Greyt Lessons

It goes without saying that I’m totally smitten with greyhounds. And I know my hounds very well. Recently though, it’s come to my awareness that I have unique connections with each pup.

I was in awe of Josie. She was our first and so she was way ahead of me on the nature of greyhound/human relationships. She patiently taught me much I needed to learn and, looking back, I realize some of what I learned was at her expense. I have some things to apologize for when we meet again. It was undoubtedly obvious to the veterans that I was a newby, and yet, Queen Josie was a benevolent teacher who never took advantage of my naiveté. When I got home in the evening she would kindly get off the couch and grace me with a wag or two but would then return to the couch. Any further interaction required that I go to her. She taught me that I needed to be worthy of a greyhound’s affection.

Buddy wanted only gentleness – well, that and pizza. He was an amazing ambassador, always ready with a friendly greeting. He tried to trust in the safety of the world but had a marked timid streak and frequently needed anchoring. There was no such thing as discipline in Buddy’s world. It would have crushed him, so it’s fortunately he was perfect. He taught me the power of gentleness.

Cissie and I had a strong spiritual connection from the very beginning. She picked me out of a crowd - walked right up and put her head in my lap at Kanab – before I knew she was the very dog we’d come to pick up. She was the one whose grief matched my own when Josie died. She was the one with whom I “sang” for healing and yet, she had an independent streak a mile wide. She was coy and elusive when it came to cuddling but was delighted when I pushed myself on her and pulled her into my lap to snuggle. From her I was reminded of the indomitable nature of Spirit.

And then there was Aero. Physically, he was a wreck, but true to his nickname (Red Skelton) he was the ultimate canine comedian and wished only to bring joy to all he met. Nothing pleased him more than to hear laughter that he’d elicited. It made him positively glow. He taught me the wealth to be found in laughter.

Frosty was the Dutchess. She never sought to rule in any obvious way but both Tory and Sadie (the cat) discovered it was a bad idea to get in her face. She was so much “bigger” than her physical being suggested. Since her departure, the magnitude of her “presence” is even more obvious, reminding me to celebrate each moment as if it were your last.

Tory has both pannus and epilepsy so I’m likely more protective of her. Some might even say servile. I think it’s really the chicken or the egg question, but I suppose it’s possible I’ve created the demanding little princess that she is. If she decides it’s cookie time, she simply marches right up and barks at me. I sigh dramatically and fetch one for her, but one blip in her aura puts me on high alert. I’m well aware that her life may not be a long one. She makes me content to serve.

And Arlo. What a dufus! He’s a combination of Buddy’s sweet spirit, Aero’s humor and his own penchant for juvenile delinquency. But he’s not without a conscience. When we come home at the end of the work day to find him sheepishly watching us from his bed in the corner, we never have to look far to find what he’s been up to. What do you do with a charming imp who continues to break the rules but who then puts himself in time out? And I wonder if it’s that same charm that sways me to allow him to put his front feet on my shoulders for hugs twice a day? That certainly would not have been allowed 10 years ago but then, come to think of it, we’ve had no other greykids who asked. From Arlo I get many, many opportunities to practice patience.

Each pup' needs are different. Each has unique ways to enrich my life. Each shapes the human/hound connection to suit them. Would that I can be a student as enlighted by the lessons as my four footed teachers are sincere in their offerings – and their love.

Frosty Remembered

Frosty’s song – sung to the tune of Teddy Bears' Picnic:

The lovely lady named Silver Frost
Is charming beyond compare.
With dappled fur, and a fine physique
And countenance, oh so rare.

Her Irish smile will sure make you grin
T’will elevate the mood that you’re in.
My elegant pearl, my beautiful girl, my Frosty
My elegant pearl, my silly old girl, my Frosty.


Frosty visibly brightened when I sang it for her. She knew it was all about her and she loved it. I still hum it a lot but it’s harder with the lump in my throat.

We assisted our elegant old girl to the Rainbow Bridge last Saturday - because that’s part of the bargain.

When Brent and I adopt hounds we promise them comfort and safety and lots of love. Freedom from pain, trauma and suffering is also part of the deal. Thus we made the decision to release her last Saturday, just two week after her cancer diagnosis was confirmed. Her frailty was more and more evident with each passing day, her tumors were visibly larger, the risk of a traumatic event loomed large and it was clearly time to honor the heart breaking part of the promise.

It was a peaceful departure for her. We had pancakes, her favorite breakfast, and then we spent an hour on the deck in the sun together. Her final ride in the car was just as joyful for her as all the others had been. Her vet, Dr. Joe, is a wonderful man she knew and trusted. She was lying comfortably on a soft cushion, Brent and I touching her, crooning our deep gratitude for the 4 short years we had together.

