And Death Shall Have No Dominion

“Though lovers be lost, love shall not;

And death shall have no dominion.”

Dylan Thomas, 1933

The Pasatiempo magazine comes every Friday with the local newspaper’s end of the week edition—the New Mexican’s “Weekly Magazine of Arts, Entertainment and Culture.”  Needless to say, with two yearling giant sized puppies hell bent on destroying my house, I don’t get out much.  But I do like to browse the magazine.  What caught my attention today was not the local events profiled inside, but rather the advertisement on the back cover:  “An Open Letter to the Citizens of New Mexico.”  The full page ad detailed a place called Orion’s Peace Camp and Learning Center.  As it turns out, Orion Strong was a boy who attended the Peace Camp in 2005 as a seven year old.  In 2013, at his eighth grade graduation, Orion received an award presented to the student who best exemplified the concept of selfless service and for his commitment to being drug and alcohol free.  On November 10th, 2014, the ad stated that “Orion earned his angel wings after a 17 month battle with leukemia. Before he transitioned, Orion asked those who want to honor and remember him to do something to uplift the community.”  Earned his angel wings?  Transitioned?  Why can’t we just say “He died.”?   Because, as the poet Rilke said, “Der Tod ist gross.”   Death is huge.  And when it happens to a child, it is unthinkable and unmentionable.

Tuesday, October 25th would have been my nephew’s 21st birthday.  He died on August 30th while away at college, about to begin his junior year.   He was articulate, intelligent, handsome and beloved by his classmates.  To celebrate his birthday, his friends and peers gathered at a harvested wheat field near the college in eastern Washington state.  In the photographs, the wheat chaff is yellowed and lifeless against the ground and there is a roiling gray sky.  There is a storm coming—one can feel it.  His friends hold balloons, each emblazoned with a message for their lost friend. The barometric pressure rises, creating an intense feeling of suffocation. And then the balloons are gone, risen to the ether while his friends remain behind to grieve.  There is a strange light in the horizon.  It is dusk, but it seems like dawn.  And death shall have no dominion.

I am sure that two years later, Orion Strong’s family is still grieving.  And I am certain that we will be grieving the death of my nephew in every year to come as summer gives way to fall, as the leaves turn blazing colors and the nights grow cold.  There is no making lemonade out of lemons when it comes to the death of a child, a brother, a grandchild, a nephew.  We each have to do what we can—my sister will establish a scholarship in her son’s name at his college; I will go back to work to fight cancer and I will make a donation to Orion’s Peace Camp.  And I hope that my nephew’s friends and classmates will remember him and seek help if they are struggling, and lend a hand to their peers that need guidance, and that each and every one of us will resolve to be a little kinder and a little more understanding.  Death is real; death is huge, death is not a euphemism.  But let us all strive so that in the end, no matter how or when it comes: “Death shall have no dominion.”

Reason to Believe

“Still I look to find a reason to believe.”  Tim Hardin

The events of the last few days—no, the last few months—have been horrendous.  From the attacks in Paris and Brussels to the slaughter in Orlando and the bombing of Baghdad, it seems that every time we turn on the TV, or open up a newspaper, we are assaulted with more violence, more bloodshed, more hatred and more death.  At a time when we as scientists are on the brink of a new era in technology—a visit to Mars, cars without drivers, a “moonshot” to cure cancer—we as the human race seem to be backsliding into a new and darker Dark Age.  For me, the dregs of misery came when I read the transcript of Diamond Reynold’s video of the shooting death of her fiancé Philando Castile in front of her four year old daughter, on the front page of the New York Times right alongside of the story of five Dallas policeman being shot and killed in cold blood.   I could not watch the videos of either event.

