"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.

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.