Zen & The Art of Walking the Dog

Part 1/

Fred and I are thoroughly enjoying a couple of days with a friend in San Diego following our time in Long Beach. As always, we are using our time together for two purposes: to work and to play. One of my all-around favorite activities is to walk/run with dogs at night. Not only is it freeing and fun, especially in a city that is new to both Fred and me; it also provides the context for important training and practice. 

Fred, at ten months old, is going through a challenging new phase where he gets overly excited and over-stimulated on walks. If another dog enters the scene, even as far as two or three blocks ahead of us, Fred starts yipping and barking and pulling on the leash. As so many of you understand, this kind of issue is very frustrating. It is especially so with regard to a service dog in training that has only a couple of months left in which to train. 

So. We use night runs -- past duck ponds with fountains in lively cities -- as a way (for both of us) to practice being CALM in high-stimulus environments.  It's a paradoxical practice in zen: We use what naturally gets us worked up as a means of relaxing. In the midst of heightened sound and smell and movement, we practice slowing down and taking deeper breaths. At the height of my desire to maintain control, I let go. Instead of trying to "make" Fred behave a certain way, I envision -- from a place of quiet resolve -- seeing it happen naturally. 

For all of our hard work and concentration in Long Beach, we're rewarding ourselves with some laid back rest time in San Diego. We will hit the road back to Tehachapi tomorrow.

Until then, Mutt Militia, Go With Dog!

-- Liz

How I Sleep At Night

A fellow animal rescuer and friend of mine asked me a very poignant and thought-provoking question tonight. His text message read, “At the end of the day with all you do and all you see and the stories you hear, how do you sleep at night?”

The short answer was that after all I’ve done and all I’ve seen and the stories I’ve heard on any given day, I am utterly exhausted.  The longer answer explains how I go to bed exhausted, but not defeated.

In animal rescue, the work is never done, and often horrific. So do I desensitize myself to the implicit negatives that are the inevitable side effect of caring? No. Because that would mean to deaden myself to feeling. Not just pain but anything. And I am firm believer that we are here – having this sublime and surreal human experience – for the purpose of feeling. Not just something but everything.

What do I do then with the overflow of emotion I feel? I feel it to the fullest, painful or otherwise, and then I use it as fuel. I use what could hold me back to instead propel me forward. I consciously and actively set my spirit free different ways: I run. I dance. I do yoga. I listen to stand-up comedy. I make photo and video art. I skateboard with dogs. I'm becoming a lucid dreamer.

I love every dog that comes into my care - freely and completely - regardless of how long they are with me or how bad the circumstances are that they’ve come from. I try to stay in the moment, which is where dogs are at all times; giving us the gift of presence: theirs and our own.

I allow myself to grieve. I cry…A LOT. I let the sadness of what goes on in dog rescue permeate my whole heart, only because I know I cannot heal without first allowing myself to hurt. 

Angels Here, Angels There. Angels Everywhere.

Every person I know who works in rescue, training, or other fields involving dogs has a meaningful story behind their canine-connected fate. As we approach the end of the year, I reflect strongly on my own story – the particular ways in which dogs affected me at a pivotal point in my life that led me to do what I do… and to become who I am. I would like to share that story with you now.

On the morning of June 23rd, 2004, my Mom and I lay side by side in matching hospital attire, anxiously awaiting what we simply knew was going to be the answer to our prayers. After giving us each light sedation and an epidural, the nurses wheeled us each to our respective operating rooms, one next door to the other. Then, the incredible doctors at University of Colorado Hospital removed 60% of my liver, removed my Mom's liver completely, and transplanted this actual, living, physical piece of my body into her body. Of her belly, I was given life. And of mine, she was given life...if only for six months and eight days. Although the "ending" to the story of our live donor liver transplant is not what any of us expected, nor ever imagined we could live through, that I had the opportunity to give Mom back (only a fraction of) what she gave to me is the greatest gift of my life. Knowing that she literally took a part me of me with her to the next plane gives me pause; in fact, it gives my life eternal purpose.

