The Chemo Chronicles, Part I: Doggie Make-A-Wish and Father's Day Memories

Jemez Mountains, NM—About 10 weeks ago our dog, Henry, was diagnosed with an extremely aggressive Stage IV lymphoma. As he lay dying before our very eyes late one Saturday night at the emergency vet 100 miles away from home, the veterinarian told us that chemotherapy or euthanasia were basically our only options. When your dog is only six years old and he goes from being extremely healthy and happy one day to very sick and sad three days later, there's not a lot of time to consider options, particularly when the vet says she could see the cancer cells taken from his badly enlarged lymph glands subdividing before her eyes right there in the microscope. We had no good choices.

So we chose the chemo.

 The Canine Chemo Conundrum

Many of our friends thought we were nuts. "He's only a dog, a stray rescued from the pound," some would say.

"How much did you say that cost?" others would ask suspiciously, raising their eyebrows and wondering whether we had suddenly come into some kind of windfall that they didn't know about.

But to us, there was no other choice. Yes, Henry was a stray who ended up at the pound—a damaged  and otherwise unremarkable animal who had managed by sheer luck to escape from awful circumstances—and yes, when we decided to adopt him, he pretty much hit the jackpot: Already in his short time on Earth, Henry has had a life that some dogs might only dream of. He has been bathed in love; he has received the greatest care, with good long walks each day, a fine doggie playmate to romp with, a soft bed to sleep in, never-ending supplies of rubber bones and antlers to chew on, and two pairs of eager hands that are always willing to provide a good scratching around the ears or under the chin to remind him what a good boy he is.

Some people have told us that in itself is more than enough—that we should call it good, save some money, avoid some long-term pain, and administer an inexpensive and trauma-free dose of heavy barbiturate to dispatch our little friend off to wait beside the Rainbow Bridge. And maybe they're right. We will face that eventuality soon enough. It is pretty much a mathematical certainty that once Henry has completed his 20 weeks of chemo, it's only a matter of time before the lymphoma takes over again. He could have two weeks or a year or perhaps more after the conclusion of chemotherapy. But the odds for longer-term survival are not in Henry's favor. Probably a very short time after the veterinarians administer their final dose of poisonous treatment to Henry, the cancer will repopulate his body with a zeal and efficiency unseen in few organisms, and the invaders will take over and steal the light from his eyes, the joy from his perfect disposition and the softness from those wonderful ears of his. Once that happens, we will have but one humane choice.

And this is exactly why we have endeavored to compress an exciting, happy life into whatever time Henry has left. We have decided to create our own version of Make-A-Wish for our dog.

 Caution: Live Animals on Board!

Last week we had finally caught up on our credit-card payments (it is true that chemo therapy for a dog is ridiculously expensive) and adventure planning, so it seemed fitting that Father's Day would be our first big adventure. We loaded dogs, pancake batter, cooking utensils, water, orange juice, bug repellent, first-aid kits, phones, towels, sleeping bags, guns, doggie beds and pretty much anything else we could think of into the car and headed off for the woods.

My father and mother used to do the same thing when I was a kid. Except they had no pets. My brother or my childhood friends and I took on that role, and we happily rode in the back of the pickup truck more times than I can count. Mom was obsessive about eating and dad was obsessive about driving and shooting at things, so once a month we'd make a pilgrimage into the woods for blueberry pancakes and exploratory journeys down long, unmarked dirt roads. Those adventures have fed my memories for decades, so we figured they'd do the same for our dogs.

In the shadow of the Bald Mountain (Cerro Pelon) in Rio Arriba County and near the northern edge of the Valles Caldera National Preserve, we prepared pancakes in a meadow that had not been burned by wildfire. I had forgotten what live trees looked like, particularly fir and spruce varieties. While we dined on bacon and eggs, and pancakes dressed in enough Mrs. Butterworth's to draw in yellow jackets from points far and near, I pictured my father's smiling face. He would have been holding out his plate for another helping of pancakes with one hand, while using the other one to tuck a pant leg into the top of a cowboy boot. The hot June sun overhead would have caused him to squint, but even then, the light in his eyes would have still outshone the brilliant, golden orb floating in a sea of robin-egg blue sky high above the trees.

