An Irrigation Ditch Runs Through It

It must be springtime in AK: The ravens are courting.

Lately there've been a lot of pair-flights in my neighborhood, little duos of ravens wheeling and dipping over the treetops, flying their swirling, romantic, aerobatic courtship displays, grace on the wing. This is, for me, an unmistakable sign of spring here. Even though I have that brain perversion that makes me think spring happens about the end of January, I think nearly everyone would agree with me that the juice is rising now. There's daylight both on my way to and on my way home from work, I've decreased the heat in my house, and things buried for months in my back yard are starting to emerge from under the snow.

Mind you, at a casual glance, one might be decoyed: It's the season of brown.

Summer here is unrelentingly green, and fall is often gloriously golden. Winter, of course, is white - at least in the daytime - bracketed at dawn and dusk with the most glorious shades of red and gold and peach and violet. But early spring (which in my mind is mid-spring) tends toward brown: the snow is disappearing, but the green-up hasn't started yet. Even MY twisted little brain can't make it look green... yet. That's coming - along with the return of the swans, the swift bullet-flights of the ducks, the evocative calls of the cranes and the haunting songs of loon and grebe. Then my lake will be open water, glimmering in the long light of summer, a thing of peace to be found, always, at the slightest glance out my windows.

I like living on the water. There was a time when I lived literally ON the water, in a boat: a 40-foot 1960 Chris-Craft yacht, to be exact. Now I live more metaphorically on the water, in the sense that my house is situated on a peninsula into a lake. Back in vet school, though, I had to make do with an irrigation ditch.

I lived on a property that had a small acreage, two frontages, several mature apple and cherry trees, a small house, a detached garage (which I rented out to a friend) and an irrigation ditch running through the fenced pasture area. Mind you, this was really quite pleasant and much prettier than it probably sounds. I'll grant you than in the winter the ditch was dry, which wasn't as pretty, but did have one advantage: It allowed my mustang mare to go across the ditch to a part of the pasture that she would not dare approach in the summer. The thoroughbreds would cross at will, fording the fast-flowing water without the slightest concern, but the mustang would not even consider this behavior, no matter which side her best friends and pasture-mates were on.

The down-side of the winter-dry ditch became apparent one day when a trio of adolescent boys came trundling down the ditch, evidently using it as their own personal highway, without regard to property lines or trespassing. They appeared unexpectedly from under the bridge that spanned the ditch where it passed under the adjacent road. I happened to be outside at the time with a classmate, Jean. We were treated to the experience of seeing all three horses in my pasture startle and bolt at the appearance of the boys. They ran down the fence-line, two of them crowding my mustang against the fence. Trapped tight against the wire, she leaped over it into the neighboring pasture, taking down the top wire as she did.

I bolted after the horses, hopping the remaining wire to catch up my mustang and inspect for damage. Jean, who had at one time been a Sheriff's deputy, took several brisk strides toward the ditch, calling in a deep, authoritative voice, "You kids are trespassing! Get off of this property!" It was quite a transformation: Jean is normally soft-spoken and rather gentle in her body language, and all of a sudden she's striding along like a colossus out to bust some heads, and her voice had dropped an octave and risen in volume by a factor of ten. The kids all leaped a half a foot in the air and turned, scrambling, to run back the way they had come.

I never saw them again. Quelle suprise. Not.

Meanwhile, my mustang, blowing and snorting, eyes wide and ears swivelling madly to catch any hint of threat, consented to pause by the far fence of the neighbor's pasture as I approached her. She held her head high and tense, surveying the ditch, but when the boys disappeared under the bridge she dropped her head a little and allowed me to sort through her dense winter coat for the source of the blood I could see streaked against her grey dapples. Nothing too bad: three parallel cuts, not quite full-thickness through her skin. Lucky it wasn't one of the two thin-skinned thoroughbreds, in which case I was fairly certain I'd be doing stitches.

Ah, well. That was the worst of the things that came of having an irrigation ditch run through it.

Most of the time it was rather a delight to have the ditch there. It meant I didn't have to worry about water if I decided to empty out and scrub the stock tank, and it was home to a family of muskrats and one of ducks. It was a delightful thing, of a morning or an evening, to go down and sit by the ditch with my notes and perhaps a cup of coffee, studying and sipping and enjoying the quiet sound of flowing water and the antics of the wildlife... well, sometimes studying and sometimes not. The muskrats would generally disappear when I first arrived, only to venture forth again a few minutes later, after I had failed to do anything frightening. They would swim up and down the ditch, sometimes emerging on the far bank, sometimes paddling along against the current, diving now and again with a little flash of their long bare tails. Once in a while one of the babies would climb out on the bank and huddle there, peering nearsightedly at me and sniffing the air for a while - until my evident boringness caused them to lose interest and they disappeared amongst the grasses on the bank, or slid seamlessly back into the water.

Most of the time, if I was sitting by the ditch, Cassie the mustang mare would come join me. Sometimes she would nuzzle at my coffee cup, attempting to taste the contents, or else sniffing deeply and then turning her upper lip up to funnel the aroma into her nostrils. Sometimes she would riffle softly through my hair with her thick velvety lips, blowing and snuffling gently at my skin, twitching her upper lip side-to-side to give me a companionable scratch. Sometimes she would lay down nearby, taking advantage of my guardianship to have a little lie-down. Sometimes she would simply stand next to me, head drooping companionably to the level of mine, her eyelids half-mast and blinking sleepily. Every once in a while she would poke her nose over my shoulder, peering at my notes and trying to turn the pages with her nose. She was insatiably curious, and relentlessly social - both useful traits for a wild horse, I imagine. Having been caught at approximately a year of age, Cassie had had the lessons of the wild to reinforce her own natural temperament - a lucky thing for me, given the number of times she devised a new means of escaping from the pasture. She was always to be found a few pastures down, visiting the nearest neighbor horses, but the moment I showed up she would turn away from them, bright-eyed with interest, to walk up to me. You could almost see her thinking "Hi! What are YOU doing here? Got anything to eat?"

Most fortunately, I could walk Cassie back home without benefit of halter or rope. All that was necessary was to reach under her throat-latch and pinch about 18 of her mane-hairs between my thumb and forefinger. This seemed sufficient lead by which to convince her to walk home with me, the other horses trailing in her wake. As she was always fascinated with whatever boring thing I was up to - and there was every chance she might be rewarded with food for accompanying me - she was more than willing to walk along home with me. I sometimes wondered what passing motorists thought of this odd little parade: Me (usually dishevelled, having been woken out of a sound sleep at 6 in the morning by some helpful stranger pounding on my door and yelling "Hey! Your horses are out!"; walking at my right shoulder, a sturdy and beautifully dappled grey mare wearing a bright, interested expression but nary a halter nor rope nor anything else; and two chestnut geldings clopping happily along single-file in our wake.

The pasture was a peaceful refuge for me on many an evening when I'd driven my brain hard all day and needed a little mental break before putting it back to work for the evening's studying. Quite often my little old dog Merrik - then 12 years old and missing one eye as a consequence of cancer, but still tough and active and otherwise bursting with health and energy - would accompany me out into the pasture, wandering around and sniffing things, sifting through the feed dishes for stray bits of sweet feed, milling peacefully amongst the horses, all of whom tolerated her presence without the slightest animosity. It was a lovely, restful, soothing ritual, often repeated throughout vet school.

Except for the day Merrik saw the ducks.

Merrik was pathologically fearful of water. Like many dogs, she dreaded being bathed, and spent the entire time attempting to escape the tub (or sink, or wherever I was bathing her). She was a relatively small dog (only 20 pounds) but she had the magical ability to gain twice her usual weight - not to mention several extra limbs - whenever I tried to pick her up to put her in the tub. Outside, she would skirt all but the smallest puddles. She would certainly go up to the irrigation ditch for a drink, but she was careful to place her front feet on the bank where she could balance herself securely without risk of getting wet.

One day, though, while walking around the pasture with me, Merrik happened to notice the duck family on the waters of the irrigation ditch. Well, this is an enticement not to be ignored: There, right in front of her, is a large mallard with four or five babies trailing in her wake. Who could resist chasing that?

Merrik takes off, growling low in her throat, darting at a shallow angle toward the ditch. The duck babies immediately begin paddling rapidly for the far shore. The mother duck begins swimming fast against the current, but hugging the near shore to decoy the dog away from her babies as Merrik (ignoring me as I try to call her off) closes in. At the last minute, the babies all having made the safety of the far bank, the mother duck churns it into overdrive, angling sharply across the water to follow the babies. At the same moment, Merrik - focused now on nothing in life but that duck - makes her leap.

