Silver Frost

Spring 2005.

Our resident hounds were Buddy, Cissie and Aero. Friend Carol and I took a road trip to Nunn, Colorado to visit Heather Weir at her kennel - Almost Home for Hounds. Our mission was to give Heather a hand around the kennel and then bring a few hounds back to Montana for placement by our adoption group. A “few” turned out to be nine. One of these hounds was a senior gal named Frosty.

The first time Carol and I waded (literally) into a large group of hounds at Heather’s, I looked down to find this lovely older grey girl between my legs - grinning up at me. The next time, and the next, there she was again. Carol remarked early on that she was obviously "my dog".

"Not hardly," was my reply. ”We have three dogs at home - more than enough. I’m just not in the market for more.” Still – the optimistic Frosty persisted, and so did Carol.

The day we left Colorado I finally agreed to include Frosty in our load. I was certain we could find a spot for such an elegant old girl with some lucky family as we passed through Billings. Nope. The “some lucky family” turned out to be ours.

Frosty, registered “Silver Frost”, was born in Ireland on March 10, 1996, to Irish parents, Adage and Chet. She raced four seasons between 1998 & 2001, and then between 2001 and 2004 had three litters of pups, nineteen of whom were registered to race.


While there’s no doubt Tory is our Princess, Frosty is our Dutchess. She has nobility about her and nothing goes unnoticed in her world. She sees snowflakes, flowers and planes flying overhead. Her unabashed wonder at the world makes her eyes light up as if to say “Wow! Did you see that?”

She has no need to show her alpha status but if another hound gets out of line, it’s clear. One morning, as she was sleeping, Tory made the poor choice to test Frosty’s mettle. Tory stood over her and, with a low growl, demanded that Frosty surrender her bed. I’d not have believed what happened next if I hadn’t been watching. One moment Frosty was snoozing and the next, she had Tory pinned by the neck to the floor. Her speed was astonishing. Frosty didn’t hurt her, but the message was clear and the look on Tory’s face was priceless.

Frosty will be 13 years old in March. Her vision is not as clear as it once was and she’s getting a little wobbly but there’s not a hound anywhere who enjoys life and family (especially her dad)more than our old Irish girl.

A Christmas Wish

I stepped out on the deck this morning to take this photo. Sure didn't stay long - it's zero out there! The only thing moving was the center of the river which, of course, continues to flow whether we can see it or not. Made me think about the bears all snuggeld into their dens snoozing. Only the lifeblood that continues to very slowly course through their veins sustains them through these frigid months, carrying the promise of renewed life with Spring's return.

It's a grand time for introspection, for stillness, for contemplating the miracles that surround us. My wish for you this Christmas Eve is that you can embrace the rhythm of life, appreciate all things much larger than yourself, and know the wonder of miracles.

Ice Cream Sunday

Sunday is cause for celebration around here. All you have to say is, "It's Sunday!" But don't do it unless the freezer's stocked. They take their Sundae's pretty seriously ..

Fresh as a Daisy

Tory's grandpa is Flying Train and we lovingly call her "Train Wreck" because she's epileptic and she has Pannus. Fortunately, both disorders are well controlled with phenobarb and eyedrops twice daily, but I readily admit I'm a little more protective of her. Case in point - I'd been putting off her dental for some months now.

I brush her teeth regularly and, thanks to Joni's tutelage, even scale them regularly, but Tory's breath lately had been telling me there were issues I wasn't reaching. Still, I was fearful the anesthesia might somehow trigger seizures again. Or perhaps all of her teeth would have to be pulled? But I'd also begun to fear she was in more danger from the side effects of bad teeth than from anesthesia.

Please understand, my fears were just that - no scientific basis. But you know how fear is. Once it gets a foot in the door, it quickly becomes huge and hairy and slathering until you're hiding under the bed quivering with absolute certainty of impending doom.

Still, I made up my mind that it couldn't be put off any longer. On Wednesday morning I picked up the phone and asked for an appointment with Minot Pruyn, DVM, because I'd been told from several sources he is the canine dental expert in our area. The receptionist cheerfully informed me they could take her "first thing tomorrow." Gulp. So soon? Several excuses coursed through my head about why Thursday wouldn't possibly work but none of them flew with my rational side. I confirmed the appointment and spent a relatively sleepless night.

Thursday morning I loaded Tory in the car and away we went. Dr. Pruyn glanced in her mouth and confirmed that she had a pretty bad case of gingivitis. He very kindly didn't gasp or snicker when I confessed that my best efforts usually result in brushing her teeth only once per week. He told me recent studies are showing that brushing three times per week or less does absolutely no good. It must be done every day, particularly with a mouth like Tory's. Every day?

I left my beloved red dog there, headed off to work, and spent the day bargaining with the Fates. "If I can just have my Tory back whole and with a few teeth left, I promise I'll brush them every single day." I was perched on the edge of my seat most of the morning until they called to say she would be ready to go any time after 1:00 p.m.

When I got to the vet's, I was greeted by an inordinately perky Tory. I waited for the bad news about how many teeth she'd lost. Not one. Not a single one. She climbed in my lap and kissed my face with the sweetest doggie breath imaginable! Hallelujah!

Daily brushings for everyone from now on. A deal's a deal.

Going Nowhere

In a recent conversation with Santa, Brent and I denied needing/wanting anything for Christmas. Looks like we need to call him back and change our order.

Brent was on the way to work this morning and his truck started acting really strange – expensive strange. It gave up the ghost altogether in Lolo. Not that it wouldn’t run … it just wouldn’t move. Really expensive strange.

We watched sadly as the tow truck lifted his truck and towed it away to the transmission shop. Hope it’s some little cellanoid or something but it seems doubtful. We’re already into it for $153 for the tow. 25 minutes and 10 miles. Hmmm. That’s roughly $340 hour. I’m in the wrong business.

No transportation, no work. Wonder how all these greyhounds would feel about coming out of retirement. I'm sure we could make it work if we just had some good sled dogs...

Ho! Ho! Ho!

True Love

There have been many moments in my marriage to Brent where I’ve been overwhelmed by the sweetness of my husband’s devotion. I’d like to tell you about one of those moments that particularly stands out.

It was late evening in 2001. I’d been surfing the GH-List (greyhound chat) and had come across the plea I mentioned in my November 24th blog episode:

Help! Cissie needs help! This 10 year old brood matron has been living on a
concrete floor in a breed farm garage in Ocala, Florida. The breeder is done
with her. Anybody got room?

