Reason For Hope?

Scientists have recently discovered a link between a retrovirus (XMRV) and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. They don't know whether the virus causes CFS, or is merely associated with it. But it is present in a large majority of CFS patients, of whom there are some one million in the U.S.

I am one of that million, and have been for most of my adult years. Although I don't often write about my experience of the disease, it remains the central fact of my daily life. I don't write or talk about it much because the essence of a chronic condition is its utter boringness. It bores me to death, so I can imagine what it must do to those around me. My endlessly patient husband is the only one I regale with the ins and outs of my skirmishes with CFS.

I've been lucky that—despite there being no physical marker for CFS, nothing that shows up on any tests--my doctors have always taken me seriously, believed my symptoms, treated me with respect and compassion. But they have never been able to help.

Now, there is talk of hope, of possible medications. MXRV belongs to the HIV family of viruses, and possibly some drugs used to treat HIV could work for MXRV. Or other drugs could be invented. Or something.

If hope is the thing with feathers that perches on the soul, as Emily D. said, my hope's feathers are all fluffed up. You know, as when birds are asleep--not dead, but definitely asleep. I wouldn't want this little feathery thing to be shot down or hurt in any way. So for now I'll keep it safely snoozing, and maybe some day it will fly again.

Blog Anniversary

I just realized it's been a year and a month since I started blogging. I had resisted the idea of a blog for at least a year before that—I couldn't imagine why one would ever want to do such a thing. But then I started...and I've found it impossible to stop.

This is like no kind of writing I've ever done before. Writing whatever comes into one's mind, and sending it out into the ether, and having real people actually read it—who'd ever thought such a thing was possible? Not having to worry about word counts, or whether the subject will be too dark or too quirky for the masses—this is real freedom,. And it's addictive.

But if it hadn't been for you, my first, faithful readers, I'd never have stayed with it—I'd have felt like the sound of one hand clapping, a tree falling in the woods unheard, etc. But here I am, clicking away about my obsessions, and here you are, kindly reading about them. Every time one of you leaves a comment, my heart leaps, my fingers itch to write again.

It takes a village—as Hillary would say—to make a blog. Thank you all for being my village.

Garden Woes

The down side of having all these critters is that the garden is going to hell in a hand basket. My vegetable garden and my once-decent flower beds are all looking orphaned and bedraggled, crying for a blanket of snow to cover their shame.

This is the time in Vermont when gardeners start putting away their trowels, but when they do so they leave behind neatly composted beds, trimmed of dead stems and mildewed detritus. I bet some of them even clean and oil their tools, even scrub out their flower pots and rinse them in bleach. But they don't have new puppies, or baby goats.

Let me take you on a tour of my disgraceful end-of-season garden. Proceeding in an orderly fashion from front to back the first thing you will observe is a tiny stick-like tree, a baby Japanese maple that the deer have attacked. The wee brave thing is still alive, however, as evidenced by the leaf buds on some limbs. A timely wrapping with burlap would ensure its surviving both deer and the coming blizzards, and I must do that one of these days.

Regard the flower beds along the front of the house. What is that white stuff sticking out from under the mulch like a slip showing under a skirt hem? It is plastic, placed there by me in better days to kill the noxious Bishop's Weed. It wouldn't take five minutes to tuck it all in neatly, and I would feel much better, but who has five minutes? The low-growing thyme that I planted among the flagstones would also feel much better if it got one last weeding—a two-hour job that I could do if Bisou were to lapse into a coma some day.

Ignore the mildewed lilacs and come to the back of the house. Yes, this is the vegetable garden: the deceased zucchini plant, the half-drowned peppers and eggplants, the pale tomatoes—all victims of this rainy summer and fall. The green crops—the kale and chard—are doing fine. Even the broccoli, gnawed into lace by snails, is still producing. The green beans, planted too late, are in full bloom, waiting to perish at the first frost.

Watch out, or you'll get snagged by the untrimmed rose bush! See how pathetic the flower bed by the back door looks: mildewed Echinacea, puny sage and thyme, a single nasturtium, clover everywhere. It would look even worse if the various mints—apple, orange, spear, and lemon balm—hadn't taken over most of the space.

On the barn wall the pumpkin vines hang limply dead, looking like giant cobwebs...perfect for Halloween, I guess. But I need to get those pumpkins to a dry spot where they can cure, if I can find a dry spot on this soggy hilltop.

