itself when I was attacked. On one occasion a girlfriend jumped on my back with her arms around my neck, saying, “Okay, karate girl, what are you going to do?” I thought, Well, I’m not going to poke your eyes out; I’m not going to break your ribs with an elbow strike. I didn’t want to hurt her, so I gave up, and the moment I quit thinking, something took over. My right foot went back and my torso bent forward, quickly launching her over my head onto the grass. She looked as stunned as I felt. It all happened as if some force took over my body.
My sensei also called that force or spirit “qi” (pronounced “chee”). In karate class, we learned how to focus and direct qi for more powerful movement. Qi gives even small people, and cats, great strength.
Sensei said, “You can stop a fight with a look.” This is exactly what cats do, and it has been proven true for me on several occasions. Large men have backed away from me when spirit was directed through my glare. But again, I never intentionally think to do this. Fortitude just rises up out of me when danger enters my space. In short, something animates me that is not related to my conscious decisions.
Sensei’s spirit radiated at least twenty yards whenever he demonstrated a kata, a patterned series of karate moves. His face appeared serene. He moved smoothly as if he was swimming, yet I found myself backing away. The power that radiated from him was not physical; it was energetic spirit. The same spirit or power emanates from animals, especially in the wild.
One day, while cross-country skiing with two friends in Rocky Mountain National Park, we spotted a large herd of elk bedded down about a hundred yards away. The cows were startled and struggled to move off in the deep snow. Then a large bull stood and glared at us. The force of his gaze knocked me backward into the snow. He radiated his energy so impressively from such a distance that it physically struck me. My friends and I agreed to go another direction so we would not disturb the herd. From karate and this bull, I realized that nonphysical energy emanates from human and animal bodies.
Through karate training I learned to appreciate Eastern philosophies and the concept of how to move energy. I understood how to direct qi, and I could feel it from others. About that time, I felt burned out with my job. Animals acted like they hated me. Everything I did seemed mean: castrating colts, deworming, giving injections to foals that acted terrified, floating horse’s teeth. The animals lacked an appreciation for these procedures even though I intended to help them. Even more difficult for me was my inability to cure so many problems. Sometimes people could not afford the best treatments; other times the drugs I used made things worse.
Then I learned about an acupoint on the inside of a horse’s lip that changed everything. Pressure at this point causes horses to calm down, lower their heads, and lick their lips. (Licking tells me a horse likes what I am doing.) The stimulation of this point releases endorphins, the body’s own opiates. I came to use it every day.
One day a man called me to give his horse annual vaccines, deworming, and float his teeth. When I arrived, the man informed me that the horse could be difficult, maybe a bit mean, and that he hated needles. He thought a woman might have a better chance of getting along with the horse.
I approached the gelding easily, petting him gently and stroking his soft muzzle. I pressed my left index finger in the center of his upper lip until he seemed comfortable with my touch, then I slipped it in between his upper lip and teeth and pressed on a depression between the two front teeth where the lip meets the gum. The horse leaned against my finger, lowered his head, and licked. Then I gently but firmly pinched his upper lip with my fingers, digging the fingernails into his lip and the acupoint in the middle of the upper lip. His head came up a bit at first and then he closed his eyes, head lowered again, and licked more. I had a twitch (a foot-long metal pincher that looks like a nut cracker) on my left forearm and slowly slid it up to pinch the lip as I released my fingers. The man squeezed and wiggled the twitch as I easily administered intravenous sedation. I completed all the procedures without any fighting. I was happy to accomplish the job and stay safe. The twitch, used properly, is an excellent tool that stimulates acupoints causing the release of endorphins and other happy chemicals. It has kept me safe countless times.
This amazing acupoint made me want to learn more about acupuncture. Then I heard about the International Veterinary Acupuncture Society (IVAS), and I signed up to attend in 1994. There I discovered my natural aptitude for traditional Chinese veterinary medicine (TCVM). It resonated with me, and I felt at home with it. After an internship and an exam, I became certified as a veterinary acupuncturist in 1997. Then I started the IVAS herbology course and met Dr. Xie, a third-generation Chinese veterinarian who taught at the University of Florida veterinary school. Not only is Dr. Xie extremely knowledgeable, he is also one of the kindest people I have ever met. His students call him “Shen.” In TCVM, shen is the spirit that resides in the heart. That fits Dr. Xie. For me, the man is a sage — a wise, humble master. Whenever a critic of acupuncture in the veterinary profession disputes the validity of veterinary acupuncture, rather than argue, Dr. Xie always advises us to “just make good qi.” Dr. Xie came to Durango to treat patients with me on his next trip to the IVAS herbology course where we met. Then, in October 2000, he invited me and my husband to travel to China with him and a group of other veterinarians for an advanced TCVM course. He asked me to share a lecture at the conference about the wild horse foot, and how horses in the wild keep their hooves trimmed naturally and stay sound, in comparison to the domestic, shod horses that have so many hoof problems and foot pain. From there I finished my Chinese herbology training with Dr. Xie, at his school, the Chi Institute, and I also learned tui na manual therapy and food therapy.
I felt much better adding TCVM to my practice. About 85 percent of my patients enjoy acupuncture treatments; dogs like it because they get “cookies” (as treats) and “opium” (or the opiates that are naturally released by the acupuncture) — everybody likes cookies and opium. The body’s pharmacy releases over 360 different chemicals, such as endorphin, encephalon, serotonin, bradykinin, antihistamine, corticosteroids, and so on, that relieve pain and calm anxiety. Acupuncture feels more nurturing to me, and the Chinese herbal formulas have helped many animals when drugs have not. I feel blessed to have studied with Dr. Xie, who taught me so much that improved my life and the lives of animals.
I am also blessed by the friendships I have at a local veterinary clinic, Animas Animal Hospital. From 1985 to 1988, I worked at this small-animal veterinary hospital in downtown Durango as a new graduate from veterinary school. One of my favorite things about Animas Animal Hospital is all the wildlife brought there for treatment. The doctors there work closely with the Division of Wildlife, and they treat injured wild animals for free. In addition, for many years, one of the veterinary technicians carried a wildlife rehabilitation license.
My relationship with Animas Animal Hospital continues, even though I have not been employed there for many years; I still have a key. I am grateful for my friendship with both the original and the current owners, which allows me the freedom to use the facility and its staff. Somehow, I am grandfathered in like an old fence that delineates a property line although the survey disagrees.
During the 1990s, five veterinarians worked at Animas Animal Hospital, and they were always busy with medical, surgical, and emergency cases. I often stopped by when I traveled through town. I used the microscope and X-ray processor, talked with the staff, picked up deliveries from veterinary suppliers, consulted with the other doctors on cases, and visited the “prisoners” in the back of the hospital, the area where the cages were located and treatments were done.
On one occasion, I entered through the back door to see a tiny orange kitten hanging from the bars of her kennel, calling, “Mew, mew, mew,” just as Dr. Walter Truman walked into the room holding a peregrine falcon. The bird was calm, showing no fear. He just stared into my eyes like he found me as interesting as I found him. His spirit felt strong and his feathers were gorgeous.
“Look at those feathers,” I said.
“They’re