I’d fired off an email indicating I’d take her. Brent came around the corner about the time I was reading the reply: “Sorry – Montana’s too far. Thanks anyway.”

I told him the story with tears running down my face and, even though we didn’t need another dog, he listened attentively. Finally, with a heavy heart, I conceded it just wasn’t meant to be, turned off the computer and headed for bed.

Several minutes later, Brent still hadn’t joined me so I got up to see what was detaining him. I found him at the kitchen table with the Road Atlas, mapping out the route to Ocala, Florida! I was speechless. (About that time the phone rang. It was a woman from St. Louis who had seen the chat room exchange and she had a plan for getting Cissie to Montana.)

There were many greyhounds in need of homes far closer to Montana than Cissie. I knew in my head that it would be crazy to pass by many hundreds of hounds on the way to pick up one little ten-year-old grey girl in Florida. But my heart was filled to overflowing with love for the man who would do just that.

I am truly blessed.

Santa Writes to Harley

Looks like Santa's been watching Harley Connor. Becky, Harley's mom, shared this letter Harley got recently from Santa...
______________________

Dear Harley,

I wanted to have a little talk with you and I know what you are thinking and the answer is yes, Santa keeps lists on greyhounds too.

Most of the year, Harley boy, you maintain pretty well, a few forays of the counter, a stolen stick of butter here or there, stolen pink purse out of Zoe's room (but that is a whole other letter. . .) some odds and ends from the trash can- which you conveniently leave on LuLu's bed, who then spends several hours pacing the house until someone comes home and cleans her bed. All of these things I can over look without a response but the four bags full of what used to be your fairly new bed, having to be cleaned up and hauled to the dumpster by your mom, well that just went to far!

No one, and I mean even the one person on this planet who never lets you down, never forgets your dinner, or your ear-mones, accepts highly smelly kisses, wet nosed- 'I have to go out even though it's 2 a.m.' wake up signs. . ., laughs at the holes the size of, well YOU in the garden, has no less than 52 pictures on her rotating screen saver at work, deserved to come home to her ENTIRE 15' x 22' bedroom entired covered in what used to be your bed!

Now, you may remember, my boy, that Christmas is ONLY 10, short days away, I'd be working on some serious redemption-- and NO the big 'boo-boo' eyes won't work this time around.

Loving all things 'greyt' and small,

Santa

Lessons from Sadie

Meet Sadie. She was the orneriest feline this side of the Mississippi. Six pounds soaking wet and independent as a hog on ice. She came to live with us as a birthday gift to me from my husband and she was around to celebrate 16 more birthdays.

She was a give-away, only a year old, spayed and declawed. But what she lacked in size and weapons, she made up for in attitude. She single-handedly cowed all of our greyhounds and many foster dogs besides.

When greyhounds first arrive into our adoption group we need to “cat test” them. This is a very controlled process that doesn’t put the cat in any danger but it tells us whether or not a dog can be safely placed in a home with a kitty. With a lead held tight, one person allows the muzzled dog to slowly approach a kitty, which is being held by a second person (note: you’d rather be the dog holder than the kitty holder). Usually, as the dog approached, Sadie would hiss, and throw a succession of punches at the dog’s nose that would seriously rattle the basket muzzle and, consequently, the dog’s brain. Usually, that’s all it took to cure them of kitty curiosity but there were a few hounds who proved by their persistence that they were unsafe for kitty households.

Sadie got so good at her role as “tester” that she could give us the results even without the test. We could usually tell, just by walking into the house with a new dog what the verdict would be. If she jumped up on a chair (putting herself eye level with the dog) and watched, chances were there was nothing to fear. If she ran under the chair where she was somewhat protected but still visible, we likely had a “cat correctable" hound on our hands, i.e. one who could be taught that cats are not, in fact, fast food. If she disappeared into the narrow space between the wall and the back of the couch, there was no need to do further testing. This would be a dog who needed to live in a kitty-free zone.

The only hound who ever buffaloed all of us was our own Frosty. During the cat test, Frosty backed off a respectable distance and refused to approach Sadie again. But a couple of days later, Sadie went racing across the deck and Frosty had her before I could open my mouth. Fortunately, Frosty was interested only in the chase, not in a meal. She pinned Sadie to the deck for only a moment and immediately released her when I hollered. Sadie stood up, hissed, slapped Frosty across the nose and disappeared around the corner. I know how lucky we were. I had set the dog up to fail by forgetting the cardinal rule: a cat lounging around the house is not the same as a cat racing across the yard.

We watched Frosty and Sadie together very closely thereafter, but that was the only incident. I think Frosty just wanted to prove she could do it. It was a lesson for all of us. Frosty learned that was a forbidden behavior, we humans learned how lightning fast Frosty is and Sadie learned to move slowly in the presence of greyhounds.

Over time, tolerance turned to curiosity and perhaps even friendship.

Aeromass

It was the spring of 2004. Josie had crossed the rainbow bridge so our resident hounds were Buddy and Cissie. Our adoption group was due to receive a load of dogs from Kate in Kansas.

Kate is a crafty one. Friend Joni and I have, many times, committed to receiving 4 dogs for placement through our group but then Kate calls and suddenly we have 9 on the way. Kate is really good at what she does – she’s a supreme advocate for greyhounds in need. She told us there was a boy she’d been trying to get off the farm for years but the breeder had only recently agreed to let him go. Kate was fostering him at her house. He was an 11-year-old boy who’d been a Grade A racer in Florida for 2 ½ years, retiring in 1997. The GH database shows he sired two litters in 1999 and now, finally, he was on the adoptable roles.

If Brent and I have a mutual weak spot, it’s old dogs, so there was never much question where Aero would end up. Kate seriously considered the risk of such a long bus ride for this old boy and I left it totally in her hands but, eventually, she decided the risk was worth getting Aero into a home of his own for the time he had left. And so it was that Aero came to Montana.

Aeromass was a beautiful boy, a lovely red fawn with a white chest and velvety fur. His coloring was akin to a vanilla sundae with caramel topping. He was large and, even in his aged state, it was clear he’d been a powerful dog. He moved like there were screws loose in all of his joints so that he rather shambled along, but as he shambled, he smiled.

