Years ago my mentor, Judah Betz, introduced me to an entirely new concept: the body as one's own little animal. "Which means," she said, "that the body needs the same kind of care, the same kind of acceptance and love that every animal needs."

 

I'd never been an "animal person," but this made sense to me, and perhaps somewhere deep in the recesses of my psyche a slow "anima-lution" began. Because in those days, I'm pretty sure I was guilty of animal abuse.

Over the years, I've learned to take much better care of my pet, and in recent years, have doted over her like the stereotypic "Wealthy Lady with Poodle." I walk her. I feed her lots of organic food and abstain from foods that cause her undue stress. I give her filtered water, organically grown supplements and herbal remedies. I make sure she gets enough rest and take her to a vet who doesn't want to drug her. But most of all -- and this has been the longest thing in coming -- I appreciate her. I recognize all she does for me every day. I even talk to her, sometimes to apologize.

But in the last two weeks, my animal and I have charted new territory. You know how, after years of knowing someone, you come to a place where your love for each other comes from a whole different level? Where what you mean by "our relationship" is different than what you meant by it last week or last year? Well, that's what happened to me and my 61-year-old animal, and it all began with a nasty, tenacious bug.