* * *
During an anomalous self-destructive phase in her early twenties, my mom contracted Hepatitis C through abusing intravenous drugs and sharing needles. For my entire life growing up, she was 100% clean, sober and seemingly, completely healthy. A vibrant, beautiful redhead with a contagious lust for life and a smile that shone for miles, my mom was always moving. She volunteered for countless organizations, using her many talents and her selfless heart to bring joy to others. She acted and sang with the children’s traveling theater, where she performed plays weekly at different elementary schools around Denver. She did in-home daycare when we were growing up, creatively and interactively hosting a group of kids that were more like siblings to us than friends. During our Colorado winters, Mom would outfit all of us in snowsuits and delight in watching us fly down the big hill in the backyard on saucers. In the summers, we would ride our bikes around the park’s path while Mom roller-skated, always going the opposite way so that she could pass and say hi as we sped by each other on our respective wheels. Mom read books on tape for the Library for the Blind; she was the head of the PTA; she baked incredible homemade pies, cookies and bread; she made me laugh harder than anyone or anything else ever has. During my third-grade talent show, she danced on stage with reckless abandon to Paul Simon’s “Boy in the Bubble”. Her ability to “dance like no one was watching”, even when hundreds of people actually were, embarrassed me back then. Now, the thought brings on waves of appreciation and nostalgia so intense as to momentarily steal my breath.

In the meantime, Hepatitis C – known by those familiar with its dastardly ways as the "silent killer" – was slowly but surely turning my mom’s liver into scar tissue. By the time she showed any symptoms of cirrhosis, (at an extremely youthful age 55), the disease was in its final stages. And - in spite of our incredible joint liver transplant in June of 2004 - she died six months and eight days later, thirteen minutes before midnight on the same day her own mother had passed away: New Year’s Eve.

During the time that I was physically healing after surgery, and in the six months we spent with Mom in the ICU before she took her “final flight”, I was walking dogs and pet sitting as my primary source of income. Thank God for this, because I couldn’t last an hour without collapsing under the weight of sadness, nor did I have energy available for use in anything customer service-related. So rather than return to the coffee shop job I had prior to the surgery, I walked and ran with dogs all day, every day. In the sun, the rain, the wind and the snow, the dogs and I walked and ran and hiked. And I cried. I cried and cried until, through cleansing washes of tears it was revealed, that my mom’s absolute physical absence translated into her all-encompassing spiritual presence. It was during that time I spent with dogs – literally and figuratively moving forward - that I learned to live again after my mom had died.

A year after her death, I was invited to come live with friends on the Big Island of Hawaii. Here, I spent time with my friends and their dogs, exploring wild tropical terrain and adventuring across exquisite land and seascapes. Being with dogs at this time allowed for a wide-open, honest flow of emotion. As brutal as it was to experience the depths of anguish and sorrow that I did, it allowed me to "grieve productively". It wasn't that the dogs saved me from feeling my pain. Quite the contrary. Rather than "numb my heart", which could've been accomplished with the aid of alcohol or TV or drugs or any number of other distractions, dogs facilitated my feeling this pain "in its entirety", in a safe zone of non-judgment and unconditional love. As it turned out, this was precisely the formula necessary for my finding acceptance and living on.

My relationship with dogs in the context of grief even allowed for the connection between my Mom and me to grow deeper, which I never imagined was possible for souls as close as ours. By living fully and vividly - in the moment, where dogs always exist - I received the particular gifts that grief offers, if only we have the faith to let it happen in our hearts. For me, this included reaching a greater and more divinely inspired understanding of what it means to be alive. When my mom’s physical form perished, so too did the life I had known. It was an elemental turning point in the evolution of my spirit. And dogs were the earth angels that accompanied me as I picked my broken self up and continued on. Today, nine years later as of December 31st, 2013, dogs – and guidance from my guardian angel mom - continue to inform and inspire my every move.

Let's Get Active!