She missed, of course.

The rest was like a cartoon. Merrik, on hitting the dread miasma of (gasp!) water, leaps strait up in the air. It's like watching a rocket launch, spray flying everywhere as she explodes out of the drink. Somehow, about two and a half feet above the surface, she manages to change direction and comes down on the bank rather than falling back into the ditch. This is rather a relief to me, because the laminar flow in the ditches - deceptively smooth and calm on the surface - is swift-flowing and powerful under the surface, capable of drowning adult humans. Apparently the shock of landing in water is enough to completely short-circuit Merrik's brain, and she races madly about the pasture for the next ten minutes, making wide, swift loops and zigzags and barking incessantly the entire time. Meanwhile I laugh helplessly, unable to catch my breath long enough to call her to me to reassure her, and slightly unhinged by the relief of not having my beloved dog sucked into the undertow to her death. The horses look on in bemusement, their heads turning to watch Merrik's progress as she criss-crosses the pasture at top speed. Cassie, excited by the activity, trots a few strides, tossing her head, but then stops again to watch the show.

Eventually Merrik outruns her shock and horror and slows down, and I am able to catch my breath and call her to me. She is panting and muddy, and her one remaining eye is wild with excitement. I take pity on her and decide not to bathe her; instead we hang out under the apple trees until she dries and I brush the mud out of her coat.

Merrik is many years in her grave - she lived to be fourteen, and the four years we had following her diagnosis and treatment for cancer were the best of her life. We did everything together, every fun thing I could think of for a person and a tough little terrier mix dog to do together. I suppose I will always miss her; but I can't help but smile when I think of her. She was the perfect sidekick to me for many years, and (bless her heart) saw me through vet school and into internship. She was everything charming and delightful and engaging and sweet, everything tough and cheerful and good-hearted and adorable a dog could be. She made me laugh more times than I could ever count, and makes me smile to this day whenever I think of her. I don't think I ever saw a dog more conscious of her dignity, yet more willing to abandon it when the opportunity presented itself. I'll have that afternoon always in memory: the sun slanting golden in the late afternoon, the green of the pasture, the muddy brown of the water, dappled with sun... the horses wandering about, copper and smoke drifting over the grass, and my little silver-black dog, racing wild-eyed through the mix, barking hysterically the while.

It might not have been quite as good as having a river run through it.... but the irrigation ditch was a pretty decent substitute.

Ain’t Misbehaving

So last night was the Wild Women of Wildwood Farm Wine-tasting Festival 2010. It was all very nicely set up by S&R, who procured seven wines (three white and four red) for us to try. Rae had all the bottles shrouded in plain brown wrappers, marked with a letter designation. Susan made up little wine notes for us, listing the reds and whites separately. There were spaces for us to rank our favorites, make our personal wine-tasting notes, and indicate which wine we thought corresponded to which letter, and another space to print in which grape it ACTUALLY was, so that we could score ourselves – because there was going to be a quiz, and there was a prize for the winner. Each varietal represented was listed – in random order – with a description if available. In addition to all this, there were various snacks and savories – not to assuage our gluttony, but to cleanse the palate between tasting, I assure you. (Hey! Was that a skeptical look I just saw?!)

About an hour after I arrived, the various guests were assembled: all women, all congenial, all in a festive mood. We collected a few tasting glasses each, dutifully marking them A, B and C. As is sensible, the whites were first. Now, I'm not typically a white wine drinker; as a rule, I prefer the dry reds. I love the dry complexity and strong oaks and smokier, more sensual tones they offer. But hey – I'm always game for a challenge, a little education of my palate, a chance to try something new. The alcohol content has NOTHING to do with it. I swear.

Accordingly, we all parked ourselves and took a little tot of each wine: a pinos gris, a cardonnay, and a viognier (of which I had never before heard – but hoped I might identify by a process of elimination).

Now, I don't know about you, but I'm really quite the amateur when it comes to serious wine tasting. I know the basic steps – you know, tilt the glass, inspect the color, sample the bouquet both before and after swirling, take a wee sip (ditto), chew, inhale, all the usual jazz. Personally, I am too frugal to spit the wine, however, so I will unfortunately always be a complete amateur and a hopelessly gauche provincial with no sophistication whatsoever. Personally, I believe in a little taste of smoked salmon in between tastes, or maybe a sip of water or a Greek olive or a sliver of red bell pepper, to cleanse the palate. (See? I'm telling you: a complete rube.) In between noshing, raucous conversation with my fellow tasters and lots of laughter, I made my rankings and my guesses as to which wine was which. Then – and I swear this is only because I'm frugal – I finished all the remaining wine in my glasses while I waited for the tasting to finish so I could find out how truly I suck at determining which wine is which.

Amazingly – the more so given that I rarely drink whites - I scored three out of three. Huh. That was weird.

Next came the reds. Here I was pretty sure I had my work cut out: I like red wine, but while I have some favorite varietals, I'm really not very sophisticated about it, and I was fairly sure I would embarrass myself by really screwing this one up. This would be less embarrassing if I didn't actually make my own wine, which you would think would educate me a little (although I was fairly sure it had not.) Also, I figured that since I DO prefer the reds, I would like them all and therefore be harder pressed to choose between them. This in fact turned out to be the case. I had one very clear favorite, which I felt sure was the pinot noir – well, okay, I wasn't sure. I hoped it was, as pinots are one of my favorite varietals, and I thought it would be way too embarrassing if I got that one wrong. There were, however, some varietals I rarely drink (shiraz and malbec), and one that was new to me (a carmenere). Oh, well. Time to punt.

So, I sipped and I chewed and I inhaled and I squinted at the color. I giggled at the antics of some of my compatriots, and admired the combat photography technique of the woman sitting next to me: At various intervals she would extend her (very nice) camera above her head, aim it at the center of the action, and take a shot. Because it was a digital camera, she could immediately inspect the results and regroup for a better shot if needed. I milled about the delicacies on offer (two kinds of salmon, one kind of salmon dip, tangy home-made goat cheese, home-made duck sausage, some kind of rumaki-like creation, chips and guacamole, spicy devilled eggs on French bread, various kinds of really delectable olives, sliced bell peppers with some kind of tasty white dip, two different kinds of brownies – I can't recall what else.) Susan – a teacher – came around and inspected our tasting notes. Those who were spending too much time tasting and not enough time on their notes received - in red pen – a notation that they need to stay on-task. Those who had been more diligent got commendations. (I got "Good describing words".) Oooh. Now I'm all proud and stuff.

Eventually it was time for scoring. Yup, I did just as bad as I expected: one out of four. I WAS right on the pinot noir – thankfully proving I'm not a complete philistine and that while largely wasted, my 6 years of wine-making experience were at least not a total loss – but everything else I screwed up: The malbec I thought was the carmenere, the shiraz I thought was the malbec, and the carmenere I thought was the shiraz. Oh, well. At least I had enough taste to enjoy drinking them.

Now it's time for the overall scoring. Rae made everyone who got one right out of the seven put up their hand.

"Okay, how many got two right?" she asked. A few hands went down. "Three right?" Down go a few more hands. "Four right?" Just two hands left now, mine and one other. "Five right?" Both of us put our hands down.

"Ooh, a tie-breaker!" Susan exclaimed. She polled us all to find out which wine was the favorite; turns out I was in good company, as the one I personally ranked first was the overall favorite. "Okay," she said. "As the tie-breaking question, what is the percentage of alcohol content in the pinot noir?"

"Twelve percent," said my 'opponent' after a moment's consideration.

"Fourteen," I said without hesitation. I don't know why; it just popped into my head.

"Thirteen and a half," Susan replied. "You're closer."

Well, what do you know. I never win these things. Quite a shocker.

We divided up the winning present (it WAS a tie, after all); my opponent got a wine caddy (a tote internally divided into separate compartments so that you can carry six bottles at once); I got the game Wine-opoly, a variant of Monopoly. This looks like a riot, and also somewhat educational: there are wine quizzes on some of what would be the "community chest" cards, and the "deed" cards have information about different wines. Of course, how educational it really is may depend on how many glasses of wine you drink while playing the game. I'll let you know, at any rate: I have a feeling I'll be breaking this game in at Wildwood.

Just a guess.

Dogs In Pants

I've noticed that all my patients have pants.