We felt the vastness of her absence the moment her heart stopped. It seemed our own hearts paused companionably for a few moments to accompany her and then took up their rhythm again once she was safely across. Now we are left to reconfigure the balance of our family with our beautiful memories of Frosty and all she taught us.

Thank you, Frosty, for insisting that you were mine and persistently demanding to be included on that Colorado haul. Thank you for your beautiful smile that greeted us with each new day. Thank you for the snuggles on the couch and your clear expectation that the spot right next to Brent was for you and his lap was exclusively yours.

Thank you for the delightful games of tag around the island in the kitchen ; for your deep throated bark that told me the game was on; for your silly puppy romp and yip when you saw my car turning in the driveway; for the secrets that only you and I shared.

Thank you, too, dear Dutchess, for being such a fine ambassador for your breed. Many hounds now have families of their own, thanks to those huge brown eyes that drew people to you like a magnet, that made them look really close, that made them long for your kind of love in their lives.

The sweet bye and bye will be even sweeter knowing you are there.

P.S. Oh yes, and thanks for only squeaking the cat, and not eating her, that time she dared you to catch her - and you did.

Back Home Again

Those of you also following Joni's blog - http://hotchakennels.blogspot.com/ - know where I've been for the past few weeks. In short, I've been preparing for, enjoying and recovering from the best trip imaginable for those of us smitten by greyhounds.

I've never in my life laughed as much as Carol, Joni and I did on our adventure. It was the trip of a lifetime.

We visited 5 greyhound farms, two adoption kennels, the Greyhound Hall of Fame, the schooling track in Abilene - the busiest track in the world, and the NGA. We met so many wonderful people, including gh owners, trainers, track owners and managers. We spent three days each with Heather Weir (at Almost Home for Hounds in Nunn, Colorado) and Teddy Palmer (at Halfway Home for Hounds in Tulsa, OK). We were all like little sponges, soaking up the farming and training processes, the owners' and trainers' stories, and the greyhound love from the tiny ones we could feel wiggling in their mom's tummy (due to be born within the week) to the many beautiful seniors we met. And we took many new ideas away with us from the adoption kennels.

The one constant was the gracious manner in which we were welcomed everywhere we went. Nobody sighed or rolled their eyes as we asked question after question. Frankly, the only sign of impatience we encountered came from TheTalentedMr.Ripley, the four footed host at the Greyhound Hall of Fame - and that was only because Joni walked into the lobby armed with his favorite treat in the world - twinkies. He gratefully accepted her gift and then sauntered back to his throne.

After twelve days and 4200 miles, we returned home exhausted but still grinning and there are already rumors afoot about next year's adventure. I can hardly wait.

In the meantme there's lots of work to do finding good homes for the 8 hounds who returned with us and the four who arrived from OK while we were gone. It's hard work - and it never happens as quickly as we'd like - but each hound is precious and will be thoughtfully placed in the best home we can find.

Lone Goose

The Lone Goose is weighing heavily on my heart. He shows up each evening all by himself and slowly swims up one side of the river and down the other and then up into the backwater on the far side. That area is rich with nesting sites that are calling to goose couples now. It’s mating time and his head turns from side to side, searching. But unlike the other seasons, she’s not here to meet him.

I’ve chastised myself for anthropomorphizing. But in my heart I know he’s lost his mate and I ache for him every evening when I see him finally give up and leave, alone. I know he’ll be back again tomorrow. Geese mate for life and they are so faithful. They will occasionally pick a second mate if the unthinkable happens and I fervently hope the Lone Goose will.

We’ve been here on River’s Edge through three nesting seasons now. We watch the families, we count the goslings. We hurt when their numbers diminish from one 24 hour period to the next. We think of them as “our goslings”. We cheer as they learn to walk and we’re proud when their down is replaced by their beautiful flight feathers and they become less distinguishable from their parents. We try not to dwell upon it when hunting season comes and weekend after weekend we are awakened at dawn by the shotgun blasts.

I grew up in a hunting family and I have no issue with folks who love to hunt; well, except for those who are hunting only for trophies (but that’s a different topic). My folks were never happier then when they were shivering in a duck blind in the fog somewhere in South Carolina or Washington, or when they were tramping through wheat fields hoping to flush out an upland game bird in Wisconsin. They walked in unison, they needed no words, and they knew they could depend upon each another. They were mates for life and they were so fortunate to have 50 years together.

When my father died, my mother was the Lone Goose. She was so lost without him. That broke my heart too. Dad had to die. He was far too debilitated after his stroke to be happy inside himself and neither Mom nor I asked it of him. Still, I was totally unprepared for my Mother’s desperate aloneness, and for my inability to help her after she lost her life mate. Oh, she coped alright, and she put on a brave face most of the time but there was no way she could hide her aching heart from me, her only child. She died six years after Dad, fully ready to go and delighted about their upcoming reunion. I combined their ashes in one urn as they’d asked and buried them together. I found a lovely snow globe with a pair of elegant white swans inside and let it inspire me to write their joint eulogy about life and love, about commitment and forever.


