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.