Aero was delighted with life. Having lived in confinement, everything was new and wonderful to him. Here is a photo of his very first day in Montana. He was already king of all he surveyed.

We called him Rabber Dabber and Red Skelton for his silly sense of humor. There wasn’t a day in our lives together that he didn’t make us laugh. He loved stuffies and could often be found curled up with one. Even though his gait was shaky, he loved going for short walks and he especially delighted in meeting new people and new creatures.

One warm summer evening Brent and I were walking the pups around the block. We passed the house of a neighbor who had a new litter of “pocket dogs” – small, fuzzy, rabbit-like creatures. As we approached their house, all the new puppies came bouncing out to see us. Anyone who owns a sighthound knows this is a potential disaster. I pulled up on Aero’s lead as the onslaught arrived and surrounded him. They were under his belly, between his legs, and jumping for his nose with joy. Aero was delighted and it was immediately apparent we had nothing to worry about. He greeted each of the puppies with kid-in-a-candy store wonder, play bowing and grinning ear to ear.

We were only to have Aero for 16 months before his back end totally gave out on him. But even that was a process he took in stride. For several weeks, when the stairs had become too difficult for him, he'd stand at the bottom (the dog door was in the basement) and bark at us to come down and help him. We'd get behind him and "wheelbarrow" him up the stairs. Then on the trip down, we'd help him control his back end so it didn't pass the front in his decent.

He adapted, he smiled, he made the most of every moment, he made us laugh. In those few short months he gave us a lifetime of sweet memories. It was a privilege to love him.

Nothin' Says Lovin' ...

Something smells mighty good in here!

I found it. It's liver cake!

It's done!

May I please have some?

PLEASE!

It's so easy to be a hero around here.

LaPew Revisited

Today's episode was also written by Kathy Benninger ... another tale I am grateful I'm only reading about! Thanks for sharing, Kathy.
_____________________________

It was three years before I was bothered again – a pretty good record when you consider where I live.

Once again it was in the early hours, around 3 a.m. and, of course, on a week night. Skunks, you know, have a daily calendar and only intrude upon your life between Monday and Friday. I had four (fur)kids then and thankfully only two were sprayed. This time the scent didn’t seem so overpowering and I was not asked to leave work although I did stink up the place a bit.

I followed the same routine, leaving work a little early so I could go home and bathe my kids. This time I didn’t have to stop at the store because I had the ingredients to my “concoction” on hand. We did the bathing and the clothes washing, and the house didn’t smell too bad. I believed that perhaps it was an older skunk this time who just didn’t have the same punch as that guy four years ago. But that evening I noticed that the smell of the skunk encounter was getting stronger and I wondered if perhaps my dogs had dispatched the little varmint and there was a body somewhere nearby. I vowed to go looking for a dead skunk out in the yard the next day when I came home from work. The search was fruitless. I found no skunk.

I’m puzzled now because the smell was becoming overpowering and seemed to center in the living room – although it permeated to everywhere outside as well.

This went on for about a week, me looking for the dead skunk outside, and not finding one, wondering why that scent lingered so strongly. I washed the dogs again that Saturday but on Sunday morning my home still smelled like skunk, especially in the living room. It wasn't until I walked behind my couch, to water a floor-standing plant that I noticed a black furry mass that I had not seen before – right behind the couch, where I sat every night to watch TV! It was that poor dead skunk that I’d been looking for in the yard for the past 1 ½ weeks. Oh my goodness. So, now let’s talk about the pros and cons of having a doggie door!!!

My story still isn’t done – it wasn’t two weeks after I found this skunk that we had another event, and the same two dogs were sprayed. At least this time, I did find the dead skunk out in the back yard – where every skunk should be – just, please, no more in my back yard.

Another little side note . . . I had only been at my new job for a couple of months – I’m sure everyone wondered if there weren’t some legal way to get rid of me!

Well, I made it through this season – but I’ll tell you, every time my kids get a little excited, after midnight, I’m expecting the worse.

Please believe me, if you’ve ever been bothered by skunks, keep the MAGIC recipe. It works!

Hound LaPew

Today's greyt tale is written by Kathy Benninger about her adventurous hounds...

In my eleven years living in a rural area, my dogs have had a few run-in’s with skunks. The very first time it happened was 3:00 a.m. on a workday. Both dogs came running in from outside, through the doggie door conveniently located in my bedroom. I woke up immediately, wondering what that horrible smell was (because at first it just didn’t smell like skunk, it smelled like a dead carcass, a really dead carcass).

I got out of bed, went to the front door, turned on the porch light and I saw the skunk, still in my backyard. So did my greyhound. Although he’d already seen the skunk, indeed, been doused by the skunk, the new sighting got him going again, and he went right back out there, got doused again and then, of course, ran back into the house.

I’ve heard skunks only have one really good spray per encounter. If that is true, this skunk was truly blessed. By now the house smelled so bad I was getting nauseous and decided to get out and go to work early. I dressed and left as quickly as I could.

As I performed my normal duties at work, I was amazed that I could be so stinky even though none of my clothes had been in direct contact with either dog. The clothes I wore were still making me nauseous.

The office building where I worked was fairly large, approximately 50 people working in little offices along hallways and in separate working spaces, some areas connected by closed doors. By 10 in the morning, the entire building smelled like skunk and I was asked to please leave NOW. I felt like Pigpen in the Peanuts cartoons but instead of being followed by a cloud of dust, I was being followed by a cloud of stink.

I left work, as asked, and stopped to buy the ingredients for the MAGIC formula that I’ve found to work so well (16 oz. hydrogen peroxide, ½ cup baking soda, and 2 Tbsp. dish soap). This formula was given to me by one of the employees.

After washing the dogs in this concoction and also washing anything that would fit in the washing machine, the aroma soon left my home.

For a city girl, that was quite an experience – and definitely one that I will remember forever.

To be continued ...

The Dutchess Wins Again

And speaking of getting them to eat vegetables (or anything) … there’s Frosty.

The Carrot Chase is SO far beneath the Dutchess. Such silliness only elicits a squinty–eyed, “boy, you’re really weird” look at both me and the other gh's. Frosty’s a dog of a thousand expressions and dinnertime really brings out the best (or worst) of them.

You see, Frosty is really not that interested in dinner. She is almost painfully thin and, believe me, we’ve tried all the tricks. Most of them work once or twice but any particular trick will never work three times in a row. Fortunately, Brent and I are pretty good at thinking up new tricks. I suspect she finds the whole thing vastly entertaining.