I don't even have a photo of my father. The Cerro Grande fire robbed me of all of those, as well as countless other tangible reminders of bygone days. But memories are powerful and they create their own snapshots—the kind that don't yellow or fade with age. Unlike Polaroids or scrapbooks, memories become more saturated and colorful with each passing day. As I looked down at my canine companions, who were covered in a layer of dust that had been kicked up during a mad dash after some kind of forest-dwelling rodent, and fed them each a tiny scrap of bacon, I wondered whether dogs remember things, or do they simply live out each day as if it's the only one there is?

As we loaded back up for the rest of the trip, I reckoned that if none of us woke up tomorrow, we could say we'd had a pretty great last day on Earth. If we did wake up tomorrow, then we'd be able to remember one heck of a time. Either way, we had been successful.

 Swimming in Fun

 As we drove down out of the mountains, which were surprisingly uncrowded despite the fact that it was Father's Day, we stopped at Abiquiu Lake. I thought of what Henry might say if he could ask the Make-A-Wish people for something, and I swear I could hear his voice in my head, plain as day, saying, "Well, Mister, I've never been a very good swimmer, and I could stand a bit more practice before I go."

Heavy waves from high winds began to take over the lake, and representatives from the Army Corps of Engineers took up megaphones to coax boaters out of the water just as we rolled up to the lake's edge. Henry wasted no time channeling his inner Labrador and wading out into the waves. Once his feet could no longer touch bottom, we saw how painfully awkward his swimming style was. He began to yaw in the heavy surf, and for a moment I contemplated whether I would need to play lifeguard to an 80-pound dog. But he recovered nicely and was game to retrieve a stick several times from deep water.

Although the dogs had been restless and pacing in the back of the truck earlier in the day, there was nary a sign of them as we made our way home. A tired dog is a good dog, and both of them were on their best behavior somewhere in the heart of dreamland.

Back home, we enjoyed a beer while reflecting on a satisfying day. Henry enjoyed chips and salsa while our backs were turned. He seems to know he can get away with a lot more stuff these days now that he's dying of cancer. I don't fault him a bit.

See you on down the road.

The Stuff that Dreams are Made of!

DENVER, Colo.—Casa Bonita is a Denver dining institution that has been captivating the imagination and insulting palates for 40 thrilling years.

A meal that looks great in B&W or color!

Last time I had been to this Disney-meets-Reno-meets-pennitentiary-cafeteria "entertainmeatery" I was eight years old and my father was still alive. This visit was a celebration of 15 years of togetherness with my wonderful common-law spouse. It takes an anniversary of that magnitude to pull off a stunt as callous as taking the person you love to amateur dinner theater known for lousy food. I love my spouse, and I love that she loves me enough to put up with my shenanigans. With so much love in the air, it was easy to overlook the blemishes, age spots and feebleness that had overtaken this once-proud establishment.

In some ways, Casa Bonita hasn't changed much since I had been there last, and I don't mean that in a good way. The place could seriously use some updating. A musty smell haunts the outer alcove and the walls are stained with the smudges of a million hungry hands feeling their way into the interior.

Front row seats make the show even better!

The show inside had devolved from the excitement of a tribute to daring Acapulco cliff divers into a high-school-production-quality event featuring a pasty local youngster with decent abs, wearing board shorts and a tentative grin, executing Fosbury flops into a pond of stagnant water. But that's not the only act in the show, and the escaped-gorilla schtick is still a crowd pleaser in an unsettling way. Imagine a guy in cheap monkey costume running around a restaurant trying to escape a panicked trainer, and you can imagine the hilarity. Oh, the gorilla wears board shorts, too! Meanwhile, an invisible guitarist strolls around someplace inside the restaurant and strums tunes. His highlight of the evening was a flamenco version of Hotel California sans lyrics. Apparently, Casa Bonita's strategy is to provide entertainment to divert your attention away from the food.