Today at work one of my physicists gave me a gift.  He is Romanian and recently returned to the land of his birth.  He brought me back a photograph of the monastery at Voronet, in the form of a refrigerator magnet.  He said that in Romania, there has been a rebirth of spiritualism and faith.  The photograph is beautiful, and I later learned that this monastery is also called the Sistine Chapel of the East.  From Wikipedia, legend tells us that the monastery was built by Stephen the Great, who in a moment of crisis in his battle against the Ottoman Turks, came to Daniel the Hermit in his skete and asked for advice.  Daniel told him not to surrender the battle, but that if he won, he must build a monastery dedicated to St. George.  Stephen the Great won the battle and in 1488, dedicated the monastery with these words:

I, Voivode Stephen, by the Grace of God Ruler of Moldavia, son of Bogdan, have started to have the monastery of Voroneț built to the glory of the holy and well-known St George, the great and victorious martyr, in 6996 in May on 26, on one day of Monday, after the Pentecost and I had it finished the same year, in September, 1488.

In these best of times, these worst of times, we all need to find a reason to believe.  I believe that ALL lives matter—black lives, white lives, police lives, Syrian lives, children’s lives—all of us need to relinquish the fear and hatred that has taken over our lives and our human decency.  Like St. George, we need to reaffirm our faith, whether it be in God, or in love, or in kindness, or in our fellow human beings.   We need to do it now.   We have met our nemesis and he is us. Time is short and we have a dragon to slay.

The Disconnect

On Tuesday I did what I said I would never do.  Three years ago, as I was buying an iPhone 5, the Verizon guy was intent on selling me a $70 case called “Lifeproof,” which was guaranteed to be exactly what it sounds like—you can drop it on concrete from five feet up, a horse can step on it, no harm done, and most importantly it is waterproof.  I looked at the salesman and said, “I’m not an idiot, I wouldn’t put the phone in water!”  He smiled knowingly and said, “Women drop their phones into the toilet ALL the time.  They wear tight jeans and put the phone in their back pocket and forget about it and when they stand up, it pops right into the toilet.”  I said, “I don’t wear tight jeans and I don’t take my phone to the bathroom, so THAT will never happen–but a horse stepping on the phone is a distinct possibility!”   Thirty minutes later I walked out with my new iPhone and a $70 case.

I was so very pleased with my Lifeproof case that last summer, when Verizon informed me that I was “due for an upgrade,” I hurried into the nearest Verizon store and got my new iPhone 6, a trimmer sexier model which required—you guessed it—a new $70 Lifeproof case.  As someone who now drives her fourth Chevy Suburban, product loyalty is a big thing with me.  If I like something, the only way to pry me away from it is to give me a new one, same model, perhaps with an upgrade or two.  The last Suburban is fifteen years old and going strong at 250,000 miles.  The upgraded new one cannot hold two 700 size dog crates the way the old one can, which in my opinion is a major design flaw.  This prompted a two hour phone call to a Chevy customer service rep in India, to no avail.  No such problems with the iPhone 6 or my new Lifeproof case.  They function perfectly—no glitches.

So on Tuesday I loaded up the Suburban and headed north to Pagosa Springs, CO, a beautiful town in the Rockies which boasts some of the best trail riding around.  I was going to meet some girlfriends for a 4 day ride.  When I got to my cabin, I put my cell phone in the back pocket of my jeans while I unloaded the car.  And promptly forgot about it.  So imagine my surprise, sometime later, when I noticed a strange blue light emanating from the—well, you guessed it—the toilet.  As I fished it out, the screen gave a last little flutter of activity and then, suddenly and irredeemably, went black.  Lifeproof, as it turns out, is only waterproof if one closes the charging port, which one did not.  Twenty four hours and one bag of white rice later, I ordered my new phone.

If I was going to be disconnected, I only wish there had been a little more excitement—my horse sailed over a rocky cliff, the phone went flying into the air, and landed in the West Fork River but we survived the tumble a la “The Man From Snowy River.”  Next time, that’ll be my story and I’ll be sticking to it!

