Back in the saddle

We’re back on the trail this morning after hearing from Cowboy’s vet that his cancer has not spread since surgery June 28 to remove a malignant tumor.

This is good news. It at least means there’s so far no evidence of the cancer spreading in my 6-year-old pal and it probably means the adenocarcinoma is not the most aggressive kind. I am relieved. Our vet called first thing after looking over the x-ray and CT scan taken on Monday. It’s been a long haul since Cowboy’s other vet first suspected a mass on June 25 and referred us on to the surgeon.

Cowboy just seems grateful that we saddled up this morning for a walk instead of another trip to the doctor, though he has been an excellent patient and healed faster than I expected. He’s all the way back to his happy, heeler-kind of normal. He’s a tough cowboy with good doctors.

We’ll go back initially for monthly checks. The vet who called this morning treated Cowboy as pup when he was surrendered to the hospital with erlichiosis (ur·luh·kee·ow·suhs), a tick-inflicted disease. Cowboy’s first home was Laguna Pueblo. I brought him to Placitas for foster care. It took only three days for his status to change. In 2016, the tiny, sick pup rested his head on my leg as we sat on the floor and watched the season’s first big rain through a patio door.

My report today might seem odd if you have no experience with cancer. I had a CT scan a few days before Cowboy.

Trying to explain the complexity of a chronic disease involving billions of rambling cells, our vet said Cowboy’s cancer experience might be akin to my own: Twenty years out from prostate cancer and seven since treatment for lung cancer.

At any rate, today we are in the clear.

My first thought was how extraordinary it is for me to be able to enjoy this view while others suffer. I am an American Boomer and I often feel this kind of privileged-person guilt. This morning it probably was fueled by watching a movie about World War 11 courage and brutality, ”A Call to Spy,” before bed.

My second thought was about standing by death beds and wondering about death. A boilerplate religious answer about living and lives taken, pain and suffering versus happiness and comfort, came next: We have to know one to know the other. But, for me, that still doesn’t dispel the mystery.

My next thought, after going back to bed and working on sentences in my head, was embarrassment about my habit of trying to ascribe human stories to morning mountains, my growing aversion to metaphor.

I really had no answers. I gave up on silly sentences. Time to move on. Time to walk with Cowboy, iPhone in hand but only the most straightforward words worth the while.

I am thankful for iPhones for sure. I can see this mountain from bed but have to get up and go outside for a clear view. I was drawn this morning by the play of shadow and light on the green mountain flanks. I can record the image in seconds, without words.

Maybe mixed up in my thinking, too, was re-reading an E.B. White essay, “A Slight Sound in Evening,” about Thoreau and Walden.

White wrote there about the purity of Thoreau’s words: ” … all things and events speak without metaphor.” He admired Walden for conveying “religious feeling without religious images.”

Dear Dad, I’m sure it’s raining on the east side of the Pecos today. That’s good because I’m afraid the Calf Canyon/Hermit’s Peak fire has burned all the way west to Hamilton Mesa or at least to Iron Gate.

Bob Robertson on Hamilton Mesa, June 1970.

I guess it’s also burned over where we left your ashes with Pat’s near the Mora River. I won’t annoy you with any biblical stuff about ashes and dust. I’ll just remember how much you loved the Pecos and be thankful that it’s getting good rain for the first time since the whole fire mess got started on April 6. The combined fire is now New Mexico’s largest on record.

I guess I’d better mind my words, though, because now people around Las Vegas are understandably worried about flooding through the giant burn scar. For one thing, the Gallinas River, near where I remember visiting Jean and Swede Johnson in Montezuma when you taught at Highlands in the 1950s, is still a big Las Vegas water supply.

The rain started most places around Northern New Mexico on June 17. At least it will cool things off in the heart of the Pecos. There was another fire there last year in June — the Rincon Fire — that worried firefighters enough that they wrapped Beatty’s Cabin in that weird, fire resistant plastic stuff. This is all climate change, warming and aridification, Dad, all accelerated since you passed in 1995.

But on to happier things. Here you are with Pat and Mus sometime in the 1970s, walking down the Rito Valdez and drinking bourbon and rain water near Mora Flats. I think it was a trip with Gordon and Norma Peters and I’m sure Gordon took the picture. And there is good old Mus in the background. Pat is no doubt warming up her special backpacker’s green chile stew.

Down the Rito Valdez.
Bob and Pat Robertson, between rain showers at Mora Flats, sometime in the 1970s.

Thank you for the trips we took there together, and with Pat and Rob and Phelps. Spare me days, though, like the one in the 1960s, with Oliver McMillan, when we got caught in lightning on Trailriders Wall.

Cheers, Dad. Love, John. June 19, 2022.

See also ”Canyon Road, 1960.” https://dreamranch.blog/2015/03/12/canyon-road-1961-dreams-and-troubles/

Now they’re going to tell me to give up cookies.

I’ll cut back under scientific pressure but I won’t be happy about it. I whistled through an echocardiogram this week, then got zinged for A1C.

Why do I have to be apologetic for my lifelong love of potatoes and pasta? How could a wholesome-looking oatmeal raisin cookie — or two — be a shady character? The list of taboos seems pretty extensive.

I haven’t pleaded bum knees when facing lack of exercise charges. I haven’t eaten a fast-food cheeseburger in years, despite my affection for Blake’s Lotaburger. I don’t like drive-through fries. I can’t remember the last time I treated myself to a root beer, let alone a Brown Cow. I’ve learned how to BAKE apple cider doughnuts at home.


LOTA Burger® “New Mexico Style”

I only use potatoes for breakfast burritos and green chile stew. I admit I might have screwed up during the last A1C testing period by consuming more tortillas while cutting back on bread. Those giant while flour ones are great for my large-diameter breakfast bombs. But where does it end?

I would rather wait for one of those snappy New York Times health stories that challenge conventional wisdom. Sometimes I feel like I haven’t gotten a break since the medical world lightened up on coffee and eggs.

I am not asking to reverse the indictment of cigarettes. I’m not talking about indulging in alcohol after 37 years of aridification. I just got my second Covid booster shot and I wore a mask during my stops today at the Wild Birdhouse and Presbyterian cardiology. I drove right past a beckoning Blake’s after fasting for the damn blood sugar test.

Cookies are about all I ask, although I’ve come to more fully appreciate daytime relaxation in my early 70s. I am RETIRED. I believe in the “keep moving” school of thought but it’s also true that days off from walking, afternoon naps and ibuprofen — another no-no from the sensible health and medical faction — make my joints feel better, too.

Meanwhile, I’m afraid my mission for the rest of the week is to convert my 30-year-old mountain bike, which has been gathering dust in all the wrong places, to an indoor exercise machine.

— 30 —

With temperatures nearing 10O and no rain for 70-some days, I don’t think I regained consciousness most days until near dark.

There were daytime outings but other than my usual post-doctor-visit lunch at the Range, the nights are about all I remember.

Wednesday night

Thursday night.
Saturday night.
Later Saturday night.
Every night: Crossword puzzles and Cowboy snores.

— 30 —