Now, I know that a lot of people object to dressing dogs and cat in clothes; I've heard Jay Leno complain about this more than once, although in fairness I believe he's taking only about decorative clothing, not clothing meant for utility (such as a working harness on a service dog, or coats for thin-coated breeds in the deep cold of Alaska or similar environs). For this reason I must here defend my clients: it's not the owner's fault if their pet has pants. It's actually my fault. For some reason I can't quite explain, nearly every time I see a patient I designate pants for them.

It goes like this: In comes, say, some adorable little puppy. I enter the exam room. The puppy will be variously wandering around on the floor, sniffing everything, cuddled in the owner's arms, or up on the exam table (or some combination of the above). It is very uncommon for me to walk into the exam room without the puppy investigating me – usually with joy and excitement, although sometimes with caution and/or trepidation. Very rarely I have one that is actively hostile – a situation that gives me pause, since by their natures puppies are rarely hostile, and seeing aggression in an animal that young is disquieting and warrants immediate intervention from the owner in the form of training, beginning as soon as possible.

However, the vast majority of puppies (and adult dogs – cats, somewhat less commonly) are happy to see people – even vets. (I know! Amazing!) Some are more outgoing or confident than others, but even the timid ones will usually essay at least a few sniffs and maybe a little tail wag (or a purr-and-head-butt, depending on species). Most puppies are absolutely dying to come have cuddle and (usually) lick me. Naturally I have to comment, either to the puppy or the owner. Usually it somehow accidentally comes out like this:

"Oh, what a cutie-pants!"

Well, the owner can hardly disagree with me, right? So now the dog has pants. Cutie-pants.

Sometimes, though, we have a dog or cat who is feeling a bit growly. Those animals shop at a different boutique and generally come in wearing their cranky-pants. Sometimes the owners complain about the pet's behaviors, because their pets are wearing naughty-pants. Sometimes pets want to hide from me (because they're wearing scaredy-pants) and others are just thrilled to see me (obviously wearing their happy-pants). Sometimes we'll have an in-heat bitch come in for a breeding (typically via artificial insemination, because while vets may be a weird group, we're not THAT weird – or at least, not weird in that way); such females usually rivet the attention of every male dog in the clinic, because they've arrived in their sexy-pants.

By the same token we have pets in curly-pants, fuzzy-pants, fluffy-pants, dancey-pants, bitey-pants, itchy-pants (I don't recommend getting this kind for yourself, just as a by-the-way); we also see those in sweetie-pants, pukey-pants (also not recommended), runny-pants (ditto), smelly-pants (make your own decision there, but I'd suggest "no"), squinty-pants, waggy-pants, wiggly-pants, bossy-pants, smarty-pants, gaggy-pants (I'd advise skipping this), ouchy-pants (also to be avoided), huggy-pants, snuggly-pants, messy-pants (use your best judgment), fancy-pants, baldy-pants, scruffy-pants, lucky-pants and so on: Nearly any kind of pants you can imagine.

Many dogs and cats have a fairly full wardrobe. My dogs, for instance, possess happy-pants, hairy-pants, scruffy-pants, noisy-pants, wiggly-pants, greedy-pants, snarky-pants (ahem, Raven), speedy-pants (Ali), messy-pants (Finn), shorty-pants (Kenzie), grubby-pants, muddy-pants (seasonally), stinky-pants (far too often), poopy-pants (typically at 3 a.m. and 40 below zero, thanks so much), cuddly-pants, snuggly-pants, and, quite often, the well-known naughty-pants. You'd think I'd stop letting them shop in the stinky-pants department (where you can also find poopy-pants, pukey-pants and so on), but somehow that hasn't worked out. (Evidently it was a mistake to let Finn get his own credit card. Go figure.)

Some pets share their pants wardrobe with their owners. (Generous of them, don't you think? And if, for instance, I've forgotten to wear my muddy-pants, my dogs will happily rectify this oversight, generally just before I have to go somewhere nice and don't have time to change.) Still, there are several kinds of pants animals seem completely uninterested in, such as braggy-pants, snooty-pants, meany-pants, stingy-pants, Machiavelli-pants, huffy-pants, pervy-pants, cheaty-pants, and, ironically, weaselly-pants. Even actual weasels never wear weaselly-pants (although they may wear slinky-pants and wiggly-pants and snuggly-pants, and sometimes licky-pants and even bitey-pants.)

Surprisingly, even though I have two bitches, the only one to ever wear bitchy-pants in my house is me, actually. I try to leave those at home, but some days, you're all out of other pants to wear. I'm sure this has never happened to any of you, of course, but evidently (and most unfortunately) there are some days that that's all I have left to wear.

Oh, well. At least I can count on my dogs forgiving this behavior… because no matter what other pants they might be wearing that day, they're always wearing their sweetie-pants.

You're My Favorite Now

Author's note: So, you've all been more than patient with me as I have been laboring over the edits of the book, which has limited my posting time here. You are all my favorites now! Writing is fun, but editing is hard. On the plus side, though, I believe that the first volume is approaching a good working copy. Volume two has been edited once, but needs further tweakage before being a working copy. I will mention that there are some things there that are not in the blog, and where there's overlap there has also been editing, so that the final form may differ a bit form the originals as posted here. Talks with publishing houses have commenced. I'll keep yopu posted. Meanwhile, back at the ranch....

It's kind of a chilly morning here in Alaska: Eleven below at my house this morning. Having nothing in the house to eat for breakfast (well, okay, nothing I WANTED to eat for breakfast), I elected to come to the local Pandemonium cafe` for quiche and coffee - from whence I now blog to you.

It was clear and starry last night, with a brilliant half-moon hanging in the sky. This morning a towering fog bank is rising over the Knik Arm, hiding all but the highest peaks of the Chugach, buliding and drifting slowly to the west. The ravens are in flight, wheeling and chasing each other; it won't be long before they begin their aerobatic courting flights. Spring is definitely on the way. I don't know about you, but I'm in the mood for it, myself.

Spring, of course, gets me to thinking about lambing, and lambing, this morning, has me thinking about my friend Yvonne; for some reason I'm flashing back to a time when I took Gumby the orphan lamb - be-diapered and convalescing from a bout of anorexia and diarrhea - to Yvonne's house. Yvonne's Westie, Heather, appeared to be offended by the idea of a lamb in diapers, so she promptly grabbed the seat of Gumby's diaper and yanked it off. Yvonne found this hilarious. I might not have, except for the fact that I had spare diapers with me. Gumby, at the time, was not master of his GI tract, and had significant issues with continence as a result. Picture driving home with an incontinent lamb in the front seat of your truck smearing yellow goo on everything. Delightful! Not.

Yvonne - also known as "Satan" at her place of work owing to a temperamental resemblance to Catbert the evil HR director, from the Dilbert cartoon - is a client with whom I've established a friendship. The very first time I saw her it was to check her cat Christie for a mass on her face.

All unsupecting, I walk into the exam room. There stands Yvonne next to the exam table, the more conveniently to pet her cat, who is walking up and down the table, inspecting it with interest. Christie is a sleek black cat, glossy of coat and elegant of build. Yvonne herself is something of the opposite: she is almost alabaster pale, with large, expressive blue eyes and thick, strait hair the color of ripe apricots. She looks up altertly as I enter the room.

"Are you the doctor?" she asks.

"Yes," I say, introducing myself. "So we're here to see Christie for a mass on her face?"

"Yes," Yvonne says. "I just noticed it last night. I was washing her face - she has her own washcloth, you know - and that's when I saw it." Her voice is highly inflected, as expressive as her eyes, and her diction is precise, almost formal, which lends a certain emphasis to her words. Her tone is confiding, as if she is sharing with me some personal anecdote - which, in a way, I suppose she is: This is her ritual with her cat, part of their personal relationship, unique to them. How many people, after all, wash their cat's face at night, or provide it with its own washcloth?

"Okay," I say. "Did she seem painful when you washed that area?"

"No, it didn't bother her at all," Yvonne says, opening her eyes wide, her tone suggesting that she finds this fact completely amazing.

"Hmm," I say. "Does she seem normal in other respects? No coughing, sneezing, vomiting or diarrhea? Eating and drinking oaky? No decrease in activity?"

"No, everything else is normal," Yvonne says definitely. I figure that if this client is meticulous enough that she is washing her cat's face at night before bed, she's probably up on what else is going on with the cat, and I am prepared to accept as true her assertions that Christie has not been pawing or scratching at her face bump, and seems in all respects otherwise normal.