Now a Lone Goose is back in my life and the heartache is fresh again. I deeply miss my mom as I grieve for him. I walk over to the shelf in my living room and pick up the beautiful snow globe with the elegant white swans and I shake it. Though I know order will be restored as soon as the snow settles, the globe clearly demonstrates to me the disorientation of stormy times as I peer into the globe and, for a time, lose sight of the pair.

Perhaps tomorrow the Lone Goose will come accompanied and peace will be restored in his heart and mine.

Happy Birthday, Frosty

Happy Birthday to the Dutchess Y

Our lovely Irish lass, Frosty (registered: Silverfrost) has turned 13!

Back in 1995, her American born father, Chet, went to Ireland to meet the perfect Irish lass. Her mother, Adage, fit the bill perfectly and on March 10, 1996, Silverfrost was born, a vibrant and beautiful member in a litter of 9.

As a youngster, Frosty came to the U.S. and began her racing career. Her records shows she began racing June 6, 1998 in Corpus Christi, Texas, running every season but one until May 2001 when she retired to create her own lineage of racers in July 2001, March 2002 and February 2004.

Frosty retired again at age 9 and changed her name to ours.

Three of her 19 kids "stopped by" to wish her a joyful day ...

Sky Diamond (girl, July 2001, daddy Gable Dodge)

American Design (girl, March 2002, daddy Rapido Rambo)

Flight Leader (boy, July 2001, daddy Gable Dodge)

Jack Frost (boy, February 2004, daddy Gable Oscar)

Besides being an undoubtedly gracious mother, Frosty is a canine miracle. She sees all, from flowers to stars and at such times, her mantle of sovereign mystery gives way to unabashed wonder at the world and her eyes light up as if to say "Wow! Did you see THAT"?

We are, indeed, pleased and proud to have her in our family.

Sound and Fury

It took me an hour to eat my oatmeal this morning. I was sitting at the island in our kitchen, which is strategically positioned to see out our west-facing windows. If you’ve not caught this view in previous blogs, let me show you a winter morning version …

This morning the clouds are resting on the tops of the mountains. They are laden with snow and remind me of a piñata just waiting to be whacked by a stick so they can unload their burden.

Along the river’s edge the tips of the old cottonwoods have turned a season-welcoming golden. The river willow is a glowing shade of terra cotta and the lovely maroon dogwood is turning amethyst, sure signs the sap is flowing.

There is a bench of land between us and the river, about the width of a country road and 10 feet below the level of our house. Beyond that and perhaps eight feet lower is the Bitterroot River. This morning it is teeming with life.

Opposite our house is a backwater that is very attractive to wildlife. I pick up the field glasses to check out a commotion in the liquid cul-de-sac, and see several Canada Geese having a rather heated discussion about territory. If you’ve ever been around geese, you know they are not to be messed with. They are a species full of sound and fury and mating season hormones turn the everyday flurries into a perfect storm.

Nonchalantly riding out the storm, right next to the “hissing match”, are several ducks, four different species, bobbing for breakfast. They’ve seen the goose display far too often to be impressed.

There is a large snag that washed into that pool back when it was part of the river’s main channel, and sitting on a limb of that waterlogged mass is a big bird – a very big bird. It’s a young golden eagle who has been drawn to the commotion much like a 13-year old boy is drawn to a fistfight. He is making full use of his amazing ability to turn his head nearly 360 degrees to take in the whole scene. I laugh at him when he makes himself dizzy and nearly falls off his perch into the water.

Movement on the nearby shore, proves to be a tiny spotted fawn with her mama standing guard lest the eagle should take a fancy to venison for breakfast. As I marvel at the new little spotted miracle, something large flies across my field of vision. Hildyth – our resident Blue Heron - has arrived for breakfast. She makes a breathtaking precision landing in the shallow water and immediately assumes her statue pose to wait, oh so patiently, for breakfast to arrive.

On the near side of the river, along the edge of the high bank, 13 woodchucks are busy snuffling through the grasses for their favorite snack (whatever that may be). Two of them take up their usual positions on the rail fence. They are stretched out their full length upon the top rail, feet dangling down on either side like a lumpy saddle blanket drying in the sun. A bit to the north of them is a rooster pheasant, white ringed neck shining like a beacon, flapping his wings and strutting his stuff. ‘Tis the season.

I eat my ice cold oatmeal with a smile on my face. It’s a great day to be alive.

Knit 10, Pearl 10

Remember back in November when the girls and I were working on this project for Sara and Joe's new little arrival due in January?


I'm pleased to tell you thanks to the support and patience of these awesome hounds little Jozie, who arrived in January, has her new blanket. Here is a closeup of the finished product.