How can I bring this gardening season to a graceful end? My days and nights truncated by puppy needs, I feel as tired as my plants look. But soon the first killing frost—the weary gardener's friend—will end my fretting, and when spring comes around again Bisou will be grown, the baby goats will be gone to their new homes, and I will grow the best garden ever.

Sleepless Night

I was blessed with babies who slept through the night after four weeks of age, and who stayed healthy and slept soundly until they flew the nest and went to college.

This did not prepare me for having puppies. Bisou, for example, has been sleeping from 11 p.m. to 6:30 a.m. since she came to live with us, which is awfully good. But yesterday afternoon she got her second Parvo vaccine, and at bedtime she just couldn't settle down. Thinking she needed a bathroom break, I took her outside. The moon was full, the yard was bright. Bisou squatted, then came and sat by my feet. I carried her back to the bedroom, and put her in her crate.

No sooner had I dozed off than she started scrabbling at her bedding. Scarcely knowing where or who I was, I carried her in one arm and held on to the banister with the other, trying to keep from falling down the stairs and killing us both. But she wasn't interested in her grassy bathroom. I crawled back upstairs and retired to the guest room, reminding myself that it had never been my husband's idea to get a puppy, so he should be spared the trials that go along with it.

I lay down on top of the covers, and pulled an afghan over Bisou and myself. She groaned, turned around, groaned again, settled...of course by then I was wide awake. Pretty soon Bisou stirred, scrabbled, licked my face, and whined when I picked her up. Something in her abdomen was hurting her.

Another trip outside, another look at the calm and lovely moon. It was clear that Bisou wanted to sleep as much as I did, if she could just get comfortable. Not wanting to risk the stairs again in my befuddled state, I opted for the love-seat in the back porch. I'd have to sleep scrunched up, but at least I'd be right by the back door if Bisou needed to go out again.

She didn't. She settled into my arms and snoozed away, while I fretted about the abdominal sensitivity and the restlessness,and wondered how early I could call the vet, and reminded myself of how fragile a puppy is, and how awful it would be to wake up with her little body cold in my arms.

At six a.m. she woke up and I fixed her breakfast, which she inhaled. I got through goat and chicken and big-dog chores somehow, and Bisou seemed fine...except that she hopped up on the sofa and sat there calmly, looking around—a first in her short life. At that point all I could think about was sleep, so I climbed up next to her and pulled an afghan over our heads and we both passed out until noon.

She's been fine the rest of the day, no more tummy aches...just a little calmer and more mellow than usual. And I have loved this new, temporary Bisou, so eager to lie in my arms, so gentle with her jaws. I'm enjoying it while it lasts. Tomorrow, the red-haired menace will be with us again.

Lapdog-In-Training

In the evening, when the chickens are locked in for the night, the goats have been milked and fed, and the big dogs are stretched out on the rugs (no fire in the stove yet, but that's coming), Bisou gets her lapdog training session.

During the day, as I'm able to, I give her short lessons on leash-walking, on paying attention (make eye contact and you get a treat), on coming when called (do so and you get another treat). I teach her basic vocabulary: come, sit, inside, outside, do your business, leave it (my fingers, the lavender bush), take it (as I throw a ball), give (as she brings it back but hangs on to it), good girl! (whenever I catch her doing something not bad).

All this is a lot of work, and Bisou is doing as well as a twelve-week-old puppy can be expected to do. But in the evenings, during lapdog training, she really shines.

In fact, we're doing lapdog training right now—complicated by the fact that my lap isn't quite able to hold both a lapdog and a laptop. But Bisou, true to her ancient lineage, snuggles against my body, under the poncho that my mother crocheted for me in 1972, groans, then relaxes.

She is in her element. In days of yore, Cavaliers were known as “Comfort Spaniels,” or “Spaniels Gentle.” In the daytime, as Bisou charges around on her short legs, delivering death bites to the dried-out stalks of long-gone tiger lilies, she is my red-haired Maenad, my holy terror. But when the sun goes down she is all warmth and silky fur and big brown eyes, a spaniel gentle if I ever saw one.

It Takes A Village

Like chickens, wolves, and humans, groups of goats have definite hierarchies, and how these hierarchies are established is not usually a pretty sight.

My two goats, Blossom and Alsiki, dwelt in harmony until I introduced Virginia Slim into the herd. The little angels immediately attacked the newcomer, butting her away from food, giving her no peace and even, to my horror, biting her udder.