"Okay, let's start with a physical," I say. It is my habit to do the entire physical exam first, then to focus on the presenting complaint; this is useful for a number of reasons. One is that it's possible I may need more information than I would get just looking at the item of concern; all amimals are integrated systems, and nothing exists on or in an animal that is completely independant of its other systems. Another reason is that I have countelss times detected, on doing a routine physical, something relatively unrelated to the presenting complaint, but of which the owner was unaware; a heart murmur in a pet presented for treatment of a skin complaint, for example. The third reason is that if I proceed in a methodical fashion, I am unlikely to omit anything by accident; habit is a powerful force - so much so that I have often embarrassed myself in a social setting by consequence of it. I have no idea how many times I've been at someone's house for, say, dinner, having a little pre- or post-meal chat, only to notice them staring at me oddly. Sometimes they go so far as to ask my what I'm doing. Startled, I will then look down to notice that - their pet having presented itself for affection - I am automatically doing a physical exam, peering into their dog's ears or lifting its lip to look at its teeth, groping under its jaw for lymph nodes or inspecting its eyes for conjunctivits, jaundice or cataracts. As I say, I have no idea how often I've done that, but the number lies somewhere between "frequently" and "REALLY frequently". (Surprisingly, most of these people asked me back to visit again. I know! Amazing!)

I complete Christie's physical exam; everything internal is presenting normally. I turn her to face me. There is, indeed, a raised black bump on her face, its color slightly more bluish than her glossy jet fur. Yvonne watches me, sharply focused, her fingers trailing over Christie's silky back as I inspect the mass.

"What kind of mass do you think it is?" she asks me intently. "I hope it's not something bad," she adds in the sort of hushed tones one generally uses for salacious gossip.

"Not too bad," I smile. "It's not a mass, it's a tick."

Here I think I'm delivering good news, but Yvonne's eyes spring wide with alarm. Because her eyes are so large and expressive to begin with, the effect is dramatic. Her hands leap off her cat as if burned and she staggers back to fall against the exam room wall. Her horrified gaze fixes on Christie, who is now bathing her paws unconcernedly on the exam table.

"But - but- but she's always been so healthy!" Yvonne wails, as if Christie's having acquired a tick is somehow a sign of being riddled with internal corruption.

"Well, she's still healthy," I say, smiling. "She just has a tick." I feel my lips twitch, fighting laughter. I can't help it. Yvonne's face is nothing if not expressive, and she looks so completely stunned and dismayed by the thought of her elegant little black cat having a tick that you'd think I'd told her Christie was carrying a virulently contagious and gruesomely fatal form of leprosy.

"But how could she have a tick?" Yvonne persists with a little shudder. "We don't have ticks in Alaska!"

"Not many," I agree, "but we see them occasionally."

"But what will we do?" she asks.

"Well, I think we should remove the tick and use a little medication on the bite mark, and then watch for tick-borne diseases - of which we also have very few in Alaska, so the risk is minimal," I add, hoping to forestall panic. Yvonne, still wide-eyed with dismay, nods; she also listens to my aftercare instructions carefully, and asks questions that indicate that she is having no trouble following me and is completely willing to do whatever nursing care I prescribe. Well, that makes sense, after all; her pet care is obviously meticulous, what with the bed-time kitty face-washing and all. As we discuss Christie's care, Yvonne gradually eases back toward the exam table, and her hands drift hesitantly toward the cat's silky fur again, as if Yvonne is afraid that having a tick makes Christie somehow too fragile for normal contact. I pluck the tick with a pair of hemostats, inspecting to be sure I have the tick's head; Christie herself seems mightily unconcerned with the entire procedure; her eyes drift half shut and she commences to purring quietly as I talk.

Christie recovered uneventfully from her tick encounter. The next time I saw her was perhaps a year later. This time Yvonne is concerned that Christie might have a fever.

"Okay," I say, taking my history. "What is Christie doing that makes you think she has a fever?" Clients very rarely take their pets' temperatures, and those who do are often unsure of the animals' normal temperature range, so I always ask this question.

"Well," Yvonne says, in her usual dramatic way, as if preparing to tell me a fascinating story. "Last night I was sitting with her on the couch. I was putting her ears in my mouth - you know, the way you do with baby's fingers, like this," she says, demonstrating: she rolls her lips in to cover her teeth and makes little "nom nom nom" noises while she does gentle little biting motions, indeed exactly as one usually does when some curious infant decides to investigate one's mouth with its fingers. My eyebrows are halfway up my forehead in astonishment (who comes in and tells you they put their cat's ears in their mouth?!?), but I try my best to make my expression look like one of polite inquiry rather than astonishment at this unusual behavior. Perhaps I am successful, as Yvonne continues her history without pause. "I do it all the time," she adds in a conspiratorial fashion, as if she is certain I do the same, and we are just sharing pointers about a favorite hobby. "So I'm used to what her ears feel like, and when I put them in my mouth last night I thought they felt hot."

I smile broadly, privately enjoying my mental picture of this rather endearing confession. "Let's find out," I say, getting out a thermometer. I take Christie's temperature while Yvonne exhorts Christie to be good for mummy and let the nice doctor help her. Christie does indeed have a fever; she's a degree and a half higher than I'd like.

"Well, you're right, she has a fever," I tell Yvonne frankly.

"I knew it!" she says, as if I've vindicated some deeply-held philosophical principle for her. I design a course of treatment for Christie, while Yvonne continues on. "I can't wait to tell them at work; they all think I'm weird for putting her ears in my mouth, but look how useful it is! If I hadn't done that I wouldn't have known she was sick, and she probably would have died!"

"Well, maybe not died," I temporize, smiling, "but there's no doubt it was helpful in this case."

"Well, I'm going to tell them - not that they'll believe me, but still."

"Why wouldn't they believe you?" I ask absently, scribbling in my chart.

"Oh, half of them are 19 or 20, and you know how kids that age are; they come in unbuttoned down to there, wearing their full metal makeup, sure they know everything, and that no one over 25 has a brain in their head. Sometimes I look across the desk at them and think: If I died right now you'd be the last person I ever saw - and then I just wish I had a flamethrower!" Yvonne says fiercely.

I start laughing. With her delivery - dramatic and expressive - it's impossible not to. I'm also amused by the expression "full metal makeup", which appears to be of Yvonne's own invention, but which I find so perfectly descriptive that I have no trouble understanding what she means.

It was after that that I decided that Yvonne and I might have to go out to coffee together. Her wit is ascerbic, but her delivery is so expressive that the most ordinary story is often wildly funny. She has a gift for description that relies at times on misdirection and overstatement, but which invites collusion. As an example, one day (while changing in the locker room for racquetball), Yvonne was again talking about Christie.

"She's just the smartest cat," Yvonne declares. "If she's hungry she comes and cries at me and then leads me to the pantry where her food is! Isn't that amazing?" she inquires, eyes wide. "I swear next week she'll complete her calculations for the Hubble Telescope and finish the proper identification of the Shroud of Turin!"

Two women have entered the locker room just in time to hear about the Hubble Telescope. One of them raises her eyebrows, trying politely not to listen to our conversation, but unable to completely suppress her reaction. I purse my lips judiciously, playing along with Yvonne's exaggerations. "Well, you're probably right; no doubt she'd be done with those already, if not for the fact that she's been working out the design for that pocket atomic decay analyser - you know, for carbon-dating the Shroud of Turin. Of course, she might be delayed a little, since she's brokering that peace accord for the middle east and eradicating world hunger this week."

The two women are now alternately exchanging curious looks and glancing at us from the corners of their eyes, wondering who this woman we are describing might be. Yvonne, oblivious to this, and not missing a beat, replies, "Well, you know the atomic analyser took longer than she wanted it to, because she had to miniaturize it so it would fit in a locket on her collar. I don't know how she does it, without opposable thumbs!" Yvonne exclaims in tones of admiration. "Besides, you know she'll get the peace accord knocked out before lunch. She'd have it done by ten in the morning, you know, except for the fact that she's authenticating a copy of the Gutenberg Bible for the Louvre that day," she adds.

"Oh, I forgot that," I say, nodding. "Well, maybe the atomic analyser will come in handy for that; she can carbon-date the ink and the binding. Isn't she presenting her results at the Hague next week? That would make a good case-study for her paper," I add. I notice that our two locker room companions are moving in slow motion, evidently riveted on our conversation against their will.

"You're right!" Yvonne exclaims. "I'll mention it to her. Of course, this afternoon she's correcting some calculations from one of Einstein's journals - I swear, the man was just riddled with misconceptions about particle physics. And his handwriting! She should get the Nobel Prize for deciphering that!"