Show of paws: How many of our Bear Valley Springs/ Tehachapi Mutt Militia members would be interested in joining a "Frisky Fitness" session with me and the mutts at either Cub Lake or Meadowbrook Park 2-3x/week? This would be an hour long, early morning pack walk, evolving into a pack run over time for those who want to advance in their fitness regimen. We can also talk about basic leash skills, different leashes and harnesses, some human and canine health and nutrition, and anything else we feel like covering! Most importantly, we can act as a support and motivation system for one another! Especially with fall and winter around the corner, I know I'm going to need a group of awesome friends - human and canine - with whom to get outside and get moving! In my experience, simply walking or running with dogs - in the fresh air, at one with the natural elements - is nothing short of an honest-to-god meditative practice. It is during these sessions of physical activity that my mind gets the greatest workout, and my spirit evolves into its fittest form. I'd like to get a gauge on the interest level for this idea, and will proceed from there with official details. Let's get MOVING, Mutt Militia! - Liz

Miracle Mutts Slideshow

Here is a glimpse into what we've been up to with our Miracle Mutts program. Enjoy!

Training For Life

My ability to think positively, feel openly and act efficiently boils down to MOVEMENT. When I move my body -- walking, running, hiking, swimming, biking, skating -- I find myself breathing to the natural beat of my biology, becoming in those moments the ANIMAL I was born to be. I get out of my mind and into my body. I get less cerebral and more visceral. I grow out of my human skin and into my limitless spirit. This is the greatest gift I can give myself. It is also one of the greatest responsibilities, I feel, to give this gift to the animals in my care. Exercise isn't the answer to every question; nor does it solve every problem. However in my experience, it is the foundation upon which health and happiness are truly attainable. There is simply no better way to connect with the beauty in oneself, in one's environment, or in another being, than through physical activity in the wide world outside. 

MOVING. FORWARD.

Our boy, Spock is still having fear issues, especially surrounding men. While he has comfortably settled into the Koharchick household, trusting Mary as his strong pack leader, he has had a couple of instances in her absence where he has snarled and lunged at people he doesn't know as they've come into his space. Obviously this is something we need to help Spock work out. For one, we are going to work with Mary on crate training him. Though this is something you'd more typically do with a puppy, it is also important with a dog who is essentially starting all over again, taking baby steps toward learning to trust again. Secondly, when I say we need to help Spock "work out" his issues, I am being quite literal. It is my strong belief - which comes from experience - that PHYSICAL MOVEMENT FORWARD is directly congruent to EMOTIONAL and PSYCHOLOGICAL MOVEMENT FORWARD. So today, I took Spock skateboarding. With this one activity, we accomplished many things. First and foremost, we had fun, breathed fresh air and enjoyed a sunny late summer afternoon in the park, empowering ourselves and our buddy Spock. Being in an environment that is outside the home exposes Spock to sounds, sights, smells and scenarios to which he would otherwise not be exposed. This, by itself, is growth. Think about how much you expand your horizons when you "get outside the box", challenging yourself to be somewhere or do something with which you're not altogether comfortable. Next, the fact that Spock was MOVING FORWARD while confronting his anxiety allowed him to do it more effectively, and with a greater foundation of confidence. You know how you can be feeling super crappy about yourself or your life, and then you go for a run, even a brisk walk around the block, and your whole perspective changes? You can hear the Rocky theme song playing as you charge up a set of steps...This is because any time we are MOVING, we are building strength and endurance, increasing our efficiency as biological and spiritual animals! You know how you can be stuck in a mental rut, fixating on fear or other forms of negative self-talk, and then you get up and get moving, and suddenly the blockage begins to clear, and suddenly you can see that you are MOVING TOWARD a better day or a sensible solution to your problem? Well, it is the same for dogs. Maybe not quite as cerebral, but still the same chemical process occurs that frees up energy to cycle progressively, where otherwise it would stagnate and drag the body, heart and mind down. Getting back to the skateboarding today...A big part of getting over our fears is facing them. Being forced to stay right in the physical and mental space where you feel the most vulnerable and helpless, ultimately Proving to yourself that you can in fact survive being there. Not to mention that if you challenge yourself to stay in that place, you gain the strength necessary to break through to the other side of it. There are gifts on the other side. They are the gifts of courage, inner strength and self-worth. Now, I'm not saying that Spock's fear disappeared today and won't resurface. This dog has been through a kind of hell I can't even imagine. But it is our job as the humans in his life now, to show him how strong he is, what a GOOD BOY he is, and that there is nothing to be afraid of. So MOVING FORWARD DAILY, in one way or another, is key. It is elemental not only to Spock's healing process, but to all dogs' and all people's healing processes as well.