On The Road Again

On the road again
Goin’ places that I’ve never been
Seein’ things that I may never see again,
And I can’t wait to get on the road again.  Willie Nelson

 

If someone had told me even ten years ago that I would retire young and become an itinerant radiation oncologist I would have thought he had lost his mind.  As the career medical director of community based cancer centers, I was used to running the show.  And as the saying goes, I ran a “tight ship.”  Consultations were performed and documented in a timely fashion, day of the request if the situation was urgent, or within a few days if not.  The patients were given time to think about their treatment, but simulations could be done the same day as the consultation, or as soon as the patient agreed to treatment, and the new start times were never more than a week away. Patients were seen every week, or more frequently if needed.  I had the best team of radiation therapists, physicists, nurses and front office people that anyone could ever ask for.  But in early 2014, I like to say I retired.  But the truth is, I quit.

Articles about physician burnout are legion, and I have avoided adding to that literature in this blog. The truth of the matter is that we, as radiation oncologists, are a very privileged group.  We are privy to the most intimate details of our patients’ lives; we practice in a highly technical and ever changing environment which challenges us to be constant and consistent learners; our hours are regular and we are very well paid as a medical specialty.  And most importantly, we cure cancer.  What could be better?  But after thirty years in the field, I was tired.  2013 was a terrible year for me—in December of 2012 I lost a close friend, Catherine, and then my little dog Jack, and then in January my mother, and shortly after that my work partner Dr. William Spanos, the best colleague and friend a physician could ever hope for.  And in between, some very beloved patients who I had followed and treated for years.  I was done.

But a calling is a calling, and somehow, between the enchanted mountains of New Mexico and the healing hours spent on horseback and with my dogs, and the otherworldly sunsets and the pleasures of growing a vegetable garden, I needed to get back to doing what I do best—helping cancer patients.  So here I am, a “locum tenens” radiation oncologist, working for an agency, going where I am needed, for a few days, or a few weeks at a time.  On Sunday night I “saddled up” the old Suburban and headed to Las Cruces, NM to provide a little relief to the solo practitioner stationed there.

Today I saw an elderly woman who had just been diagnosed with locally advanced and metastatic lung cancer.  Despite the effects of her disease—weight loss, shortness of breath and pain—I could see that she had been and still is a beautiful woman.  I can’t cure her—no one can.  But I could promise her that I could make her breathing a little easier, and relieve the painful metastases in her lumbar spine. As I sat with the patient and her husband, I knew with certainty that I no longer had to be “in charge” or command my own practice.  I knew that I could help her.  And I knew, beyond question, that I had begun to love my profession again. For that I am very grateful.

The Vigil

People always say, “You’ll know when it is time.”  Sometimes that is true.  But sometimes it’s hard to tell.  This has been one of those times.  Having lived through the horrendous experience of our old deerhound Magic fracturing his leg due to a previously undiagnosed osteosarcoma, I want very badly to spare Queen that awful demise.  But when is it time, actually?

With a horse, I think it’s easier.  Those that are spared the usual disasters which befall horses—the broken leg due to a fall, the perforated intestine due to colic—they simply get old.  When their arthritis can no longer be managed, when the tendons finally give way and the hooves can no longer bear the weight of their bodies, they lie down and cannot rise.  Or they stop eating and stand quietly in a corner of a green pasture.  And then you know its time.

Dogs are different.  They want to be with you.  They are willing to put up with pain and suffering beyond what a human thinks is possible, as long as you will lie down with them, pat their heads, give them a special treat while looking into their eyes on a sunny day.   Leaving must seem to them, after a life of protecting you, a betrayal.  They want to stay for as long as they can.

The vigil started this morning.  The dogs are smarter than I am.  I let the puppies in the house while the lawn was being mowed—the mower frightens them.  When Pibb was ten weeks old, he made the mistake of stepping on Queen who was asleep at the time.  She made sure that never again will he forget the maxim to “let sleeping dogs lie”.  When the kerfuffle ended, I was shocked to see that not a hair on his head had been harmed.