We always give our greys a good brand of kibble and top it with some special delight. Our arsenal has included satin balls, sardines, cheese, vanilla yogurt, Campbell’s soup, bottled gravy, “stinky cat food” (usually liver), beef or chicken broth, tuna, corned beef hash, and grated meat sticks (the Natural Balance doggy variety). The one that works best consistently is boiled chicken. We boil chicken legs and thighs, take all the bones out and serve them chicken soup over their kibble.

Still, Frosty will eat two or three meals well and then the next one – same mixture – same presentation – we get “the look”. For those of you who’ve had young children, it’s the “I don’t care if I don’t get dessert – I’m not eatin’ this” look…

A couple years ago I had an inkling she was getting bloated as she ate, so I started burping her. Yep – that’s what I said – burping her. She’ll stop eating, give us another of her looks and we’ll gently pat her on the sides until she burps. Doesn’t mean she’ll necessarily finish her dinner but it works about half the time and it clearly makes her feel better.

Fortunately, she is a sucker for cookies. The homemade peanut butter dog cookies are the favorite, but she’ll also gobble down “cardboard cookies” – those nasty little rock hard milk bones that have probably been in some warehouse for months. She’d eat the whole box. So she gets lots of cookies to keep her from disappearing altogether. Other special treats include hard boiled eggs and ice cream on Sundays.

Any questions about who’s in charge at our house?

It's All About Presentation

Arlo will eat anything - all the things that wouldn’t surprise you, but also many things that might. Like green peppers, potatoes, apples, bananas and carrots. Tory, on the other hand is pretty squeamish about non-traditional dog tasties. But as we’ve all learned from the Martha Stewart show, it’s all about presentation.

Let’s take carrots as an example. Arlo will beg for those little snack-sized carrots as long as there are carrots in the bag. His crunching naturally brings the other two pups running, but once within sniffing range, Frosty will snort in disgust. Whether the snort is about the carrots or the fact that Arlo’s inhaling them is debatable. Tory is a little less disdainful, but she still isn’t inclined to put one in her mouth. Unless they’re scurrying across the floor. Really!

I tossed Arlo a carrot the other day. Naturally it bounced off his nose because he doesn’t get the “catch” thing. It hit the floor and bounced and he bounced right after it, and then pounced on it like the mighty hunter he imagines himself to be. The bouncing really got Tory’s attention so I tossed a carrot down the hallway and she took off like a shot in hot pursuit. Guess it shouldn’t be a surprise.

Greyhounds + anything moving = a race

I was amazed to see that when the carrots were “presented” this way, there was no pausing to sniff and assess edibility. Nope. Tory pounced and snarfed and eagerly looked to me for more.

Catch the carrot has become quite the game at our house. It's a retired greyhounds version of wild hare coursing but (as long as we’ve vacuumed recently) they don’t have to deal with hairy prey.

Yeah, I amuse easily. But so do the hounds … and it gets them to eat their vegetables. Score one for the humans!

Greyhound Zone

Two years ago, when we were building our new home, there were endless hours of searching for just the right doors, doorknobs, doorstops, windows, trim, drawer pulls, cupboard knobs, flooring, carpeting, paint colors, doorstops, faucets, toilets, sinks ... and on and on.

Two of those grueling days were spent at Sears, choosing appliances. New appliances were included in the building loan so we felt like kids turned loose in a candy store. Perhaps you've experienced the illusion of wealth - when you're spending somebody else's money - followed by the shocking reality of paybacks. And we all know what they say about those. But I digress.

On this particular day we were after a dishwasher. Who knew there were so many features we'd lived without for so long? We finally settled on a good middle-of-the-road model but added the Turbo Zone feature, guaranteed to get even the grungiest pans sparkling clean. Uh-huh.

Fast forward a couple months. We and our new doors, windows, trim ... and appliances are now installed in the house. After dinner one evening, we're loading our new dishwasher and Brent puts in the frying pan with all the little pork chop crunchies burned on the bottom. I had my doubts and I said so. But my wonderful (naive) optimistic husband insisted this is just the scenario for which we paid and extra $100. He was convinced the pan would come out sparkling. Uh-huh.

Fast forward again to the end of the Lakers game. The "clean dishes" light is on. Here is where the rubber meets the road. I will admit the crunchies had turned to soggies but, bottom line, they were still there. So much for Mr. Turbo. Probably too late to get our $100 back. But that's not the end of the story. For those of you who have been sucked in by a sales pitch, I'm here to tell you, redemption is on the way. What you need is ... a greyhound.

Meet Arlo. Crunchies are no challenge. Dried on peanut butter is a snap. Egg yolk on breakfast plates? No problem! He's willing, he's handy, he's a perfectionist, and he even does silverware.

Dudes! Don't pay extra! Forget the Smart Wash, Pots & Pans, and Turbo Zone buttons. Get yourself in the Greyhound Zone and you'll never again have to worry about those embarrasing smudges your dishwasher just doesn't get. Guaranteed!

An interesting little aside, Arlo has a brother whose name is Turbo. I understand his specialty is garage doors. Perhaps his mom will share his talents with us?

"Sing, Cissie!"

In the short six months that both our ten year old grey girls, Cissie and Josie lived with us, they became friends. I don’t mean snuggle-on-the-couch friends or romp-and-run friends. Josie’s “noble queen” outlook on life would brook no such nonsense. Cissie’s stubborn independent streak didn’t include outright affection. Neither would admit they needed or enjoyed each other but their connection was clear to me.

They kept track of one another. One rarely went out the dog door that the other didn’t follow. They took turns leading the forays around the back yard. In the summer, their sunny napping spots were never far apart. Theirs was a nonchalant togetherness. They were like a pair of comfortable old shoes – each completed the other.

Then in September 2001, Josie became desperately ill and was diagnosed with liver cancer; she succumbed to it on October 27. The morning of her last day it was clear to me that she’d had enough. She and I went to the park alone for one last slow walk. She sniffed all the usual places, marked them like always, we lay on the grass for a while and gazed at the blue sky, and then we took our last ride together to Dr. Patty’s office. I held Josie in my arms on a fleece pad as she very peacefully released her last breath. The loneliest feeling in the world is walking out of the vet’s office with your broken heart and an old friend’s collar in your hand.