Goat books and goat people advise the novice goatherd to leave the girls alone to work things out on their own. The only positive action one can take is to ensure that all goats in one's possession have been dehorned. Hard though it was, therefore, I adopted a laissez faire attitude towards my herd of three.

Next thing I knew, the tables had turned and the elegant and refined Virginia Slim was slamming into the scruffier but sweet-tempered Alsiki, keeping her away from the hay feeder, from the grain dish, and from me at petting time. I felt sorry for Alsiki, but she seemed none the worse for wear and I was relieved that at least pregnant Blossom was escaping Virginia Slim's wrath.

Goatherds with large facilities segregate new mothers and their babies for a couple of weeks in maternity wards, until the babies are smart and agile enough to keep out of the way of the other goats. But as I only have one space for my goats; there was no question of isolating Blossom and the twins.

During the first couple of days after the birth, I watched to see how Virginia Slim and Alsiki acted, and was glad to see that, if a kid stood between them and the hay feeder, they would merely nudge it aside with their muzzle. There was no butting, no cornering. Even Slim's aggression towards Alsiki seemed to have diminished.

Meanwhile the babies prospered. They had round, milk-filled bellies every time I checked, and by the end of their first week had started running around and leaping into the air like crickets.

At about this time, I noticed that Slim's milk production was decreasing, but I figured it had to do with the onset of cold weather, or the upheaval caused by the birth. I was right about the latter, but not in the way I had envisioned: Slim was letting the babies nurse at her udder.

I have heard of ewes trying to steal lambs from other ewes. And females of various species will sometimes adopt babies whose mothers have rejected them. But Blossom is the most attentive of mother; she has plenty of milk; and I have seen no sign of Slim trying to keep the babies away from her. No, Slim simply stands there, and if one of the kids walks up and starts nuzzling her udder she gets this soft look in her eyes and goes to work cleaning under the baby's tail while it sucks. And Blossom doesn't seem to mind a bit.

I have no idea why my goats are acting this way. But I like to think that it is because they are at peace, because Slim finds the babies irresistible (who wouldn't?) and Blossom is secure enough in her parenting to let her share in their upbringing.

While this is not exactly a case of the lion lying down with the lamb, I hope that I have played a role in this sudden goat harmony, that maybe all that singing and talking and brushing have not been in vain, and that I'm giving my goats a measure of the peace and serenity that their presence always gives me.

Bisou's Bell

I put a bell on Bisou's collar today to help me keep track of her. The little bell has a nice ring, and tinkles gaily as Bisou charges around the house. And that reminded me of the little faery dog with the magic bell that Tristan sent as a gift to his love, Iseult the Fair.

According to legend, Tristan and Iseult fell madly in love when they drank by mistake a love philtre destined for Iseult and King Mark of Cornwall to share on their wedding night. The philtre made for much passion and tragedy, ecstasy and pain, with Mark's jealous courtiers forever seeking to betray the lovers to the King.

At one point, Tristan had to flee for his life and take refuge in Wales, where the Duke possessed an extraordinary little dog, a love-gift from a faery. The little dog wore a bell around its neck, and whoever came near it forgot all sorrow and pain.

And as Tristan stroked the little dog's soft fur and heard the clear tinkle of the bell, and felt how his anguish was soothed, he thought what a fine gift the little dog would make for Iseult. But the Duke of Wales, as you can imagine, was quite attached to the little dog,.

It happened that the land was being ravaged by a hairy giant named Urgan, and the Duke promised that he would give whomever should vanquish the giant anything he desired. Tristan promptly fought Urgan, and showed up at the Duke's castle with the giant's severed hand, and asked for the little magic dog as his reward.

The Duke blanched and offered his sister and half his land instead, but Tristan insisted, and finally got the dog, and sent it to Cornwall, to Iseult.

Iseult was delighted with the little dog, and had a kennel of gold encrusted with jewels made for it, and carried the dog in her arms wherever she went. And as she did so, she felt much better, and her sorrow and anguish at Tristan's absence grew less.

But one day she found out that the little dog and its bell were faery, which is why she'd been so much less depressed. Iseult did not want to be happy while Tristan suffered, so she took off the bell and threw it into the sea.

The legend does not say what became of the little dog. But it is well known that Cavalier-type spaniels were around as early as the Middle Ages, and I ask you, what other dog could Tristan's fairy gift have been, if not a Cavalier?