When Pibb came in today, he immediately lay down with Queen, head to head.  An hour later, I noticed her position had shifted.  Her front leg was touching his, paw to paw.  I think she was reassuring him.  This afternoon, she felt well enough to go out and bask in the sunshine.  Yoda, my little mixed breed rescue, has always been an empathetic little dog.  He cries when the girls have their nails trimmed.  Today he plopped down right beside her face.  And there he stayed, his little body shielding her eyes from the sun.

Saying goodbye has never been easy for me.  But I know that it’s time.  And if there is a heaven for dogs, Magic and Izzy and little Jack will be waiting for her.  We will be okay down here, knowing she is no longer in pain.

Rest in peace, GCh. Jaraluv Queen.  Forever our Queen of Hearts.

I Want to Live With Chip and Joanna

I’ve always been a fan of home improvement television shows.  Back in Boston, watching Bob Vila’s This Old House was an obsession, considering that there were few homes in the Boston area that WEREN’T “this old house.”  In 1980, we bought our first home—an 1860’s post and beam Victorian, complete with porch and pillars.   It was a wreck.   Bob taught me to sand the old hardwood floors to a polished sheen, to install an insulated window to protect against the frigid winds of winter, to update a kitchen from the days when no one had cabinets, and to make the most of a stone and earth cellar.  He was my idol, a man who could actually fix things (quite unlike my new husband) and take the tired bones of a once handsome Victorian and make a warm inviting space for a young family.

These days, there is a whole cable television network dedicated to the proposition that behind every dilapidated homestead there is a diamond in the rough, only waiting to be polished to highly marketable perfection.  I happened upon the Property Brothers one day while I was having my teeth cleaned at the dentist.  Nearly horizontal in the chair with a headset kindly provided to distract me, and trying to ignore the scraping and picking, I fell madly in love with Jonathan and Drew Scott. These twin Canadian brothers first disavow prospective homeowners of any delusions they might have about affording the house of their dreams, and then proceed to transform a cheap wreck with the right square footage into that very house.  Nothing less than miraculous, in my humble opinion.

From the Property Brothers, I graduated to Flip or Flop.  Tarek and Christina El Moussa are real estate agents who fell upon hard times during the 2008 recession.  So they decided that instead of selling real estate, they would buy foreclosed and other distressed properties, fix them up and resell them.  I’m no television critic, but a few seasons of Christina shrieking when the bargain house turns out to have (gasp!) cockroaches, and the renovated house has (gasp!) a subway tile backsplash and dark wood cabinets—well, I guess I’m easily bored.  Although I have to admit, when a viewer who happened to be a nurse diagnosed Tarek’s thyroid cancer from her home screen—yes, I was impressed.  I watch reruns just to see if I could have picked it up myself.

But when I happened upon “Fixer Upper”, I knew I had hit pay dirt.  Chip and Joanna Gaines, a lovely couple from Waco, Texas are the real deal.  Together they find houses that are sorely in need of TLC. Their typical clients are young, on limited budgets and are full of dreams.  These two make dreams come true and they do it with compassion, empathy, minimal fanfare and great taste and impeccable style. And they do this, of all places, in Waco, Texas.

But all this is not why I want to live with Chip and Joanna.  The real reason is that these two are the parents I never had.  Their home, Magnolia Farm, is where I would have given my eye teeth to grow up.  They have lots of kids.  And horses and cows.  And goats and chickens and kittens too.  Joanna knows how to jump rope and she can do cartwheels.  Chip knows how to make every construction project a playground and he is the consummate clown, juggling eggs to the delight of their children, even when one smashes on the floor.  Their farmhouse has just the right amount of shabby chic appeal, light and bright and cluttered with the best things—crayons, coloring books, and a stray hair barrette.  They are indeed the real deal.  They are Chip and Joanna.