When I got home, Cissie met me at the door and her nose went right to the collar I was carrying. She focused those liquid black eyes on my face and the pain in them matched my own. I sat down on the floor, gathered her into my arms and sobbed as I told her Josie was gone.

These moments were the only time I ever felt need from Cissie. She was filled with the same pain I was feeling and she needed a way to release it. Intuitively, I put my head back and began to howl. Any other time I’d have laughed at the look on her face. It took only moments before she pointed her nose heavenward and took up the lament for Josie. We howled together until we were both hoarse, then Cissie, Buddy and I all got in the car and, drove to a nearby trailhead for a long walk up into the mountains.

Later that evening, Cissie sidled up to the couch where I was sitting. She again looked me directly in the eye and let out a low rumble in her throat. I said, “Sing, Cissie!” That’s all it took.

From that day on, those two words, “Sing, Cissie!” were her cue. But Cissie, that free spirit, didn’t only sing when she was asked. She quickly began singing any darn time she felt like it. First we’d hear several seconds of a low grumble, her version of tuning up, and then she would launch into a song of indeterminate length. And once that first note was out of her mouth there was no stopping her until the last note was sounded. All you could do was be patient. We could count on her breaking into song at least once during social get-togethers, or when we were on the phone, or occasionally in the wee hours of the morning. It was annoying. It was charming. It was Cissie.

Grief is a great creative force. It has been inspiring artists since the beginning of time. So it was with our sassy little brindle girl. It was grief that gave Cissie voice. It was song that healed her brokenness. It was joy that kept her singing all the rest of her days.

Sensational Hounds

The girls and I worked hard on Sara’s baby blanket this weekend. As you can see, it’s coming along quite nicely.


Periodically Arlo moves in offer his own contributions to this project. Shortly after Brent took this photo, Frosty got down off the couch. Arlo jumped up in her place, curled up next to me and put his lovely black head in the sea of pink. Wouldn’t you know the camera was across the room? It was also across the room this afternoon when, moments later, Arlo did one of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen.

But first, the story leading up to that moment: Miss Tory’s athletic prowess knows no limits. Like most greyhounds, when challenged she will run until she hurts herself. Last weekend I took the dogs on a field trip to Joni’s to take the edge off their cabin fever. Joni has two lovely huge paddocks out behind her kennel. My dogs love to go down there and catch up on all the news, circling the paddock and sniffing every blade of grass.

On this day, I put my pups into the paddock – the one without the Aussies in it - and went in the training room to chat with Joni for a while. I glanced out after a few minutes to see Tory and the Aussies racing each other up and down the fence - good exercise for all of them.

About an hour later Joni brought her Aussies in and turned a couple of her greys into that paddock. I was ready to go home so I went to fetch my hounds, but Tory was having none of it. There was a whole new challenge at hand! Up and down the fence raced Tory and Iris. That’s Iris, the lure-coursing hound. She’s sleek, she’s muscled, and she’s very fast. Tory, on the other hand, is “pet weight”. Not fat, but not sleek. She’s still beautifully muscled but not toned like Iris. And fast? Tory’s not about to admit she’s not as fast as Iris and she raced up and down the fence to prove it.

Since greyhounds are sprinters, not distance runners, they tired of the game fairly quickly. I loaded my furkids up and we headed home. All dogs had a long drink and headed for their favorite cushions. It wasn’t until dinner time when Tory came pathetically limping over to her bowl that I realized what had happened. I lifted her feet to confirm my suspicion and, sure enough, she’d run so hard she tore a small piece off the outside pad of both front feet. Sigh.

I’ve been putting antibiotic ointment on her feet this whole week. Pads are slow to heal but they’re definitely better. Now, for the cutest thing I mentioned earlier …

Tory was sacked out on the couch this afternoon just like you see her in the photo above with her front paw was hanging out in mid air. Arlo walked over, carefully inspected the injury to her pad and began to lick it. He spent no less than 5 minutes thoroughly cleaning not only the sore, but also the entire foot. Tory just watched him and didn’t move. When he was done, Arlo jumped up on the couch and laid down right behind Tory and put his head on her haunch.

Time and again I am blown away by how sensitive these hounds are. That little gesture was such a beautiful display of pack members caring for each other. We humans have so much to learn.

Liver Lust

I got inspired to cook yesterday. Bread and soup for the humans. Liver muffins for the hounds. I haven’t made liver muffins since we added Arlo to our grey family so we were long overdue. The whole process was just like I remembered it.

These muffins really are vile things. Liver is the only food I really can’t abide (although lima beans are a close second) so this process is really all about hound love.

Following the recipe - I started by liquefying a tub of fresh chicken livers (BLECH!) and then stirred in the package of corn bread mix and a couple eggs. I plopped the liver mash into the muffin compartments and put them in the oven. Several minutes later, just when my stomach had started to calm, I caught a whiff of baking liver. I opened the windows and turned on the fan.
Remember the cartoon where the dog floated through the air on the scent of pies cooling in the window? This was the scene at our house - greyhounds floating through the kitchen on the heavenly scent emanating from the oven – eyes glazed over in exquisite anticipation.

After 20 minutes the putrid pink mixture turned into little liver pucks. Being careful not to slip in the drool pooled in front of the oven door, I took a deep breath, held it, opened the oven door, grabbed the muffin pan and made haste to the garage - the steaming muffin cool down room.

Once they cooled I brought them in, loosened them from the tin with a knife and grabbed the camera. As you can see, they’re definitely a hit!

Warning: liver muffins are famous for their blue fog effect (see previous post)

Perfect Place

We had a lovely Thanksgiving. All the kids (and their kids) were there. Together we enjoyed turkey with all the trimmings; our choice of pumpkin pie, apple dumplings or cheesecake for dessert; card games; and football on TV. I got several rows of crocheting done on Sara’s baby blanket, which wasn’t the usual challenge since I had no hounds there to “help.”

It’s a beautiful post Thanksgiving morning here on the river. Here is the view out our living room window.


The busiest shopping day of the year holds no attraction whatsoever. I have no need for crowds, noise, and traffic. The lure of “bargains” has no appeal.

Besides, it’s rude to leave when you have company. The Great Blue Heron is in her regular spot on the “breakfast bar” at the river’s edge, patiently waiting for her breakfast to come along. We are also blessed with the company of a dozen Canada Geese - some feeding, some sleeping, some watching the sky brighten with the rising sun. Just moments ago a Bald Eagle flew down the river. Arlo, sighthound that he is, pointed out three deer feeding just across the river.