The two women exchange increasingly mystified glances; who are we talking about, and why have they not heard of her? And what kind of accident did she have that she doesn't have opposable thumbs?

"I thought she was getting the Nobel Prize!" I say, frowning. "Didn't you say she was getting the award in Economics, for creating that formula for eradicating the national debt in two weeks without raising taxes?"

"Oh, that," Yvonne says dismissively. "That was nothing. Christie doesn't consider it her best work. It was so obvious, she's almost embarrassed."

"Well, I think she should accept the prize anyway. If she's embarrassed, she can always sit down on the podium and have a bath." I pause; our two listeners exchange a shocked look before I continue, squinting judiciously. "She IS a cat, after all - isn't that how all of them cope with embarrassment?"

One of the two women listening to us suppresses a snort of laughter. The other grins into her locker, biting her lower lip hard.

"What?" Yvonne exclaims in tones of outrage. "Christie would never do that! She's far too ladylike! And what would Queen Elizabeth think? You know Christie is her personal advisor for protocol and etiquette! The next thing you know, the entire Royal Family would be stoping to have a bath in the midst of their press conferences! It wouldn't do. Christie has to watch that kind of thing - she has to set an example!"

"Hmm, I didn't think of that," I allow, tying not to laugh. "My apologies for suggesting Christie wold be so inappropriate."

"I should say!" exclaims Yvonne, putting her street clothes in her locker. "So, you ready?" she asks, with an abrupt return to matter-of-fact, swinging her racquet experimentally.

"Yep," I say, picking up my own racquet. I frown at it for a moment. "This is getting pretty beat-up," I mutter to myself. "Say, didn't you say Christie was working on a new graphite polymer? Maybe she can give me a prototype racquet," I say. Snickers erupt from behind one locker door. The other woman firmly presses her towel to her face.

"Oh, yes - that was her tea-time project Wednesday," Yvonne says carelessly. "I'll ask her about it. Of course, that one tennis player - you know, that hairy one - he wanted to get the formula and patent it, but Christie can't abide him - skinny calves. So naturally she said 'No'. She has a contract with Nike instead, so they'll ship her some prototypes next week, I think."

"Isn't she going to be at the Everest base camp next week, doing oxygen telemetry?" I ask as we mosey out of the locker room.

"Yes, but she's invented a new cell phone - did I tell you? - and she'd be happy to call Nike from there and have them deliver one to your door; she re-engineered their corporate jet, you know, so they owe her."

Behind us a muffled guffaw is heard. Someone else is giggling uncontrollably. I nod sagely.

"She really is handy to have around," I muse.

"Yes, she's my favorite," Yvonne says.

Well.... and who can blame her?

The Chocolate Esther Bunny

It's finally happened. My mind has snapped completely.

It's January. In Alaska. And yesterday driving home it was light out - just twilight, mind you, but my brain went: Ah. It's spring.

Just reminding you: January. Alaska. Snow. Dark. Howling wind. Five degrees Fahrenheit.

Oh, well. What are you going to do? Me, I'm fighting it, a little... I love love LOVE that my birthday is in the winter, and as that's next week, I really can't have it be spring just yet. Maybe if I just feel spring coming and let it start on, say, January 21st. That'd be okay. I'd still be born in winter, right? Maybe I should make winter last til, say, the 27th or 28th, just to be sure. It's a dead cert I'll never be able to hold out til calendar spring, but maybe I should have the decency to hold onto at least the pretense of winter til the end of the month.

It doesn't help that yesterday I had to do surgery on the Easter Bunny. If that doesn't make you think of spring, what will?

To be more accurate, it wasn't actually the Easter Bunny. It was the Esther-bunny. Little Esther was so named by her owners (a rescue farm) because she is a lovely, soft milk-chocolate brown. Naturally they could not resist calling her the chocolate Esther bunny.

Little Esther came in because she was in a bunny fight. Now, I know that sounds a bit comical, the idea of bunnies fighting; they're so cuddly. They are, however, also possessed of chisel-sharp teeth, and hard little pointy claws tip their feet - notably their hind feet, which they will use to dig into their opponent's belly, raking with their powerful hind legs, aiming for disembowelment.

Yikes. Bunnies is scary.

Esther was dropped off at the clinic while I was at lunch. When I got back, I went into Isolation to have a look at her. She was adorably cuddled up in a thick polar fleece blanket (decorated with bunnies, naturally), and all I could see of her were her silky little brown ears poking out, liberally decorated with scabs and dried blood. Well, naturally: Doesn't everyone go after the ears on their chocolate Esther bunny first?

Luckily Esther's ears were barely injured; she had a few scratches, but the majority of the blood was transfer from her other injuries: Apart from some deep scratches on her face and a partial-thickness bite on her back, someone had tried in good and earnest to bite her nose right off.

Urk. Well, this ought to be fun. Not.

I give little Esther some injectable anesthetic. Normally we mask down our bunny patients with anesthetic gas, but that method has its drawbacks when the surgery is on the face - which will of necessity be inside the mask and therefore awkward to attempt surgery on. So instead I figure up a dose of ketamine and valium and inject Esther in her meaty thigh muscles. Esther herself has little objection to this; she is a remarkably pleasant and good-tempered little rabbit, cooperative and amazingly unconcerned that her small, incessantly-twitching nose is now laid halfway over onto the left side of her face.

Twenty minutes later Esther is drowsing gently in her polar fleece bunny burrito; however, should anyone lift the edge of it to have a look, she rolls up sternal immediately. Jill herself, lulled by the peaceful aspect of slumbering bunny, droops drowsily over Esther's cozily recumbent form, monitoring her anesthetic depth. I wait a little longer, hoping the injectable meds will be sufficient. Dr. S happens back.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Sewing the nose back on a bunny," I tell her. "Some other bunny bit it half off."

"Oh, gah," she says, wrinkling her own nose. "Ever done that before?"

"Nope," I tell her. "This'll be my first re-nosing surgery."

"Well, good luck," she says. I'll take what luck I can get; in truth, given the mobility of the usual bunny nose, and the penchant they have for face-washing, I have some post-surgical concerns. Worse, the nasal tissue has swollen significantly as a result of the injury, and the flap of Esther's nose is now curling slightly up in consequence like the toe of a Turkish slipper. I'm not at all sure how amenable it will be to being stitched back down - or to staying stitched down, should I coax it to hold a suture and lay flat on its moorings once again.

Meanwhile a further 10 minutes are not enough to convince Esther that sleep is seriously in her best interests at the moment.

Okay, then. The gas mask it is.

Jill applies the mask carefully to Esther's face, careful to slip it over her semi-amputated nose without touching the injured tissue. We wait patiently. Eventually Esther's little legs relax and we de-mask her so that Jill can prep the surgery site. On shaving, it becomes clear that the laceration is - most fortunately - detaching the nose only across about 60% of its width. The lac extends from mid-bridge on the nose to the edge of the right nostril. It also transects the nasal septum where it connects to the upper lips. The left side is still attached as God intended.

Ouch. Poor little Esther bunny.

Right about the time Jill finishes her delicate surgical scrub, Eshter begins to coil her legs. On goes the mask again. I gather my surgical instruments, some absorbable monofilament suture, surgical gloves. We wait. After a while Esther's legs relax again. Jill cuts the anesthetic and pulls the mask. I dive in, squinting and holding my breath against the biting reek of the anesthetic gas trapped in Esther's fur. I press her nose back into its original position. Luckily there isn't any tissue missing, nor any dead tissue that must be debrided, so despite the tiny size of the nose in question I have something to work with. I throw my first suture, snugging it down carefully. As thin as Bunny skin is, Esther has a little gift for me, and the skin over her nose is strong and holds my stitch without protest. I go fast now, aware that my time is short and that at any moment Esther may elect to sit up, necessitating a quick return to the mask (preferably without my needle drivers still attached to a needle half embedded in her skin).

With one finger pressing her nose into position, I take several more quick bites with my needle, whipping knots into each stitch as quickly as I can, setting it against the chance of an abrupt awakening of my patient. I debate trying to suture the inner surface of the nose to the underlying tissue, but am afraid of occluding the nostril so that Esther cannot breathe through it; so instead I hope I can get reasonable alignment and security of closure with external sutures alone. Miraculously, the small nub of Eshter's nose lines up perfectly, preserving the shape of her nostril. I set a suture in the tiny thin septum, delicately tying it to her upper lip at the philtrum. Turning her head to double-check, it appears that her left nostril is uninjured, and despite the nasal swelling, the nostrils look symmetrical when viewed head-on. It still looks like a bloody mess, but not so much of one as when we started. I set one last suture between my first two bites, tightening the repair now that I know my other sutures will prevent this last one from deforming the shape of the incision.