Since I am doing locum tenens work, and since I have always kept my Texas license, I am going to request an assignment in Waco.  And I am going to go see Chip and Joanna. I want to see firsthand the magic that puts the heart where the home is.  Isn’t that what we all want—a place where deep and true love becomes manifest in the visible tangible everyday life?  Come with me.   It’s never too late.

Another Dog, Same Breed, As Soon as Possible

“Hark to Beaumont. Softly, Beaumont, mon amy. Oyez à Beaumont the valiant. Swef, le douce Beaumont, swef, swef.” Beaumont licked his hand but could not wag his tail.”  T.H. White, “The Once and Future King”.
               For the past couple of years, my life has been pretty easy.  I spent last summer putting in a vegetable garden, and making improvements in the landscaping around my home.  In September I went back to work after a somewhat abbreviated bout of retirement, but just part time covering other radiation oncologists’ practices.  My two Scottish Deerhound sisters, Queen and Quicksilver were then approaching 7 years old, and were long past the destructive behavior so characteristic of the giant breeds in their youth. My little mixed breed rescue Yoda had never been a problem.
             On December 19, 2015 I upended my quiet comfortable life by getting a new puppy, a ten week old borzoi named Pibb.  Two weeks later, I compounded the chaos by acquiring a “brother” for him to play with, an eighteen week old Scottish deerhound puppy named Cole.  Despite a few misgivings and knowing full well what I was getting myself into, I went ahead with what I knew deep in my heart was a preemptive strike. Queen had been limping off and on, and despite my denial I knew that the proverbial “other shoe” had dropped.  Her chronic lameness worsened suddenly a few weeks ago and like her dam before her, she was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, a bone cancer common in her breed.
                  As a radiation oncologist for adults with cancer, my day to day ethical challenges are few. I do my very best to be sure that my patients understand their diseases, and the side effects, risks and benefits of treatment. As a devastated dog owner, the decision making process is not so simple. The tell tale X-rays resulted in a consultation with a board certified veterinary oncologist, where my husband and I sat and listened to our options. Amputation and chemotherapy, the standard of care, would give Queen a median survival of 9 months.  Untreated the disease progresses rapidly, often times resulting in a pathologic fracture. Pain control is also a problem, and pain can often be ameliorated by radiation therapy–my own specialty. Except in the rarest of cases, the disease is incurable because metastases are present, whether they can be detected or not.  All treatment is palliative.
               As we sat with the veterinary oncologist two weeks ago, contemplating our options, I remembered my friend and vet oncologist Dr. Greg Ogilvie saying, “The dog doesn’t look in the mirror and say, ‘Oh, I only have three legs.’ The dog only knows that the pain is gone.”  And we were told that dogs tolerate chemotherapy exceptionally well, much better than human beings.  So we sat and nodded and thought that perhaps our initial instinct, which was to provide comfort care only, might be wrong.  Who knows better than a cancer doctor how important it is to provide and maintain hope?  And so we wavered.
                 In her incomparable essay “Oyez a Beaumont”, Vicki Hearne describes what it was like to lose her Airedale Gunner when he fractured his pelvis from prostate cancer.  As a dog trainer, her advice to clients has never wavered:  ”Another dog, same breed, as soon as possible.”  And then she admits to us, that it was ten years between the death of Gunner and the purchase of a new Airedale pup.  She says, with feigned indifference as our hearts break, “That was as soon as I could get to it,what with one thing or another.”  I got to it a little sooner.
               Deerhounds are homebodies, and our Queen particularly so.  Carsick since puppyhood, trips are stressful for her, and the risk of fracture even getting such a large dog in and out of the car is significant. Outside the veterinary specialty hospital, in the cold light of day, we lifted her into the car and she fell immediately into a sound sleep because she knew she was going home-home to her sister, her humans, and even those pesky puppies. We knew then that home is where she will be for what remains of her life.  We love her and this, more than anything, is what we owe her.

