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The lack of population health surveillance for companion animal populations leaves them vulnerable to the effects of novel diseases without means of early detection. We present evidence on the effectiveness of a system that enabled early detection and rapid response a canine gastroenteritis outbreak in the United Kingdom. In January 2020, prolific vomiting among dogs was sporadically reported in the United Kingdom. Electronic health records from a nationwide sentinel network of veterinary practices confirmed a significant increase in dogs with signs of gastroenteric disease. Male dogs and dogs living with other vomiting dogs were more likely to be affected. Diet and vaccination status were not associated with the disease; however, a canine enteric coronavirus was significantly associated with illness. The system we describe potentially fills a gap in surveillance in neglected populations and could provide a blueprint for other countries.

I'm wondering if it might be a good time to make bread. The writing is not going well. Truthfully, it's not going. Perhaps the soothing action of mixing and kneading would get me back to a good place. The writing. THE WRITING. It takes on large proportions in my mind. It is not easy to write. Nor is it fun, and pleasant is not a word I would use in conjunction with writing. Yet, it is hard to relax when I'm away from the computer and my desk. I keep thinking about the stories. I dream at night about the people in the stories. I see their faces in odd places-the grocery store, on the street, sitting on a subway, lurking behind a tree or bush. They are like ghosts. But ghosts have had a life. These people are looking to me to help give them life.

The work of Janice Gould, a Maidu lesbian, and Vickie Sears, a Cherokee lesbian, is discussed. Their writings can bring readers to a place where past, present and future speak.

Those of us who are Native and have chosen to write are a fast - growing community. This has not been an easy path to travel on. For myself, this entails being in a constant state of translation. Those of you for whom English is a second language will understand some of what I say. Not only am I translating from the spoken to the written, but also writing in a language that is not my own. When I sit in front of my typewriter, there are times I literally cannot find the words that will describe what I want to say. And that is because the words I want, the words I \"hear,\" are Mohawk words. But you see, my Mohawk language was virtually destroyed in my family. My grandmother and grandfather were taught, in residential school, that Mohawk was a bad thing. To speak Mohawk, to be Mohawk. After hundreds of years of emotional and physical assault on us for using the language Creator gave us, we now find it in our best interests to communicate with the language the enemy forced on us. Therefore, I bend and shape this unlovely language in a way that will make truth. Because the language of the enemy was a weapon used to perpetuate racism and hate, I want to forge it in a new way, a weapon of love. I also feel that a piece of writing is not finished until it is spoken. I read my work aloud as I write, after I write and often when I am sleeping. My stories are meant to be spoken. My work is meant to be said out loud. In sign or by voice, storytelling is a natural act. I also feel that I must say this -- I do not write for you who are white. I write for my own. Another natural act. Those of us who are Native have internalized the racism that covered our lands, like a biological warfare. For some, this is reason enough why we don't or can't write. For centuries we have heard the words used to describe us -- dumb Indian, lazy Indian, ugly Indian, drunk Indian, crazy Indian. It has been near impossible to not have these messages encoded on our brains. Messages that play back in our heads whenever we step outside \"our place.\" Messages that still proliferate from the media, from the institutions, from the christian church. To write or not to write is a painful struggle for us. For everything we write can be used against us. For everything we write will be used against us. And I'm not talking about bad reviews. I'm talking about the flak we receive from our own communities as well as the smug liberalism from the white, \"literary\" enclave. Writing is an act of courage for most. For us, it is an act that requires opening up our wounded communities, our families, to eyes and ears that do not love us. Is this madness? In a way it is -- the madness of a Louis Riel, a Maria Campbell, a Pauline Johnson, a Crazy Horse -- a revolutionary madness. A love that is greater than fear. A love that is as tender as it is fierce. Writing is also a gift. For me, it is a precious gift given me in my fortieth year of life on this earth. Along with the gift came instruction to use this gift on behalf of love. I feel a personal responsibility and a strong desire to tell the truth. Sometimes that desire is a physical craving as I sit in front of my machine, sweating, hurting, struggling with a contra language to conceive new words. I desire to make rage a living testament. I desire to heal. I desire to make a beauty out of circumstances that are not beautiful. I desire truth.