Right here is the perfect place to be. The only thing that could make it better is another cup of coffee. Right Tory?

Giving Thanks

Brent and I have so much to be grateful for on this Thanksgiving Day. Our love, our health and our family rank highest on the long list. We are blessed with all that matters so we have a lot to celebrate.

Today we also celebrate the birthday of our son, Brian. He would have been 27 years old. Brian was born with cystic fibrosis in 1981 and he died from it on February 17, 2004. But all that was wonderful about Brian remains and today, especially today, we celebrate him.

Brian could have viewed the world through a lens of bitterness and who could have blamed him? But the central organizing principal in his life was joy. He was ever in pursuit of good times with friends. There were always places to go, people to see, memories to make. He loved family and friends fiercely. He loved making people laugh. He truly loved living.

One of our greatest challenges in his last days was crowd control. His “family of friends” surrounded him, bringing his love for them back full circle. His only real fear – that he would be forgotten – was put to rest.

Our gratitude today runs especially deep.

Sassy Cissie

Cissie was a sassy little farm animal, 10 years old and tough as nails. She was born Cavatelli, on August 30, 1991. She was a lovely red brindle with four white socks and and snappy black eyes. The first 10 years of her life are a mystery as she has no recorded races and only six offspring registered from two litters.

Brent and I had no intention of adding a third dog to our household but one late evening in January 2001 I found this note on the Greyhound-List.

Help! Cissie needs help! This 10 year old brood matron has been living on a concrete floor in a breed farm garage in Ocala, Florida. The breeder is done with her. Anybody got room?

The whole story of her miraculous journey from Florida to Montana is chronicled in the Spring 2002 edition of Celebrating Greyhounds magazine. Suffice to say she joined our family that April and we became a three-hound household.

It was clear Cissie had spent her life fending for herself and the first few weeks were no-nonsense ones for her. She was a small statured, hard muscled dog with a deep voice and an extra large personal bubble. More than once I wondered what in the world I’d done bringing her into our family. But slowly, with some equally no-nonsense guidance, she stopped snarling and began to believe she belonged with us. She never dropped her “tough guy” persona, but over time, the “imp” in her emerged.

We both loved Saturday mornings when I’d get up early, curl up in my robe on the couch and read. The routine was always the same. Cissie would sidle up to the couch. I’d invite her to join me – her cue to stick her nose in the air, turn her head away and act as if the whole notion was absurd. Then I would grab her and haul her unceremoniously up on the couch and into my lap. She would let out a resigned sigh as if she was doing me a huge favor. Then she’d relax and fall sound asleep. Our snuggle time was always preceded by her little game of “hard to get.”

She taught me a lot in our time together. She always made me work a little harder for her love. Looking back, there’s remains a deep ache for the loss of her.

Adventurous Arlo

Arlo has been getting into trouble lately – counter surfing, thieving and recreational chewing. Each day Brent and I arrive home after work, enter the back door of the house and warily peek around the corner into the living room, since that’s where the bulk of his stolen items land. Lately, since the cold gray weather has replaced the warm summer nap-in-the-grass days, Arlo is inside more and frankly, he’s bored!

What we’re seeing now are the same puppy behaviors he exhibited when he first came to live at our house. Typical of a newbie, he didn’t understand where his feet or his teeth belonged, but he was charming and we were very patient. After a couple of peeing incidents – typical male showing off for the girls - when I made it perfectly clear to him that was unacceptable in the house, I was still feeling pretty patient.

Then one evening I was preparing the dogs’ dinners. Bowls were on the counter being filled, doggy anticipation was high and I was being very closely watched by three pairs of greyhound eyes. Suddenly that black beast lifted his leg and peed on Tory’s raised feeder! Caught in the act! I dropped the spoon, grabbed his collar, opened the back door and said sweetly (well, maybe not sweetly), “OUT”. Patience? Alright, it was getting pretty thin.

Arlo was initially crated at night to help him learn the routine. The first night was sleepless. Lordy, that dog can howl! By the second night I’d borrowed Joni’s barker breaker, although it’s high pitched squeal bothered us a lot more than it bothered Arlo. On the afternoon of day 3, I was sleep deprived but cautiously optimistic. When I decided to quickly run in and take a shower, Arlo gave me his angelic please-don’t-crate-me look and I decided to trust him out of my sight. He was free to roam the house while I got in the shower. When I came out there was a lake-sized puddle spreading across the dining room floor from the wall he’d peed on. Patience my butt! While I mopped and swore, he peeked out from behind the couch. When I finished mopping, I crated him and went to get dressed so I could take him back to Joni’s. I’d had it!

But once I was dressed, I knew I had to take time to calm down and think about it before I made this move. My frustration level was high enough to actually go through with the return, but tears were streaming down my face and I felt the old familiar heartache of anticipated separation from a dog I love. I went to the bookshelf, took down my copy of Brian Kilcommon and Sarah Wilson’s, Good Owners, Great Dogs. It’s a book Joni had highly recommended so it was on the shelf but hadn’t had time to read it yet. I plopped down in the living room chair, all the while being watched closely by Arlo from inside his crate. I opened the book to a random page:

“Don’t set your dog up for failure”, it said. The sentenced landed right on my heart and through more tears I reread it several times, along with the accompanying section. I’d done that – I’d set him up for failure. I’d been too quick to trust him with freedoms he didn’t yet know how to manage.

I opened the crate door, got down on my knees and apologized to Arlo. I promised him I’d remember this lesson and he, with those huge dark brown eyes, promised to try harder. We’ve both kept our promises.

That’s not to say this is always smooth. There was the day he ate the blueprints Brent had just received for a new electrical job he was bidding. Surely Arlo was a hamster in his last life. You just wouldn’t believe the nest - thousands of dime-sized pieces of paper. He does the same with magazines or books left within his reach.

Last week he chewed a lovely candle to bits, and the instruction booklet for our new gas barbecue. Then there were two baseball caps and a few floppy discs. Yesterday he pulled the new ream of paper out from under my desk and opened it for me. Thoughtful boy. And there’s just nothing that delights him more than discovering my sewing room door has been left open for the day. He’s unearthed many an unfinished project that I’d forgotten were in the back of my project closet. Yarn is his favorite. And one day he got the pincushion off my sewing desk and pulled every single pin out of it! I came home to find the pin-free cushion sitting in the floor surrounded by a sea of glass topped straight pins. I was horrified at the thought of what could have happened – but the scene was eerily tidy and how I wish I had a video of his meticulous work.