Belly full of cheese

Yes, though it may seem hard to believe, the food at the self-described "World's Most Exciting Restaurant" is appallingly bad. Casa Bonita fare comes in two colors: yella and a shade of white pastier than the cliff diver's flesh. For almost $15 bucks, a diner can shovel down as many pasteurized processed-cheese-food soaked corn tortillas and rice and beans as they can stomach. It's as if the Norwegian farmers of Central Minnesota had come up with the menu after reading a sixth grade textbook on Mexico. The all-you-can-eat feature means Casa Bonita is not a bad deal for the hungry, drunk or terminally ill. But the weirdest thing about Casa Bonita's "authentic" Mexican food? Not a drop of spice and the fact that the white and yellow "cheese" sauces never seem to congeal no matter how long they pool uneaten on your plate! Oh, and don't forget: your meal comes with complementary chips and salsa—a chunky red sauce that eats like catsup with a bad attitude.

After dropping a deuce on the way out!

Here's a hint: there actually is tequila in the margaritas, and one or two mugs of this tangy, salt-stained ambrosia will help make the meal and entertainment go down a whole lot smoother.

But who needs taste and entertainment when all you really want on the menu is nostalgia? Casa Bonita is as Denver-authentic as gold mining and whores on Colfax avenue. I'm glad the show continues to go on after 40 years, and I hope it goes on for 40 more (though I sure hope they'll change out the water in that diving pond before then).

See you on down the road!

(P.S. This strange post was done entirely on an iPhone, something I don't recommend anyone do at all.)

The Wrong Place for Lunch

PLATTSMOUTH, Nebraska—It was hunger that lured us off the highway and into the Twilight Zone.

After exiting Kansas, we found ourselves in Nebraska and a state of immediate unease. Previous encounters in The Cornhusker State had placed the region on our least favorite list, but hunger pangs after a delayed start to our travels lured us like a siren's song into Plattsmouth—home to Mom's Café, ostensibly a purveyor of decent road food, according to at least one travel guide. Against my better judgment, I steered toward Plattsmouth's "Historic Main Street." We joined a cavalcade of highway traffic that had been diverted onto the narrow quarter mile of what at one time must have been a proud center of commerce in the nascent days of Plattsmouth history.

Plattsmounth, Nebraska, Main Street

We got out of the car and stretched our legs. My lingering knee injury had rendered me stiff and hobbled, and the swelling from the bee sting in my eye had become serious enough to blur my vision. Upon exiting the vehicle, we were overwhelmed by the sounds of Doris Day blaring out of loudspeakers mounted on every refurbished retro lamppost inhabiting the downtown district. Even stranger than the anachronistic tune itself, was the fact that every 30 seconds or so a semi-truck applying its Jake brakes would drown out the Les Brown band, despite the music's volume, which had been cranked up to the point of distortion.

"What is this place?" I shouted above the din, as Doris Day faded to Tommy Dorsey punctuated by staccato strains of tractor trailer speed control. Caroline shrugged and pointed down the street.

Mom's Café beckoned. It seemed a suitable refuge from the madness manifesting in front of our eyes. I hobbled down the street to the café to secure a table while Caroline secured the bikes. Although a steady stream of vehicles had been diverted onto the street, ours was the only one that had stopped. Storekeepers gathered at the entrances to their stores and pressed their noses to the glass, watching us hungrily without subtlety. A man hauling a long hose from his truck to the back entrance to the eatery informed me that Mom's closes up at 2 p.m. on Mondays, so I was out of luck.

Mushroom Rock in Kansas, which really has nothing to do with this story

I had to pee so bad that I was sporting wood. I clapped my hand over my crotch and spun around in place so I could hightail it back to the car. I was almost run down by a semi as I crossed the street. I was certain that every person in Plattsmouth was evaluating my stiffee as I danced in place waiting for the truck to pass, hoping that my old prostate hadn't lost pee-arresting powers. I realized I wasn't going to be able to hold out much longer. My eyes darted back and forth and my brain registered the word BAR. I jogged for the wooden front door despite the protests from my knees.

"Can I use your restroom Mr.? Please?"

The man behind the bar used a voice box to answer in the affirmative. Then he picked up his cigarette and turned toward the television. I hustled into the water closet.

Although the bathroom was as cleaner than any I've ever seen during years of travel, the smell of urine was overpowering—as if every generation of Plattsmouth men from the year 1896 forward had peed on the floor daily and the wallboard had stepped in to soak up the mess. I gagged. I finished my business and shook extra carefully to ensure that none of my urine would mix with the angry ghost urine that was haunting the place.