How To Become A Cancer Doctor

Start with one excellent childhood experience—a loved one who is cured.

Add a generous helping of baseline optimism, a cup at least.  More is better.

Mix in well a half cup of ability to suspend disbelief.  And then, maybe a pinch more.

Add a teaspoon or two or even three of denial.  Pollyanna had it right.

 

Remember to include an ounce of prevention—

Worth a pound of cure, so they say.  Suspend a quart of judgement, or two.

Make sure the oven is preheated with family.  Children help sweeten the mix.

Add three pets, or more.  A dog to welcome you home.  Two cats to curl up with.

 

Believe, truly believe in the best of all outcomes.

“Everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds.”  Voltaire knew.

A gallon of forgetfulness goes a long way to wash the silt of failure away.

When there is nothing else, pray. Or wish.  Or hope.  Or desire.

 

Ice the cake of sadness with a sweet coating of self-forgiveness.

And when that recipe fails, start again.  Be kind.  Your patients are waiting.

Gone With The Wind

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind,
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

Ernest Dowson

Having no artistic talent whatsoever myself, nonetheless I am fascinated by art, and especially by artists themselves.  My father has been both an artist and an avid collector since the ship he served on as a Navy dentist docked in Sicily, and the local artists were allowed to come aboard to sell their wares.  He still has paintings he bought in 1945 hanging on his walls.  As a teenager in Depression era Chicago, he took classes on Saturdays at the Chicago Art Institute and wanted to become a portrait artist when he grew up.   His father, my grandfather, told him to get real and learn a trade.  He chose dentistry, and only later, after going to medical school, discovered that as a plastic surgeon, he could both be a portrait artist and earn a living.

Many of my artist friends do not take commissions.  When asked why, they say that it is often very difficult, if not impossible, to reconcile their own interpretation of a subject with that of the person commissioning the work.  Fortunately for me however, some do, and I have been the appreciative beneficiary of portrait work by artists such as Stephanie Snell, Paul Doyle and Marilyn Terry.  What do these artists paint?  They paint my dogs of course.  My children and I would never be able to focus and sit still for our own portraits to be painted and besides, despite this age of “selfies”, we are far too self conscious.

A few years ago, a young man’s wife developed breast cancer at age 25.  He is a well-known video artist known as Daarken and he and his wife needed money to meet their medical expenses.  An on-line fund raising auction was conceived, with the theme stated as “Beautiful Grim.”  Beautiful, because despite his young wife’s diagnosis and treatment, she was and always will be beautiful– yet for some young women with breast cancer, the prognosis can be grim indeed.  His friends and fellow artists rallied to the cause, and many contributed original works to the auction.  I am a friend of Daarken’s sister, and I followed the auction with interest.  In particular there was one painting that I kept coming back to, that no one was bidding on.  It was a portrait of an African American woman, beautiful and naked, except for her long stockings which were peppermint striped, red and white. Her hair was a tangled wild mass of curls against her beautiful skin. When no one else bid, the portrait was mine.

Over the years I have become very friendly with the artist and his wife, who shall be unnamed because of the personal nature of this anecdote.   They visited our home this past summer, and we commissioned a work of art.  The assignment was intentionally vague—“just paint something you see in New Mexico that inspires you.”  A few weeks ago the painting arrived, a full 4’ X 4’ landscape entitled “Sombrillo Vista.”  It is as beautiful as I had hoped, and emblematic of the New Mexico I have come to love.

When I called to offer my sincere gratitude, the artist’s wife said, “You know, just after he finished your painting he received another commission—a most unusual one!  A man called and said he wanted a portrait painted of his ex-wife. He is still in love with her and wants an oil painting to remember her by.”  Apparently he had sent a few snapshots of his ex along with his request.  Always a romantic at heart, this struck me as both somewhat insane, but also a true romantic gesture.   I said, “Send me a phone pic of the work in progress.  I want to see the woman who inspired this act of unrequited love.”  She did.  The woman was indeed beautiful, and playful, and mysterious all at the same time.  I said, “Well if the ex-husband doesn’t like the portrait, let me know because I will buy it.”