These days I hide his toys around the house each morning before we go to work and there’s no doubt he “gets” the game but he’s an adventurer at heart and is always on the lookout for new entertainment. But a promise is a promise and, truth be told, there are few dull moments around here. Together, we’re a work in progress. May we be blessed with Arlo’s adventures for many years to come.

Blue Fog

Today’s topic is a bit more delicate but if you own a greyhound it certainly isn’t news. Our charming and mellow grey companions have a remarkable penchant for producing noxious fumes that can bring you gasping out of a dead sleep. I wish it weren’t so, but it seems to be a skill they all share.

It never fails. Guests have joined you at the dinner table. Naturally, the greyhounds are close by and right on cue, a blue fog drifts across the dining room. You apologize (without breathing) and reach for the window crank.

Or you’re snuggled up with your hounds on the couch. As noted previously, each of ours has their own little blanket. It has nothing to do with the temperature. Suppressing the spread of those gases can make all the difference when you’d really like to stay for the rest of the movie.

If you’re in the car, you’re trapped. I wonder if there are traffic laws covering this circumstance? It can’t be particularly safe to be driving while you’re holding your breath and trying to focus through the tears. Again, you open a window – sometimes all the windows. It’s a more difficult situation in winter months but still, frostbite is temporary while asphyxiation is rather long term.

At our house, I am grateful to have an “early warning system.” Why, without even entering the room I can see whether or not it’s safe to enter …

Buddy Goes Shopping

When you sign a greyhound adoption contract there is no doubt about the leash and fence requirements. So you use a martingale collar – the one they’re least likely to back out of - you put carabiners on your gates. You threaten your kids. You may even post signs to remind visitors. Ours said:

“I CAN MAKE IT TO THE GATE IN 3 SECONDS … CAN YOU”?

But no matter how careful you are, one of the kids’ friends, or the lawn service, or the meter man is likely to get careless one day.

So it was on that summer day in 2001. We walked in the front door after work and – no Buddy. Panicked, we did a thorough search of the house, thinking all the awful things that a creative mind conceives at times like that. No Buddy. And then, much to our horror, we spotted the open gate.

Quickly, we devised a game plan, grabbed our cell phones and were halfway out the door when the phone rang.

“This is Jack at Sunshine Video. Are you missing a black dog?”

“YES! Is he ok?”

“Oh yes, he came strolling through the door a few minutes ago and is happily greeting every customer who comes in. Sure is a friendly guy!”

“Please hold on to him. We’ll be right there.”

Sunshine Video was just down the hill from our house – perhaps a quarter mile. Still, Buddy had crossed two scary-busy streets. Thank goodness he hadn’t outrun his guardian angels.

When we walked into the store, it was clear Buddy was in his element. He had quite a fan club gathered around and he was happily inhaling the proffered Cheetos like he hadn’t eaten in days. He looked up briefly, gave us a sparkle of recognition, and stuck his head back in the Cheetos bag.

We thanked Jack and took Buddy home for pizza and a movie - seemed approrpiate - to celebrate his safe return home.

Turns out "Nobody" left the gate open.

Hound yarn

When it comes to hobbies, I’m sort of a “jack of all trades, master of none”. I sew, knit, crochet, bead, quilt, cross stitch, garden and write. I’ve tried my hand at stained glass, building bird houses, painting and jewelry making. My greyhounds are there every step of the way. If I’m in my craft room (where cushy dog beds cover the floor) they are there. If I am in the office writing, they are jockeying for the bed closest to me. If I am in front of the family room television doing needlework (which is the only way I can stand TV), I am surrounded by dogs. They particularly TV time because they are allowed on the family room furniture.

The couch is a sectional, a behemoth of a thing, so it fits the whole family – now that the kids have moved on. Brent is the anchor, always sitting in the recliner on the end where he has the best view of the game (most any kind of game that involves a ball). Frosty loves the spot right next to Brent (she’d actually sit in his lap if he’d let her) with her head in his lap or on the keyboard of his laptop which, as you can imagine, causes some issues. I’m typically in the corner spot and Arlo is next, where he can put his nose and feet into the middle of whatever I’m working on. And Tory is on the other end where she has the arm of the couch for a headrest. We each have our own little blanket for cold weather … or gas. Greyhound owners need no further explanation.

So last evening I’m in my corner spot. The Jets and the Patriots are on the big screen. The pups, delighted about this family time, were doing their part holding the couch down. My project of the moment is a crocheted baby blanket for Sarah, a young friend who will have her first child in January. On my right is Arlo’s back half. On my left is Frosty with her head in my lap. All is right with the world.

And then it starts. Arlo is on the racetrack. He’s yipping and running, obviously about to take over first place. His lips are quivering, his tail is swishing and occasionally he lands a bruising kick to my thigh - and manages to get his toenails caught in my project. Gently (I wouldn’t want him to lose the race) I extract my blanket from between his toes and scoot over just a hair.

Peace is restored. I’m crocheting along and then Frosty starts to twitch. The yarn that runs from the ball on the floor to my needle is across her nose and tickles her with every stitch. Before I can move it, up comes her front paw in a kitty-cleaning-its-ears move. Now she is caught up in my project. Sighing, I carefully extract my blanket from her claws and my yarn from around her ear. I manage a couple more rows before I give up.

Our lives would be so mundane without our crafty greys. I’m just glad the new mom also loves greyhounds – this blanket is bound to have a little hair-o-greyhound embedded in it for they are, indeed, part of everything we do.

Frosty, Arlo and Tory

Buddy

Buddy was born “Midniteincounter” on March 22, 1994. He ran only 24 races over a three-year period, all at Pueblo Greyhound Park in Colorado. He came to us in October of 1999 and we were fortunate to have him with us for nearly seven years.

Buddy was not a flashy hound. He was not a boy who caught your eye because of his beautiful coat or remarkable countenance. He was black and male, a combination that anyone who does rescue work will tell you substantially decreased the likelihood he would ever be chosen as a pet. But when our adoption rep asked if we had specific requirements for our next hound, we asked her to “just bring us one who needs a home” and we were gifted with Buddy.

