from under the hood. I stopped at the end of my driveway, and popped the hood. There, I found a half way shredded serpentine belt flipping wildly. I quickly shut the engine off.<br />
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After some fretting, I decided to tackle this project myself. After all, I was raised knowing how to do routine car work - oil changes, tune ups, etc - how hard could it be, right? A quick trip via a friend up to Autozone for a new belt, I dove headlong into the project, determined <i>not</i> to be a damsel in distress. Armed with Google, YouTube and diagrams, what could go wrong?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">a handy diagram of the serpentine belt of my car ... sort of</span></i></td></tr>
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Only, when I started removing the remaining pieces of the old belt, I found copious amounts of oil all over the engine.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-O3zmlq5xeiY/VBhTW4WlS7I/AAAAAAAAGAE/u8kH_4Sdd78/s640/blogger-image--901184838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-O3zmlq5xeiY/VBhTW4WlS7I/AAAAAAAAGAE/u8kH_4Sdd78/s400/blogger-image--901184838.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Yessir, that is oil...</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #373a3e; line-height: 22px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Oil that is, black gold, Texas tea. </i></span></span></span></td></tr>
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Putting the belt on proved far more difficult than I could have imagined. I texted my friend Julie to see if her husband could come help. Within minutes, Denis and Nick, their daughter, Hannah's boyfriend, were in my driveway; within an hour, they had the belt on. I was so relieved.<br />
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But this still didn't explain the oil, which was also concerning to Denis.<br />
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I took it out for a test drive, and it seemed fine. No noises. I thought that possibly the oil happened when the belt broke, but it seemed to run fine. So, the next morning, we loaded up the car bright and early and headed to the Poconos.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The girls and Sirius the puppy pose with a Totem just over the Pennsylvania border</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Elise and Sophie</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-J8jzD1sPHxg/VBhephcir_I/AAAAAAAAGBM/uZZzjvl-Gcc/s640/blogger-image--1813284975.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-J8jzD1sPHxg/VBhephcir_I/AAAAAAAAGBM/uZZzjvl-Gcc/s400/blogger-image--1813284975.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>It rained the entire drive into the mountains</i></span></td></tr>
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It rained the entire drive. We were relieved to finally make it to Saylorsburg and the beautiful home and kennel of friends Eric Walker and Susi Marsh of <a href="http://www.arcticpawsdogsledtours.com/" target="_blank">Arctic Paws Dog Sled Tours</a>. The trip was bittersweet because Susi and Eric had purchased Sirius, one of Cinder's beautiful puppies and my long-time fearless leader, Yeti, who had been the backbone of my kennel for the last six years. At nearly seven years old, Yeti was dropped from training last season because he just couldn't keep up with the speed the rest of my dogs run. It just about killed him to watch me hooking up teams and leaving him behind. So I made the very tough decision to rehome him. And I cried a lot this past weekend.<br />
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Eric and Susi took us to a great little winery for some brick oven pizza and Sangria, and we laughed and laughed over dinner telling stories. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The wait staff was overwhelmed with a wedding party at the winery, so Susi jumped in as a server! </i></span></td></tr>
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During dinner, I mentioned to Eric, who is an automotive engineer with 30 years' experience in the trade, that my oil light came on during the short drive to the winery. Given the issues I'd had the previous night, he became alarmed. We checked my oil before heading back to their house, and Eric went to get more oil, strongly warning me against driving my car one more inch.</div>
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Back at their house, we degreased the engine and everything under the hood to try to pinpoint a leak, if any. After degreasing and hosing off the engine, we started my car and there appeared to be no leaks. I breathed a sigh of relief, and we had wine. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-WSOFXl0s2vI/VBhek6Vct6I/AAAAAAAAGA8/YWiBA75IV3w/s640/blogger-image--1057516314.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-WSOFXl0s2vI/VBhek6Vct6I/AAAAAAAAGA8/YWiBA75IV3w/s400/blogger-image--1057516314.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Elise and Susi cuddling puppy, Sirius</i></span></td></tr>
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The next morning, I promised the girls a small hike behind Susi's house. There was an awesome Easter Island-type statue in the woods that the kids thought was pretty cool. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-i4j8OfjQqmE/VBhesEzECpI/AAAAAAAAGBU/64LJPkLCHVI/s640/blogger-image--962723452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-i4j8OfjQqmE/VBhesEzECpI/AAAAAAAAGBU/64LJPkLCHVI/s400/blogger-image--962723452.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Easter Island in the Poconos</i></span></td></tr>
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The girls found a salamander and skipped rocks at the pond. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vEUNGbkzERc/VBhedX-xI4I/AAAAAAAAGAk/eGNHRMNXaG0/s640/blogger-image-983524528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vEUNGbkzERc/VBhedX-xI4I/AAAAAAAAGAk/eGNHRMNXaG0/s640/blogger-image-983524528.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Little salamander </i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-PFBNEISM0kE/VBhefwWse4I/AAAAAAAAGAs/6eUY0kqGGXI/s640/blogger-image-980627445.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-PFBNEISM0kE/VBhefwWse4I/AAAAAAAAGAs/6eUY0kqGGXI/s640/blogger-image-980627445.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Skipping rocks</i></span></td></tr>
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We packed up to head for home. But 20 minutes into the drive, I heard a loud squealing when I changed gears. We were only about 20 minutes from Eric and Susi's home when I stopped at an Exxon station. There, under the hood, was my engine caked in oil again. I feared the worst.</div>
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We limped back to Susi and Eric's home, and Eric took a look again. Then he said, "well, you're going to have to take my truck home." Surprised, I said, "what? I can't take your truck." His truck is my dream truck! It's a 2013 Chevy Silverado 4x4. It's a beautiful vehicle. I was humbled and awe-struck by his generosity.<br />
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So, in the end, we drove home happily and I woke up to find a beautiful truck in my driveway! I am awaiting the final diagnosis of what is wrong with my SUV from Eric. But the moral of the story is this:<br />
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<b>If you MUST break down, do it at the home of a 30 year mechanic who is mind-bogglingly generous! </b><br />
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It's true that I have had my share of issues with vehicles on my adventures traveling to places mushing has taken me. But I am continually amazed and grateful for the generosity of mushers! Several years ago, I started writing a book about the culture of mushing - the people, the dogs - the places. Mushers are such an awesome group, and this experience has rekindled my desire to finish that book!<br />
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Thanks so much to Susi and Eric! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-sau84V3fxdQ/VBheali7blI/AAAAAAAAGAc/TruoxnnHCtg/s640/blogger-image-348761444.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-sau84V3fxdQ/VBheali7blI/AAAAAAAAGAc/TruoxnnHCtg/s400/blogger-image-348761444.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Eric's truck</i></span></td></tr>
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<i>To add to my list of vehicle troubles, my four wheeler is still in need of repair and we haven't even begin fall training yet! Prayers that my luck will change soon!! </i><br />
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As always, thanks for reading and ...<br />
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