SHOULD YOUR DOG GO PALEO?
So, you’re convinced (as who wouldn’t be?) that commercial dog food is best avoided. If you’re the thoughtful type, wanting to do what’s best for the dog in your care, you’ll likely find yourself now deep in the knotty issue of whether to go raw or keep on cooking.
It feels like raw would be healthier and more natural. It’s real food, right? Pure and unadulterated. It’s the food that wolves and other wild members of the family Canidae thrive on. So, why shouldn’t our wild-at-heart pups? After all, isn’t this the canine equivalent of adopting a paleo diet?
It can certainly seem that way.
Tall and sinewy, Russell Gernaat looks out over the deserted boatyard at the late afternoon water beyond. “I’d always wanted to row,” he says. “I'm talking, you know, ten years or more.” Gernaat became intrigued with rowing after trying out the rowing machines in the gym as a kind of warm-up, and liking the exercise. What might it be like to take that out onto the water?, he wondered. But with his work schedule, with young children at home, he hadn’t the time or the funds to take up the sport. “It just never was feasible for me at the time,” he says.
Coach Alice Henderson strides across the ramp towards the 2x moored on the floating dock. “Picking up where we left off,” she says to the rower putting oars to oar locks and the rower she’s guiding across the dock. “Connection and catches.”
We grew up with Lassie or Wishbone or Martha. Likely, we followed the adventures of Clifford or Mr. Peabody or Scooby Do. Maybe we cried for Old Yeller and Marley, rooted (and got a bit teary) for Skip, marveled at Hachi.
And, of course, fiercely loved the dogs in our own lives.
Then, when it came time to feed them, we turned to the brands we’d grown up with, the brands that promised us strong and healthy bones, that promised us the right blend for puppies, for young dogs, for senior dogs, the brands that promised us that we’d be doing right by our dogs by feeding them this product.
Screens are everywhere, always within reach. Their very ubiquity has helped fuel the meteoric rise of social media personalities, but it’s the nature of the content itself that fans the flames. Direct, personal, seemingly unscripted, this is content that offers viewers a window into the lives of real people, people (for so viewers feel) “just like us.” And that, for the primary audiences of much of this content — the teens and tweens — is what it’s all about: connection. It’s not so much that there’s a screen always within reach, it’s that there’s a close friend always within reach. . .
When 23-year-old Jyoti Singh Pandey was beaten and gang-raped on a bus in India, and dumped on the side of the road to die, the leader of the attack urged the others on with “Not to worry, nothing will happen.”
Ram Singh was wrong in this particular case: the accused were arrested, they were charged, and they were found guilty of rape and—because, in the end, Jyoti Pandey did not survive the attack—murder.
The sun is merciless in the sky. It is midday, when the painters take their lunch, in the shade of whatever tree, whatever building, or whatever corner is close by the day’s work. They leave, for forty-five minutes, that work. They leave, for forty-five minutes, the brushes, the jars of paint (brick red and sandy beige), the hoses. They come down from the stepladders, from the steps of the porticos. They come down from the sides of the buildings, from the roofs.
El sol brilla en el cielo. Ya es mediodía, cuando los pintores toman el almuerzo, en la sombra del cualquier árbol, cualquier lado del edificio, o cualquier esquina que esté cerca del trabajo del día. Dejan, por cuarenta y cinco minutos, su trabajo. Dejan, por cuarenta y cinco minutos, los cepillos, los jarros de las pinturas (el rojo del ladrillo y el color arena), las mangueras. Bajan de los lados del edificios, bajan de los tejados.
The real injury does not have a specific date, not one you can mark on a calendar, unless of course you consider it to be the day she was born, as we in her family now do. My mother knew during Arden’s childhood that she was somehow very different from the rest of us and from other children. My mother didn’t realize then how deep the trouble went.
We bundle the dog into the car, my husband and I, and ﬁll up the trunk: books for one sister, the teapot my mother wanted, an article for my father, something for the baby. The trip down will take us two hours, three in heavy trafﬁc, and the familiar terrain—the cattle on the hillsides, the billboards, the iron-worked toll bridge—slips by as we play our versions of Botticelli and Ghosts.