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.