The bartender offered me several suggestions about where to eat with his fuzzy Mr. Roboto voice. We decided to try the restaurant at the historic hotel up the street. Other than a family of plump misfits with dirty hands and angry scowls, we were the only customers. Our waitress was pretty and blonde and couldn't have been more than 20 years old. We overheard her tell the other table that she and her husband had divorced and the she had stopped allowing her kids to visit him because they were not being fed during the previous visits. I searched my memory to match the waitress's face with one of the featured kids on MTV's hit reality series, "Teen Mom." I didn't recognize her as one of the regular cast members.

Strangely enough, Caroline's reuben sandwich was the best she'd ever eaten—a life-changing experience, the pretty waitress had said—but we were distracted by the parade of trucks outside and the endless selection of down-and-out country music hits blaring inside. We left a generous tip and stepped back out onto the diesel-scented street, where Louis Armstrong was saying to himself, "What a Wonderful World."

Our route out of town led us across the Missouri River by way of a toll bridge, a final Nebraska insult. I hadn't seen a toll booth in years, and for all we knew, a family of hobos had taken up residence inside an old Tough Shed at the end of the bridge and had come up with an innovative plan for securing some Fourth of July drinkin' money. But when we arrived at the booth, the guy in front of the shack was wearing a safety vest, so I figured everything was on the level. I paid the man at the toll booth the buck and a quarter he demanded.

"Do I get a gumball or something?" I asked as I plopped my money into his hand.

Later that night we ate at Happy Chef in Mankato, Minnesota

"Come on out of there and I'll give you something," he said, pantomiming a kick to my nuts.

On the other side of the bridge we were in Iowa. The birds were chirping and motorists were smiling once again. We turned on the radio and it was playing Rock 'n' Roll music. Good Rock 'n' Roll music. We were free of Nebraska once again!

See you on down the road.

The greening of the highway

SOMEWHERE in Kansas—The farther away we traveled from New Mexico, the greener it became.

Weeds taking over a highway

Our route out of the Land of Enchantment took us through Clayton, where we stopped briefly for a bite to eat at the old Hotel Eklund. Our former neighbors had taken ownership of the place a few years earlier, and they were surprised to see us stroll through the lobby. New Mexico legislator Sen. Tim Keller had scheduled a pre-election campaign stop there as well, so we enjoyed a final taste of New Mexico red chile as the Senator was courted by lobbyists seeking to change the economic development fortunes of the depressed and dry region.

A while later we traveled a stretch of some of the most decrepit and lonely road we’d ever seen in New Mexico. Despite the lack of moisture, healthy green weeds were encroaching on the shoulder of the highway as Mother Nature struggled to wrestle back what mankind had stolen from her. Soon the cardboard colored landscape began to soften somewhat. Wisps of green began to take hold among the stalks of dry brown failure, and we knew we had reached Kansas.

The house of the old Dalton Gang

Our travels in the Sunflower State took us along the path of the old Santa Fe Trail, the Mormon Trail and then later, the Lewis and Clark Trail. Out here in Meade, Kansas, we stumbled upon a fine little  barbecue joint called the Smoke Hoss.  With bellies full of smoked pig, we searched for the hideout of the old Dalton Gang—the fearsome train and bank robbers who swore they’d outdo Jesse James. Though the Dalton escape tunnel was closed for the day, we still managed to get a picture of the outlaw gang's house.

A little ways past that blood-streaked landmark, we came across a town unlike any other we had seen in Kansas so far.

Instead of being dotted with small square farm houses and a strip of drab main street, Greensburg, Kansas, was punctuated with new hip-looking houses with solar panels and energy producing windmills. The town’s main street was a redeveloped strip of tasteful shops and buildings. The modern stone-and-glass architecture was easy on the eyes and definitely incongruous to the rest of the Midwest.

We drove down the refurbished area with awe and wonder as we searched for the Big Well—the community’s tourist draw, and reportedly the largest hand-dug well in the United States. Across the street from the Big Well, we encountered a marvelous building made entirely of glass. The panes surrounded huge wooden timbers.

The Big Well, left, seen though sculpture

“What kind of place is this?” I wondered. “Is it some funky community that was taken over by artists?”

We would learn a day later that Greensburg had literally been wiped off the map in 2007 by a giant tornado. The mile-wide funnel cloud had obliterated every structure except the grain elevator and killed more than a dozen people. The former community of 1,600 was transformed to rubble in an afternoon. Many of the residents fled and never came back.

