Defending the cat in the Battle of Pets

George & his prey

A recent Associated Press survey shows dogs are America's favorite pet, paws down. Almost three-quarters of those surveyed identified themselves as dog lovers first; less than half said the same for cats.

This survey wouldn't seem significant - after all, do we really need to choose? - but for the comments some of the poll-takers offered:

Cats are "nasty, stinking creatures". Dogs are noisy and disruptive. Cats are smarter. Dogs have more personality. Cats are "all about cats" while dogs "are interested in pleasing their owners."

Oh my. When will we learn that generalities are fraught with error?

A lifelong owner of both, I feel obliged to pen a few kind words about the oft-misunderstood cat.

I believe that those who say they don't like cats just haven't met enough of them. They never met Cricket, who played fetch with no concern for the size of the object. A gorgeous, long-haired, black-and-white cat, he wore an expression of what surely was pride as he made his slow way up our basement steps, straddling the stick that dangled from his mouth.

Or Pete, who'd settle his fluffy body into the large, decorative bowl on our living room table and wait for someone to give it a spin. The faster, the harder, the better. Eventually, Pete would launch himself from the still-moving bowl, eyes wild with exuberance, only to return minutes later for more.

And they definitely never met George, an orange tabby who shattered all stereotypes and cut a comedic path through our hearts during the seven short years we were privileged to own him. If there is such a thing as a soul mate in the world of pets, George was my great feline love. Granted, George brought live birds, baby rabbits and snakes into our home on his regular hunting excursions. But he was also a clear cat/dog, one of those rare felines whose behavior aligns more closely with the canine than his own species.

Oblivious to any form of weather, he accompanied my Belgian Shepherd and me on nightly walks that sometimes lasted well over an hour. In deep snow, or cold rain, he refused to be carried, and refused to be left behind.

More than once, a passing motorist paused to ask incredulously, "Is that your cat?"

With a shake of their heads and a typically uproarious laugh, they'd pull away. I knew George would be a brief but bright topic at the family dinner table.

Tell me, you avowed cat detractors, this is not an animal you could love?

Nasty, stinking creatures indeed.

I'd like to suggest that our stereotypes of these two species are based on much more than their animal characteristics. Perhaps they reflect our selves.

Dogs are almost always happy, sweet and easy to understand. As pack animals they blend naturally into the human family. Loyal and sensitive, typically tuned to our body language and emotions, they overlook our faults and forgive us for things we believe no one else ever could.We love the dog, in large part, because it loves us unconditionally.

The cat personality, meanwhile, is multi-layered and complicated. The cat is at times sweet, social and playful, seeking love, warm laps and an occasional bit of catnip-infused party time. Abruptly, it becomes moody and reclusive, borrowing into dark corners to spend time alone. Cats are unpredictable, sensitive to a fault and never dull.

The dog is who we wish we could be.

The cat might just be who we are.

That the cat is more like us is for some people reason enough to dislike it. I say it's reason enough to love it all the more.

The good news about antidepressants

Turns out Tom Cruise is right: Depression really is all in your head. It's in the neurons of the hippocampus where science shows cells burdened by deep depression and chronic stress atrophy and die.

Rocky Mountain PBS broadcast earlier this month a three-part series called "This Emotional Life" that explored a broad range of human emotions and their causes.

One segment focused on happiness, and what it is in our lives that makes us feel that most ideal state of being. Marriage does, kids - due to the stress of parenting - don't. And money, if used the right way - altruistically and in pursuit of positive experiences - does. Age isn't the curse many believe it to be either. Given good health, most seniors report they are happier than at any other point in their lives.

Many of these findings turn conventional wisdom on its ear. And even though I'm a single, anything-but-rich mom, I found them incredibly heartening.

But the segment on depression cheered me most. Not only for what it revealed factually, but for its potential to further remove the stigma surrounding not only the condition, but the use of antidepressants.

While the research is not new, it has somehow never received significant press. And for those who suffer from the disease of depression, and the loved ones who suffer with them, that is a shame.

The findings show that hormones released by stress inhibit the growth of brains cells in the hippocampus - the part of the brain associated with learning, memory, mood and emotion. The longer the depression exists, the greater the damage to those neurological pathways.

But as insulin helps correct blood sugar levels in those with diabetes, science shows that antidepressants can change and correct altered brain chemistry.

Even more encouraging, researchers have seen through brain scans that antidepressants can stimulate the growth of new, healthy cells. Like the lungs of a former smoker, the damaged part of the hippocampus can be restored to the level of its original healthy function.

I take my antidepressant and mood stabilizer daily; they are as much a part of my morning routine as Folger's coffee and Chai Spice creamer. I take them for myself, but I take them also for my son, my family in other states, my friends, all the people in my life who care about me, and even for those strangers I encounter each day.

But it wasn't always so.

At 22, six months after my initial diagnosis of bipolar disorder, I packed up my Chevy Cavalier with everything I owned and moved from Wisconsin to Colorado. Somewhere in Nebraska, I threw my lithium out the car window.

As it turned out, lithium was not the right medication for me, as doctors now know is the case for many with bipolar disorder. But I didn't seek an alternative. Prozac was new then, today's most commonly prescribed and effective antidepressants and mood stabilizers non existent. In any case, I was sure didn't need them.

For the next 15 years, I was medication free. I was also a rocket of emotions, finally crashing in my late 30s into an 18-month depression. From the depths of that black hole, medication finally appeared to be my only source of light. I accepted its help with gratitude, but even as I crawled out of that hole and back to a normal life, I did so with great reluctance and a sense of shame.

