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