But the 700 people who now live in the community decided to rebuild Greensburg as a “Green” community. Modern houses capitalize on alternative energy sources and everything in town makes a nod toward sustainability. Like that strip of land in New Mexico that had been asphalted over, Greensburg is slowly sprouting out of catastrophe to rise again from the fertile dirt.

There are surprises and wonders to be found everywhere.

See you on down the road.

For amber waves of grain

Junction City, Kansas—We were saved from an expensive speeding ticket by an Atomic Cannon.

Gluten free ain't heard around here.

Driving on back roads through golden fields of waving wheat and emerald stalks of ripening corn, it's easy to become mesmerized by the comforting hum of tires on old asphalt. Just as the speedometer needle crept past 70 miles an hour on the long, straight stretch of rural road we were traveling just west of Junction City, Caroline saw the state trooper. We could feel the radar waves penetrate the windshield and slam into our chests, elevating our heatbeats. We were busted!

The amiable cop introduced himself and asked Caroline if she knew why he had pulled her over.

"Yes," she said unambiguously.

"You were speeding," the cop said. Caroline nodded. "Do you know by how much?"

"No," Caroline said honestly. "What is the speed limit around here anyway?"

"55," the cop answered with a slight smirk. "You were going 71. Pretty fast. Where are you headed, anyway?"

"Junction City," Caroline said solemnly.

"And you didn't take the Interstate?" he asked.

The Atomic Cannon at Freedom Park in Junction City

"We're on our way to see the Atomic Cannon," I piped up, handing the proof of insurance card over to Caroline.

"You folks really are from out of town, aren't you?" the cop asked.

We both nodded in unison.

"Well, sit tight and I'll write this up and get you back on your way in a few minutes."

The cop reappeared sometime later with a yellow slip of paper in hand. Caroline and I had been taking bets during his absence of how big the fine would be. $100? $250? More? Who knew? It had been 25 years since either of us had gotten a ticket.

He handed Caroline a warning and asked her to slow down from now on.

"Wow! Thanks!" we both said brightly.

"Enjoy your visit," the cop said with a smile.

About 15 minutes later we were in Junction city staring up at the top of a huge hill. The Atomic Cannon sat overlooking the highway as a testament to the utter insanity of a bygone era.

Atomic Cannons had been deployed across Europe during the Cold War. They were designed to deliver an artillery round about one-foot in diameter to a target 20 miles away. The big difference between this gun and other giant artillery installations, however, was that the Atomic Cannon was designed to hurl a nuclear warhead with a 15-kiloton yield—a payload about equal to what was dropped on Hiroshima at the end of World War II. 

Atomic Cannon, Grable shot, May 25, 1953

The gun was fired only once—in Nevada on May 25, 1953, as part of the Upshot-Knothole test series. The Grable shot proved that devastating nuclear weapons could be delivered effectively from the battlefield if needed. I suppose someone, somewhere can take comfort in that fact.

Fort Riley—the home of the Big Red 1, the Army's 1st Infantry Division—is custodian of the Atomic Cannon. There are just three of them left in the world. The others reside in Oklahoma and Maryland [Editor's Note: I am told that there are more than three still in existence, with one more residing at the National Atomic Museum in Albuquerque, N.M.].

As we scrambled up the steep hill, my knees screamed like an incoming artillery round. I squinted with my one good eye toward the summit, which was still a good distance away. When we finally reached the top, the seriousness of the relic at hand was juxtaposed with the excited chatter of two young boys who were clambering all over the stern steel beast. Their father patiently answered questions about how the weapon worked, as the boys made explosion noises. For a generation that never got to see a mushroom cloud or feel the dread of protracted conflict, the sight of the cannon must have been as exciting as it was to the handful of military Top Brass who gathered at Frenchman's Flat in Nevada to watch the weapon unleash its uncompromising promise of mass destruction.

Road trips allow us to get back in touch with our nation's journey through history so we can better understand how we arrived at our current destination. The Atomic Cannon reminds us of the lengths humans will go to when they feel threatened. Perhaps that Kansas State Police officer knew this when he let us go on our way unhindered.

See you on down the road!