Esther stirs.

"We're done," I tell Jill as her hand hovers above the mask. She sets it down and picks up cotton swabs to clean the incision. I glove out, disposing of my sharps, setting my instruments out to be washed.

"Look," Jill says. "Look at this."

I bend over the table. Jill has Esther's face tilted nose-up, the surgery light brightly illuminating the cleaned-up surgery site. I can see her right nostril, perfectly aligned both inside and out, resuming its busy bunny-twitch in exact symmetry with the uninjured left one.

Huh. What do you know. Re-nosing surgery numero uno looks like it might be a go. Suddenly I feel like the Queen of Reconstructive Rabbit Rhinoplasty.

"Oooh," I say. Then, judiciously: "That doesn't look too bad." I tilt Esther's head to get the profile view, frowning. "Except that now she looks like a proboscis monkey," I add, inspecting the pronounced Romanesque hump of Esther's repaired profile, rendered all the more obvious by its shaven nakedness.

Jill snorts and rolls her eyes. "It looks perfect," she says, shaking her head at my skepticism. "That'll go away when the swelling goes down, and you know it."

"Nice job on running the anesthetic mask Olympics," I say, grinning at her. She grins back. We are both suddenly amazing cheerful, bolstered on the little rush of our surgery. A successful surgery is always cause for satisfaction, but there's some extra euphoria to be gleaned from succeeding in the ones where you're winging it. Realistically, you can't be trained for every eventuality in vet school. They could not know that one day I'd be called upon to re-attach the Esther Bunny's nose, after all; there's no class called Bunny Nose Re-Attachment 101. What they do is teach you to think, to see the anatomy the way it's supposed to go, to determine the means by which the original blueprint can be recreated as best as possible in view of the injury at hand, and the skills by which to achieve this. If all goes well, the Esther bunny - or whoever your patient is - will emerge on the far end of the adventure with no more than a scar and a good story to tell.

So maybe it was this that made me all spring-like: the surge of cheer and adrenaline that comes of sewing the nose back on to the Esther bunny, or maybe it's just the relief that the skills instilled into you by the dedicated teachers who came before have not failed you - nor yet your patient. Maybe it's the rich ultramarine of the twilight, the unequivocal proof given in the western sky of the inevitable rising of the light.

Or maybe I've just snapped. But it's hard to feel bad about that, full as I am of the rising tide of spring. It won't be long before there are actual chocolate Easter bunnies in the stores. Maybe I'll get one this year, commemoratively, for Jill and I. But I will NOT be biting its nose off first. Really.

Pushing Limits

Okay, I'm like everyone else: Being outside my comfort zone is... well, uncomfortable. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't do it, I figure. In fact, maybe you should go there a lot, so you can see what it's like, and maybe next time it won't be so scary. At least, that's my theory. Case in point: yesterday I married Jill.

To a man, I mean. (Why are you looking at me like that? What did you think I meant? Not that there's anything wrong with that....!)

Jill, good friend and technician extraordinaire, got engaged in the fall. Very touchingly, she asked me immediately if I would do the ceremony: Of course I will, I told her. I'd be honored.

The next thought in my head is: How the hell am I going to pull THAT off? Because, as I am not a minister nor the captain of a ship, this is something that not only have I never done before, it's something I've never even thought about doing. Never in one million years did I think that I'd be called upon to perform a wedding. And - maybe this is just me - it seems like it might be, I don't know, kind of important to get it right, since this is a day she'll remember for the rest of her life, AND she'll only get to do it once. Oh, yeah, and I believe there is some kind of legal impact to it. Just guessing, here.

So I did what any normal, reasonably competent and self-respecting person would do: I panicked.

Luckily, I have backup in all things ministerial: My mother, praise be, is a minister. So, first thing, I scuttled home and called my mommy. You know, like any normal coward would do.

Luckily for me, my mother has performed over 600 weddings. Not only does she know what parts are required for the wedding to be legal, she has a lovely ceremony that's already written out and can be tweaked easily as needed to suit the couple in question. There. That's half my work done for me. And, as a handy fringe benefit, she's full of useful tips, like: Never let them memorize their vows. Make them repeat after you. Even if they're professional actors, they probably won't be able to repeat their lines correctly under the stress of the moment; and even if they could, their job is to be fully engaged in the ceremony, which they can't be if they're trying to remember their lines. They should be looking into each other's eyes and making binding, lifelong and life-altering vows, not trying to remember their script. It's also best to keep the ceremony within a certain time limit so as not to lose people's attention. Additionally, when the part with the rings comes in, the man gets the woman's ring, and the woman gets the man's ring; they have to give them to each other, so they have to take the one that is NOT theirs. Oh, and while having children and dogs involved is adorable, it is also fraught with peril, as the behavior of dogs and children is not always predictable. Children may lay down in the aisle to play with the pretty flower petals, throw tantrums, swallow one or more of the rings, wander off into the congregation, wet themselves (or others), or otherwise fail to cooperate. Dogs may do much the same, although urinating on parishioners is slightly more likely than them wetting themselves. Include children and dogs in the ceremony at your own risk.

Ur. Jill's a musher. She has 19 dogs. Her dogs are a huuuuuuuuge part of her life. They're family. She's putting together a second team so she and her soon-to-be husband can go on overnight winter camping trips. And she wants one of them to be the ring-bearer.

Okay. We'll deal with that part later. First things first: get your mother's wedding ceremony copied out and familiarize yourself with the essential parts, the ones required in order to make the marriage legal. Next, give it to the bride for approval. Next, find out that the bride wants a hand-fasting ceremony. Okay, cool, we can do that - but that's not the part that makes the marriage legal. Hand-fasting was actually done in days of yore (whenever "yore" was) when there were no resident clergy in most towns and villages, and roads were often impassable in the winter to the degree that made it impossible for them to get to their constituents. The hand- fasting was done as a temporary measure until the clergy could make their rounds again (often in June, hence that being the traditional month for weddings). Even back in yore, hand-fasting was legal only for a year and a day, and after that the marriage was no longer valid, unless it had been formalized by taking church-sanctioned vows. Nowadays, of course, you can get your average veterinarian to do the ceremony, but there are still parts that have to be done properly in order for it to be legal.

Okay, then. We'll fold the hand-fasting into the rest of the ceremony. It'll be like a two-fer.

Next, read the ceremony out loud (remembering to pause for the expected "repeat after me" parts and responses like "I will" and so on) so you can see how long the ceremony will be - because you're doing it outside on January the second in Alaska, and it might be a teeeensy bit cold outside. I'm only guessing here, of course. And there will be people from the lower 48 who are not used to the cold and will be suffering, despite the handy bonfire. Also, if the ceremony is longer than about 20 minutes, you tend to lose people's attention even if they're NOT freezing half to death, so being reasonable about your timing is a good idea. Shorter is definitely better. This, of course, is an exceptionally good time to discover that the combined ceremony is too long, and an ever better time to place a frantic call for help to your MinisterMom, who will help you line it out mainly by letting you panic until you run out of steam (so that you can listen again), agreeing that it needs tweaking, and calmly reiterating the necessary inclusions and limitations. She will also most kindly express complete confidence in your ability to manage this task, and overlook the fact that your voice is so high and squeaky with stress that soon only bats will be able to hear it.

This, by the way, is also an excellent time to begin having serious stage fright, as well as noticing that everyone cries at weddings, and you are no exception. Hmm. Might be good to get a handle on that so you are not all sniffly while you read the vows - which, by the nature of them, are kind of tear-jerkers, and may cause your throat to close up entirely.

Oh, goodie. I didn't have enough to worry about here, so thank heavens I've got a new terror on the horizon: Being unable to actually SPEAK the vows, let alone complete the ceremony.

Okay. Worry about that later. Right now you have to coax the bride (gently, as her head is on the verge of supernova) to give you a venue, so that you can apply for your certification and get the paperwork lined out. Do this delicately every few days for at least two weeks, while her fiancee` takes care of several things on the "to do" list but forgets daily to formalise an appropriate venue for the ceremony and reception (although he is duly addressing other matters). Rejoice silently when the date and venue are finalized. Next, contact the State of Alaska court system and get your marriage commissioner's licence, which means you have to gather certain bits of information, such as the full names of the participants (properly spelled, which can be a bit of a challenge in this case), the date and location at which the wedding will occur (and, hallelujah, you now have this information), and your own name (which, if all goes as planned, you will be having trouble remembering right about now.)