I plotted ways to escape it. With enough Omega 3, St. John's Wort, SAM-E and sunshine, surely I could wean myself away from pills.

It was only until a couple of years ago, when I read some of the results of the study expounded upon in "This Emotional Life," that I became convinced they were necessary. Even good for me.

The report I read phrased the findings somewhat differently than the PBS series. It described the connections in the brain of a depressed and/or bipolar person as thinner and weaker than those of a healthy brain. Antidepressants and mood stabilizers serve to strengthen those connections, to coat them with a protective shield. They buffer the otherwise painful impact of stressors that bring the depressed brain to its emotional knees.

I hold that vision in my mind's eye when I take my morning medication. My antidepressants and mood stabilizer don't save me from bad days, but like a net, they keep me from falling all the way down and help spring me back up to steady ground. They shield me from greater harm.

"There is no such thing as a chemical imbalance," Cruise said in a 2005 interview with Matt Lauer.

Really, Tom?

Even love creates a chemical imbalance, as he revealed by bouncing on Oprah's couch in an expression of his love for Katie Holmes.

He, and others like him who perpetuate the stigma should be ashamed. Celebrities, unfortunately, have a profound influence on the American public. As such, they owe it to them to use great care in what they say. Years later, Cruise's words still ring in the ears of many who hesitate to take antidepressants for fear they will be considered weak.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

It is fear that makes people weak.

The determination to be healthy - for one's self as well as those who love them - is the definition of strength. It is what makes it possible to heal. And once healed, to spread that message and hard-earned joy to others.

Because happiness, as research shows and the narrator of "This Emotional Life" reaffirmed, is contagious.

The Trickle-down Effects of a Bitterly Cold Winter

I am trickling. Steadily, noisily, and hopefully, all night.

We're all trickling this winter, leaving our water faucets slightly open throughout the night to protect our pipes from the bitter cold.

It's a nasty winter to start a dog-walking business, not as much for a human - who can dress in multiple layers of clothing - as a dog. When a canine lifts its paws to avoid contact with the earth, it's cold. Dog-gone cold. (Sorry.)

On cold days, it's also lonely at the dog park. I'm not nearly as good at entertaining my clients as one of their peers. I know the play posture - slightly crouched, hands on thighs, a mischievous look in the eye - but because I draw the line at partaking in the getting-to-know-you olfactory rituals, our ability to interact as true playmates is limited.

Worse than the cold and loneliness, when the temperature drops well below freezing, many owners cancel scheduled dog walks. This may be good for the dog, but it leaves the walker out in the financial cold. A decidely chilly place, especially when it's time to pay the heating bill.

I have no one to blame for it but myself, however. Late last summer, I pet sat two dogs whose owner had recently transplanted here from Iowa. A native Wisconsinite, I felt an immediate weather bond with her. We hailed from the same bitterly cold, stickily hot climate. I knew her pain.

Happily, confidently, I told her those days were behind her. "You'll love the winters in Denver. They are so mild!"

A small shiver passed through me as I said those words. A harbinger, it turns out, of things to come.

She and her dogs later moved to Parker, and out of my service area. Though I'd lost a client, I felt satisfied I'd given her good news, something to look forward to as the days shortened and winter crept gently in.

Somewhere in Parker, she is cursing me. Yet I know we still share a bond, only now it's of a slightly different flavor. On these most bitter of nights, I know she is trickling, too.

Death of the Bo-tax brings Holiday Joy

Christmas presents come in many forms and sometimes from very unexpected sources. Who, for instance, would have thought I'd be writing a thank-you note to the U.S. Senate?

But it bestowed upon my female peers and I a potentially wondrous gift by voting to ix-nay from the health bill a proposed 5 percent tax on cosmetic surgery. Granted, I don't currently have the money - and am balanced precariously on the line of need - to indulge in any such procedures. But I like knowing I have the option of someday injecting poison into my face at what will now seem like a discounted rate.

I greeted these glad tidings with great joy. My son didn't join in my Happy Dance, however.

I tried to explain to him that given the head of our household is a middle-aged single female, the tax held the potential for financial ruin. That or natural aging. Neither of which painted a pretty picture.

He merely shrugged, said "Mom, please don't dance," and, like any good liberal's son, resumed playing Super Obama World Game. Youth are shortsighted, but I'm confident the implications of this to his college fund will become clear to him with time.

The so-called Botax is replaced in the health bill with a 10 percent tax on indoor tanning. Given the millions spent on defying age will stimulate the U.S. economy, and the likelihood of tanning salon devotees to incur health care bills down the road, this seems like a better idea.

Like virtually any woman my age, I'm guilty of youthful tanning indiscretions. As a teen, I offered up my string bikini-clad, suntan-oiled body to the solar gods by sunbathing on the metal roof of the chicken coop. I strongly suspect frying like bacon decade ago has enhanced the deepening parentheses around my mouth people perversely call smile lines.

Mercifully, such activity tapered off over time, and by my 30s, I was over it. This left me looking like a grub worm, and in desperation, I turned to the bottle. Magically, my summer limbs now appear sun kissed. Sure, Coppertone should offer classes on how to keep the knees and feet from looking painfully bruised and neglectfully dirty. But until that sunny day comes, I'll endure blotchy knees and streaked feet. I'm pretty sure they're a whole lot less ugly than melanoma.

The few friends I have who still make the occasional trek to the tanning salon say it's preventative. A base tan keeps skin from burning, they say. And maybe they're right.

But I'm hedging my bets on liquid bronzers and sunscreen. Plus a few shares of stock in Allergan, maker of Botox, Restasis and Juvederm. It's an investment in my financial future - not to mention my face's.