He was such a gentle spirit, timid and unassuming, with a heart of gold, a sparkle in his eyes, half a tail, and a list of devoted fans longer than your arm. He truly loved meet’n greets, parades and picnics where he was the ultimate ambassador for the breed. Many times we had new applicants ask for a greyhound “just like Buddy”. On walks, folks were always approaching us with, “Hi, Buddy”! It thrilled him when folks knew his name.

Buddy had quite a list of favorites. He loved going down to the ball field and chasing a softball, favoring “keep away” over “fetch” and he was delighted when we’d chase him. He loved to travel, especially if he could ride with his head out the window, ears flying. He loved football season. I suspect it was because Brent spent so much time in the family room with him but Brent swears Buddy watched the game and loved the Packers. Either way, there can be no doubt that his favorite thing about Monday Night Football was pizza. Buddy would fly up the stairs to greet the deliveryman before the doorbell even rang and wouldn’t take his eyes off the pizza until he got his share.

Buddy crossed over the Rainbow Bridge on April 28, 2006. His departure left a palpable hole in our lives. He’d been with us when all our kids were still small. He’d loved my mother, and our son, both of whom preceded him in death. He’d been a brother to every greyhound we’d ever owned. He’d been a part of so many good times and he is the dog we still mention most often. He is the reason we specifically asked for Arlo, the black boy we have now, and the reason we will always have a black male greyhound in our family.

Buddy visited our new home with us while it was being built but he didn’t survive to make the move with us. I have a sneaking suspicion it’s because he knew there is no pizza delivery here.

Aristotle had it right...

Last evening, having resisted the pettiness of details all day, I sat marveling at how I was filled with the big picture. My day had been spent reflecting on the striking landscape of the valley we live in, the vastness of the “Big Sky”, the beauty in all creation, the awe-inspiring sunset, the tenacity of the human spirit, the love of friends…. I was filled with wonder.
And then Tory, my red greyhound, came over to taste the water in which I was soaking my ankle. Yes, I know an ankle is a small detail in the big picture but some details, especially the painful ones simply demand attention.

It’s true you know. The devil IS in the details. I suspect it was the devil who planted those new little shrubs in the middle of campus – the ones I tripped over while soulfully gazing up at Mt. Sentinel. It was likely also the devil who quietly turned on the empty gas tank light while I was appreciating the majestic Bitterroots and accelerating past the Lolo gas station. The 10 miles to the next station seemed endless.

And then last night I had another dream. This time I was in the driver’s seat of an old pickup that was careening down a very steep street. Not too bad except for two little details - 1) it was careening backwards and 2) there were no brakes.

OK, so much for my head in the clouds. Today I shall reflect on Aristotle’s “moderation in all things”.

Details

I dreamt about my parents last night. Both have been gone many years. The details of the dream were foggy and I struggled to reconstruct it, trying to pull the story into my waking space. Then I realized that in order to enjoy the warm fuzzy feelings recalled by my dream, I didn’t need the details. So I let them go and sunk into the safe, connected “little girl space” of my youth. It was poignant and wonderful.

Made me think of how often I lose the feeling while searching for details – details that may be interesting but are only tiny needles on great pine trees in magnificent forests. I tip my hat to whomever said “the devil is in the details”. Details can ruin a great experience.

So today I resolve to step back away from the details and appreciate the glory of the bigger picture. I will look up and around and not concern myself so much with the individual steps.

But it does occur to me that we’re out of eggs … a detail of the omelet that was on tonight’s menu. Wonder where Brent’s taking me to dinner.

Josie

Brent and I have often been asked, "why did you choose greyhounds"? We didn't. They chose us. It was late summer in the early 1990's. The Post Falls, ID track had closed and hundreds of racing greyhounds had no place to go. We'd followed the story in the media, but Brent and I had only recently married and were working hard with our blended family - four kids between 4 and 9 y/o. It just wasn't the time to add a dog to the mix.

Late that summer, at the Western Montana State Fair, we happened upon a booth where volunteers with their greyhounds were handing out adoption brochures. As we approached, one of the hounds looked up at me. Her beautiful liquid brown eyes locked onto mine and I felt as if I'd hit a brick wall. To this day I have no idea who that hound was, but she sure did her job! The volunteers gave us a brochure and we gave that greyhound a promise to adopt one of her peers one day.

In the Spring of 1998, the day came. We contacted our local group, filled out the application, passed the home visit, built a fence, bought a dog hauling vehicle and the next thing we knew Josie walked into our lives. We joked later that she was our $7,000 dog. She was worth every penny.

Josie was born "Tibby" on June 17, 1990. For the three years prior to entering our lives she had been living with a family in South Dakota. At 8 years old she needed rehoming because her family was divorcing. We readily agreed to give her a soft bed, lots of love and a new last name.

We had no way of knowing how deeply she was grieving the loss of her family. She was gracious but aloof. When we came home from work she would greet us at the door but then retreat almost immediately back to her bed. We assumed this was normal behavior for the breed. It was four months before she was ready to give her heart away again. I remember the moment so clearly. One evening she came up and laid her head in my lap, did that same visual "lock on" I'd experienced years earlier and the barrier she'd had up to protect herself came crashing down. She finally believed we wanted her to stay.

She was with us until October 2001, when she succumbed to cancer of the liver and pancreas. In the years we shared she was an ambassadress extraordinaire, mind reader, pushy broad, noble queen, gentlest of creatures, and a comfort sponge.

Her legacy in our lives is the seven hounds who have succeeded her.

In the beginning ...

As the webmaster for gparockymountain.org I am often sent photos and stories of foks' life experiences with their retired racing greyhounds. Most are Montana greys, and most entered their life of retirement out west through our organization. The stories are often sweet, sometimes hysterically funny and, since life is a dynamic process, they are occasionally heartbreaking. I feel privileged to see the photos and read the stories and have chosen this venue - The Greys of our Lives - so that you, whose life may also have been touched by these gentle creatures, can enjoy them too.

I could write for some time about my own greyhounds since Brent (the love of my life) and I have signed adoption contracts for eight of these wonderful hounds over the past decade. We currently have three greys living with us ... but that's fodder for many blogs to come. I also hope to include your stories - those of you who are owned by greyhounds - so please keep those photos and grey tales coming.

In the spirit of beginning, here is a photo of Josie, our very first. She came to us in the summer of 1998 and began what's turned out to be a life long love affair with greyhounds.