A few days after this is a good time to receive your wedding commissioner's licence in the mail and promptly panic over visions of losing it before the wedding. Stuff it in the over-sized manila envelope that has your mother's wedding ceremony in it, the hand-fasting ceremony, the combined ceremony, and all remaining traces of your sanity. Emblazon both sides of the envelope with "WEDDING" in large red letters. Note at this time that there are lots of attached pages, examples of paperwork which must be filled out and duly witnessed in order for things to be legal. Also note that - luckily for you - there is yet another version of a wedding ceremony attached. Because God knows the three you already have can't possibly be enough. Prop the envelope on your desk in a prominent area so that you always know where it is, but also so that it is conveniently to hand so that you can have a massive adrenaline surge every time your eye falls on it.

Right about now, two weeks before the wedding, is when it's best to discover that the bride's dress - being made by her sister - is not finished, the rings are not ordered yet, and the bride herself is thinking longingly and sometimes tearfully of elopement. It's also a good time to learn that the bride is so overwhelmed that when you ask her what things you can take over for her to lighten the load, she can't even tell you if she needs chocolate, dinner, or alcohol to take her stress level down one notch. Realistically, the best choice is to provide all three in a handy, carry-out sort of fashion, and then to back away slowly. It's probably wisest at this juncture, when discovering that the marriage licence has not yet been obtained, not to make any stern remarks about how we have to have that for the legalities to be observed. Just say "Oh, okay" and exit the room quietly. Remind yourself that this is a capable, responsible adult and you have absolute faith in her - and besides, YOU'RE the one who can't read the wedding ceremony out loud yet, so maybe you should be focusing on that. This would be a good time to begin living on Alka-Seltzer, if you're in any doubt about the timing on that.

The following week is the best time to discover that the dog intended to be the ring bearer has gestational diabetes, by the way, and needs to be spayed less than a week before the ceremony.

On the plus side, the marriage licence is in hand and the groom's doublet, shirt and pants have all arrived. On the minus side, the rings have not - and the wedding dress is still under construction. But back on the plus side, the seamstress sister is now in Alaska, so work is proceeding.

Two days before the wedding is the best time to find out that, if you want to go over the completed wedding ceremony with the bride and groom, your best shot is to do it the night before the wedding, when you will be helping decorate the reception venue. Since this is all the rehearsal you're going to get, you should go for it. Besides, the reception is being held in a charming log-cabin chalet on a military base, and not only is it quaint and adorable, it's a lot of fun decorating it with candles and tiny white Christmas lights and pine boughs and flowers. Plus the pizza is good, and you could really use that about now.

After putting up the decorations and being dropped off at the clinic (which will be approximately 10:30 p.m.) is an excellent time to cut out the fabric for the polar fleece tunic you plan to make for the ceremony. Since the theme is sort of Lord of the Rings meets Renaissance Festival, something that suits that genre is a good idea, and since the bride could not care less what you wear so long as you wear SOMETHING, it's perfectly fine if you don't have a pattern and are making it up as you go along. You've seen Lord of the Rings, right? Twice, even. So this should be no problem, right? Even if you DON'T have a serger on your sewing machine.

The morning of the wedding is when you should stitch the tunic together. The best background noise for this would be one of the Lord of the Rings movies, naturally. This is when you'll discover that a Ford's interlocking suture pattern works really well on polar fleece - and since it's your favorite suture pattern anyway, this should bring down your stress level to the point that only two Alka-Seltzers are necessary to keep your stomach from burning to the ground. You should also get up at 6 a.m. the day of the (afternoon) wedding so that besides suturing up your polar fleece, you also have time to practice the ceremony at least 5 more times, in the frail hope that you will be able to get all the way through it if you practice it several times in a row. This will be the best time to discover that the key to this is to stand up strait, speak loudly (so that everyone can hear you) and support with your diaphragm. If you do this, suddenly you are the one leading the ceremony, not merely a participant, and some magic of grace comes to you so that you can, at last, do it without either ignoring the import of the words, or else being so touched by them that you can't talk above a choked murmur. It seems that if you can control your breathing, you can control the rest of it. Your voice now sounds confident and assured, instead of rushed and breathless and hitching.

Ah. Suddenly this is coming together. Something just clicked.

Trundle off to the clinic, where the bride is picking you up to go to the ceremony (since your "check engine" light is on in your truck, and it would be a faux pas if you broke down on the highway en route to the wedding and were never heard from again.) Call to check in. Discover that the bridal party is running about 45 minutes behind, because the dress is still under construction. Consider this excellent news, as you are not 100% sure you turned off your curling iron and would rather run home to check it than worry about it til the end of the reception.

Return to the clinic to await the bridal party. This is a good time to be flipping through radio stations and randomly come across your all-time favorite song (Unchained Melody, the Righteous Brothers - you know, the good version.) However - even with all the planning and preparations done, even dressed in your many layers of clothing (topped with your new tunic), even with your beaver mitts and your ceremony cheat-sheet and the knowledge that you CAN, in fact, speak every word of it, and with all your wedding paraphernalia beside you, ready to go - you will not have the 3 minutes' peace it takes to enjoy the song.... because your tech Jessica is waving a frantic semaphore at you from the back of the clinic. This can't be good. I am suddenly 100% certain that whatever she is about to tell me, I don't want to hear it.

Le sigh.

"What's up?" I ask her, having rolled my window down.

"Jill's van won't start and she needs you to call her right away!" Jessica exclaims. I imagine she does. Sorry, Righteous Brothers. Wait, what's that distant pooom! I just heard? Oh, that would be Jill's head exploding.

I trot upstairs to the main floor of the clinic and call Jill.

"So, the van won't start?" I say. "Is it your battery?" I ask. I have cables; I can go out and jump it for her.

"I don't think so. When I turn the key nothing happens."

"Hmm, well if you have juice, you should at least hear something when you hit the ignition," I say doubtfully; I'm no mechanic, but in times when I've had a car fail to start but the battery is not dead, it seems like I can hear some kind of noise, even with the radio off; the fuel pump, or that solenoid click, or something.

"I don't know, but I don't have time to think about it," Jill says, which shuts me up at once. She's right; she doesn't have time to think about it. "Tom is coming by the clinic to get you, and then he's coming out to get my sisters. Do you want him to come by and get you first, or get them first and then get you?"

"Whatever's the easiest for them," I say.

"Okay, you first," Jill decides, and hangs up. Meanwhile my boss - who is covering for me, as it is Saturday and normally I work the Saturdays alone - hands me a chart, asks me to call the owners, and says, "If only Jill had had the common courtesy to tell you that her van was going to break down, YOU could have worked this Saturday." I laugh, but I also think about getting up at six to make the tunic, and the fact that, until that very morning, I didn't think I'd actually be able to DO the ceremony, and I'm thinking: Yeah, I could've worked today. Not. Meanwhile Tom shows up and informs you that now Chris is bringing Jill and Wayne is bringing the sisters, so we're able to head right on in. Good thing people are flexible. Plans are now changing by the minute.

Still... I am at the wedding venue in good time - by which I mean, before the wedding party. It's very cold - the site is in the shadow of a mountain as well as down in a hollow, so all the coldest air within 10 miles is gathered there. I also note that (unsurprisingly, given that Jill and I work together) a reasonable number of attendees at the wedding ceremony are clients of ours. Excellent, I think. This means if I screw it up I'll never be able to live it down! Peachy! Right about now I start having visions of me having a seizure in the middle of the vows, or perhaps having an episode of Tourette's syndrome or possibly pitching headlong into the bonfire. Ah, a little more adrenaline hits my bloodstream. JUST what I needed.

However... it is very pretty here now, and that in itself is soothing. Because it's so cold, all available moisture has precipitated out onto the trees, frosting every twig and branch gorgeously. There is a stream running only a few yards from the bonfire; its quiet murmur seems to erode the spiky edges of my anxiety, smoothing them off. There are two sleighs, with black Percherons teamed up in front, in black harness trimmed in red and laden with jingle bells. There are red feather spikes jauntily crowning the horses, who look suitably renaissance-y and who are waiting patiently for something to happen. One of them turns his big, dark eyes on me for a few moments, calm and relaxed and endlessly patient. This is a particular specialty of the cold-bloods, it seems, who are long on patience and short on fractious, by and large. Especially large.