Shortly after our conversation, a photo of the unfinished work was sent to the hopeful ex-husband.  He liked it a lot, but he felt that it was not quite there yet.  He had some advice for the artist– he said, “Just think—complex and Mona Lisa eyes with a dash of mischief and you’ll nail it!”  I laughed and said, “Now that should be simple.  You know, just be Leonardo da Vinci.” The finished portrait was unveiled to the good patron last week who promptly proclaimed, “It gave me goosebumps!”   The man likely needs a good therapist instead of a portrait of his ex.   But let us be clear:  he has been faithful to her, in his fashion.  And my artist friend, well—clearly, he NAILED it!

The View From Here

For Mrs. Shirley Wiley

 

Last Saturday I suddenly found myself flat on my back on our gravel driveway.   The events leading up to this are all too familiar to my fellow deerhound owners—sometimes even walking with bent knees doesn’t work if you don’t see it coming—“it” in this instance being an 85 pound seven month old deerhound puppy who has absolutely no sense of personal space.  At least not MY personal space.  He came around the corner of the garage at a hard gallop, his six month old borzoi “brother” in hot pursuit.  And quite literally knocked me off my feet.  As I gazed up at the sky, I thought to myself, “What the HELL was I thinking?”  When I went to shower Saturday night, I caught a glimpse of a bruise the size of Texas on my derriere.

When good old Magic died a year ago in January, I was down to only three dogs.  Practically “dogless”—at least for me.  The girls, Queen and Quicksilver, were aging themselves and little Yoda has never really caused any trouble.  There was a time when my household contained (well, contained is hardly the right word, but you know what I mean) three kids, eight horses, five Scottish deerhounds, a toy dog, two cats and a couple of guinea pigs.  I drew the line at birds. They required far too much attention.   My friends say I thrive on chaos.  But that has been true only at home.  Work has always been a quiet haven, a place of order and even relaxation.  It’s all relative.

People have been wondering where I’ve been, and why I haven’t been writing.  The reason is two-fold and can be summed up by two names:  Pibb and Cole. Pibb is the six month old borzoi–his “fancy” show name is Russian and unpronounceable.  Cole is the seven month old Scottish deerhound, registered as Jaraluv Unforgettable.  They are very busy boys, and even under constant supervision the casualty count is rising—a favorite antique trunk…the inlaid veneered Italian cabinet, the coffee table books, the lawn, the television remote control, and various and sundry shredded dog beds.  And judging from past experience, they’ve only just begun.

When I was a senior in high school, I had an English teacher, Mrs. Wiley, who changed my life by teaching me how to paint a picture with words.  When I started this blog, I decided after much deliberation–because I love photographs and photography–that it would be words only and no pictures—that I would force myself to be descriptive enough so that my readers wouldn’t need the photographs to accompany the stories.  So picture this:  two nights ago I left the kitchen/family room area to go to the study to find a calculator so I could run some numbers. I was gone maybe 20 seconds when I heard a loud THUMP!  I ran back into the kitchen to discover the source of the noise—Pibb, standing on his hind legs, had shredded a 4 pound FROZEN and wrapped package of hamburger meat meant for a lasagna. Whole Foods free range grass fed expensive hamburger meat. The sound came when he inadvertently pushed the now gnawed and bloody meat into the sink from the countertop. The lasagna never happened.

Years of experience tell me that this too shall pass. I am working with an excellent trainer. Someday people will admire my elegant and well behaved hounds as we walk across the Plaza.  Children will stop to pet them and I daresay they will both have a few titles to add to their names.  In the meantime, I’m going back to work where it’s quiet and the patients are well behaved and none of them knock me down or steal my dinner.  You’ll be hearing from me more often now!