The groom shows up, looking spiff in doublet, fur jacket and mukluks. Shortly thereafter Jill arrives, and she is looking beautiful. I know they say all brides are beautiful, and maybe it's so, but I have to say: Beautiful. She is wearing a long burgundy velvet cloak and her dress is gorgeous. And glory be, here are the bride's sisters, one of them with a last minute addition to the dress.

Ah. Now that the bride is fully kitted out, it's time for our sleigh ride.

Accordingly, we all pile into the two sleighs (one of which has a "just married" sign on the back) and tuck ourselves in amongst the lap blankets. We go over the river and through the woods - well, through the woods, THEN over the river, then back over the river and back through the woods again. The trees tend to bow over with the weight of the frost on their branches; looking up at them as we go underneath, it is as if we are passing under a wintry bower, a latticed arch of crystalline white. The clop of the horses' heavy hooves on the road is both soothing and enlivening, a sound thick with happy memory for me, and for a little while I forget that the opportunity to really make a hash of things still lies just ahead.

Soon we are back at the bonfire, which smells divine in the cold air. We gather around the bonfire. One of my clients helpfully stashes my beaver mitts in his capacious pockets so that I don't trail them in the fire. Jill is at the edge of her ability to cope with all the attention, congratulations, queries and compliments, not to mention a blizzard of flashes from various cameras that makes it look like she is at a red-carpet premiere. We decide between us where she and Karl are going to stand. Aaaaand... I'm up to bat.

Somehow I manage to speak all the words in the correct order in a clear voice that, I am told later, was audible and intelligible to everyone. Both bride and groom are able to speak clearly and reply where indicated. As we go along Jill goes from looking a little stressed and frazzled... to glowing. She looks as if someone has lit a candle inside her. There is a big, genuine smile on her face and her eyes shine. The cold has put roses in her cheeks and she looks, at that moment, like she is about 18, full to brimming over with the flush of young love.

Ah. It must be working for her the way she wants it to. And isn't that a pretty sight.

Raven delivers the rings on cue, neither of which are dropped in the snow. They exchange rings and vows. I pronounce them husband and wife. I speak the blessing over them and close the ceremony. We have hot cider and cocoa by the fire. A wave of relief washes over me: I did not pass out, have a seizure, pitch headlong into the fire, nor torch up my beaver mitts. I did all the legal parts in the correct order, and there was no inappropriate swearing. Whew. I think I scraped out a win. In the spirit of celebration and sacrifice to the gods, I give my ceremony cheat-sheet to the fire, and let the smoke carry the invocation to whatever deities are watching over our small, semi-pagan wedding, thinking: May your days together be good and long upon this earth. This is the last part of the blessing, extracted from my mother's ceremony, and it's lovely, and simple, and right to the point. Just the thing as I watch sparks spiral up in the smoke, flying away amongst the frost-silvered trees and into the rising tide of evening.

I notice I can't feel my fingertips; I can't decide if it's cold or nerves. "Hey... where's the hip flask?" I ask, joking; but a shout goes up: "Yo! Someone over here needs cough medicine!" and lo and behold: rum to go in my cider.

Now we saddle up and head onto the base for the reception (which will be more heavily attended than the wedding, at which only 30 or so people were present). I am feeling a vague unreality which, upon arriving at the chalet, is immediately eclipsed by being waylaid by every person I see, half of whom compliment me on how pretty the ceremony was (not that I had much to do with that, apart from helping tweak the passages written by others into a reasonable order); the other half buttonhole me and ask how it went. I eat, I socialise, I run occasional errands between guests, DJ, caterers, and the marital couple. I get the paperwork signed so that it's all official, keeping the appropriate copy for my records. I eat excellent food and have two glasses of wine. At the end I stay to help strike the decorations - by no means a requirement, but it's a short task, and it seemed like the right thing to do - and at last I am headed home.

It was a 19-hour day, and a good many things that were supposed to get done a day (or seven) before the wedding got done on the morning of - but in the end, I think it was okay. Everything got done, and at the end, depsite the many monkeywrenches that appeared at the last minute, it seemed suddenly to come together in an amazingly seamless fashion. Everyone switched horses in midstream rather flawlessly, when it came right down to it, cheerfully altering their plans to accomodate vehicular failures and what have you, and everything that might have been a problem... ultimately wasn't.

I don't know if I would do it again (certainly not for anyone but a good friend, someone like Jill, for whom I would willingly walk through that particular fire again) - although presumably, as with many skills, the first one is the scariest and the hardest; the process of doing something like this teaches you a few things. So I may never push this particular limit again... But at least I know I can.

Saving The World

Ahh, the Holidays. As usual, not enough time to get everything done, but - also as usual - kind of fun anyway, what with it being all festive and stuff. And I hope you are all having a Merry Christmas, by the way.

To no one's surprise, we are having a white Christmas up here. It has, however, been quite warm (34 to 38 degrees); if not for the fact of a heavy snowfall last week we might NOT be having a white Christmas up here. However: the year has turned. The days are getting longer (by about 26 seconds a day right now, but hey - you take what you can get). I'd say the majority of Alaskans are observant of the solstices (and to a lesser degree the equinoxes) because the seasonal changes up here are so extreme. Hence for many of us, the winter holiday cluster starts on December 21st - my father's birthday, incidentally, and happy birthday to him - and ends on January second. I personally like to extend that to my own birthday, in late January, but while you're all welcome to join me in that, I don't insist that others collude with me in my celebratory delusions. Mostly.

This year for Christmas, two of my sisters got me a gift certificate to Global Giving, an organization which oversees about 800 charities. I get a little email notification and I think: Hmm, what's this? So I open it up and there is a little pile of money that I can give to any of the charities they oversee. All of a sudden I'm aaaall perky. Ooooh. It's winter solstice, a perfect time to start feeling festive and holiday-ish. I'm SO not waiting til Christmas. And moreover, I am shamelessly stealing this idea for my Christmas present to the Wildwood quartet.

Naturally - and here, put on your surprised faces - when spending my gift certificate I went to the section on charities involving animals. I know - who can believe that? Me, interested in animal things! Go figure. Still, odd as it is - or not - for me to be interested in things related to animals, I had SO much fun shopping for pet projects there (so to speak). I can't even tell you. In the end I divided my gift certificate up, trying to focus mainly on things that would provide a sustainable improvement. For instance, I gave money to a livestock guardian dog project in Africa, which provides dogs, puppy vaccines and training for the native farmers so that they can use dogs to protect their livestock (mainly from cheetahs, I understand). This benefits the livestock, obviously, since they're protected from predation. It also obviously benefits the farmers. But in addition it benefits the cheetahs, since the farmers will shoot any cheetah they see on their land, out of fear of predation on their livestock. If the cheetahs stay away, they stay alive.... and there aren't so many of them that we can afford to waste them.

There were lots of other projects that tempted me: ones where you can purchase or help purchase a goat for a family who can then breed the goat and sell or rear the offspring for future income, and dairy off the goat for food; ones where you can help bring sheep flocks up to dairy standard for income and food for the community; ones where you can invest in habitat recovery and education for local people so that they can encourage wildlife recovery and the economic benefit of the eco-tourism that comes with it. Lots of choices. And of course there are tons and tons of other, non-animal-related projects as well. But I'm happy with my little animal projects, because they dovetail nicely with my personal philosophy. My theory is that animals will save the world.

Chief Seattle said that if all the beasts were gone, man would die of a great loneliness of the spirit. This is, in my opinion, unquestionably true. But there's more to it: If all the humans on the earth suddenly died, the world would go on. But if only we remained and all the animals died, the entire world would die. We are not so necessary to the ecology of the world. But without animals to pollinate, to sew seeds, to graze and fertilize the grasslands, entire ecosystems would die. We can't do these things for ourselves. We need them way more than they need us. And for all our intelligence and ability to manipulate the world around us, in the end I think it will be the simplicity of animals that is our salvation.

So it is somehow very satisfying to me to add my little financial nudges to projects that dovetail with my personal philosophy. I love the idea that somewhere out there a family is given a goat who will, by virtue of nothing more than being a goat, will give them a sustainable income. I love it that people are training guardian dogs who will - typically without direct contact - run predators away from livestock, preventing harm to both. I love that wild animals provide income to poor areas by their presence, rather than their absence. I love that these animals, just out there doing no more than being what they are.... one little piece at a time, they're out there, changing things. Saving the world.