The Diarrhea Diaries

If you've continued reading in spite of the unappealing title, you've come to the right place, because I've got the scoop on poop for anyone navigating that gastric nightmare known as canine diarrhea. Sure, an occasional bout is unpleasant, but chronic diarrhea? It should be added to Dante's Inferno as the 11th Circle of Hell. 

And when you have a Greyhound that weighs 84 pounds? Well, let's just say big dog, big output. 

The source of Ember's diarrhea was a mystery. Was it his hookworm medication? Diet? An allergy? An intestinal disorder, perhaps? My poor boy was having three, four, sometimes as many as six mushy stools per day, and during our nonstop rainstorms, no less. Try cleaning the stuff off fake grass while it's raining and you know it would be easier to remove white off rice. No sooner would I pick up the latest pile and disinfect and scrub the grass before Ember would step outside for yet another...no no no no no...bout of epic proportions. Sigh.

I tried everything. His vet, the wonderful Dr. Dowd, thought he might have a food allergy so I slowly transitioned him to a limited ingredient kibble. Upon her suggestion I also added a daily probiotic plus, for extra fiber, green beans or a scoop of pumpkin. 

Nope. Although he loved the bonus additions.

Could it be a vitamin B12 deficiency? She taught me how to give Ember bi-weekly injections, but to no effect. Maybe it was a bacterial infection? She prescribed Flagyl. 

A little better. I held my breath...maybe, maybe, maybe? Nope. 

She didn't think it was his hookworm treatment, either. He'd been on medication for almost a year but was now off it since he was finally testing negative--hooray! And yet the mushy stools continued. 

I became obsessed with poop talk. When I asked Cara, a fellow dog walker at my local park, how her new six-month old Golden Retriever Bernie was doing, she bemoaned his consistent diarrhea and bam! We bonded over poop. She finally went to an Irritable Bowel Disorder (IBS) specialist who charged a sum equivalent to her mortgage but when I ran into her a few weeks later, she said every penny was worth it because Bernie's stools were picture perfect. That's all I needed to hear--alleluia sister, give me that guy's number!

Never mind. Just one month later, she said the soft stools were back. 

Emily's Greyhound, Arrow was having gastric "issues" as well. During our group walks, while others were sharing Netflix recommendations and Ted Lasso reviews, Emily and I were exchanging sordid details about size, frequency, texture, and color. Everyone was frantic for answers, hoping that perhaps someone else had discovered the Golden Ticket. 

In the meantime, Ember wasn't showing any signs of tummy distress. He was still my goofy, gentle, playful pup, affectionate and eager to play, happy to eat. His "mom" on the other hand, was growing increasingly desperate for a solution. I replaced my small patch of fake grass with pea pebble, thinking it might be easier to clean. It wasn't. Where I had once emptied just one trash receptacle per week, I now hauled multiple bags of the reeking stuff. Every morning I looked out my living room window with a sense of dread, scared to survey the latest landmine of poop sprinkled throughout my yard and cobblestone patio, gearing myself up like a soldier about to enter a war zone. 

Then one morning...

With my usual trepidation, I peeked between the blinds and...wait, WHAT? I blinked hard. Nope, it was really there.  A perfectly coiled poop reaching toward the sky like Coit Tower. I knew this wasn't from my other Greyhound, Clara whose M.O is to wait until our morning walk. I looked in disbelief at Ember, who was oh so casually sprawled across his Laz E Dog recliner.

 Was this work of art yours?

"Yeah, it's mine," his expression seemed to say. "What of it?"

And just like that his stools have remained, dotting my fake grass like the heads on Easter Island. I'm continuing with the probiotics, pumpkin, et al because I'm not sure what worked. Maybe it was a collective solution coupled with my pathetic prayers. 

Now, on our weekly greyhound group walks, I can forgo poop talk and chime in about Ted Lasso and his soccer team named, appropriately enough, The Greyhounds. But if anyone wants the dish on dung, I'm your number one gal. 

Uh, make that number two.

Introducing Ember

And just like that, there's a new dog in town, as if you were surprised. Anyone who knows me knows that I'm happiest with a dog under each arm. When I lost Aiden unexpectedly last April, that left my poor Clara trying to adjust as an "only" dog, an adjustment she did not take well. Sweet dog that she is, I know she likes dogs more than people, and that's okay. I like dogs more than most people, too.

So, about this new dog. A few days before Thanksgiving, I got a call from Stu Homer, founder of Golden State Greyhound Adoption. He had a "bounce back" that was currently in a foster home; a two and a half year old male that had been returned because the dog's apartment-dwelling owners claimed that, after 11 months, they just couldn't housetrain him, plus he didn't walk well on busy San Francisco streets. The dog had a limp, Stu said, thanks to a bad break at a Florida racetrack that occurred either playing or during a practice run, nobody knew for sure. Due to my neurological condition, Stu was aware that I also have a limp and can't walk fast or far. It was a perfect match, he said. Would I be interested?

Like he had to ask. We made arrangements to meet the next day at Stu's house, where all surrenders and adoptions take place. There, "Grant" would be returned by his foster family and handed off to me. 

I fell in love instantly. The dog was jet black and by far, the tallest greyhound I've ever seen. His head came to my hipbone and at 5'9, I'm no shrinking violet. 

"Where do I sign?" I asked Stu. In a few short hours, the dog I renamed Ember, inspired by his glowing brown eyes, was in his new home. 

The first few days Ember didn't leave his pillow, seemingly in a state of shock, and who could blame him? Just a few days earlier he had been with the only family he had known since leaving the track. Then without warning he suddenly found himself with a foster family, and just a few days later he was in yet another strange home: mine.  

But slowly, cautiously, he started to explore his new surroundings. He saw Clara use the doggie door and without hesitation, followed her through the door where he proceeded to do his business in the designated grass area, with no prompting, mind you. Five months later, Ember has never had an accident in the house. And this was the dog that couldn't be housetrained?

This was also the dog that his previous owners claimed "didn't walk well." Now bear in mind, I wear leg braces and use a cane, yet I found I was able to handle Clara and Ember easily using one hand to hold two leashes. They walked together seamlessly, belly-to-belly. I wish I could take credit for being an extraordinary trainer, but I can't because Ember adapted Just. Like. That. 

As the days passed, Ember started playing with toys, playing with Clara, and playing with his new greyhound friends that we walk with every Saturday. His personality began to shine forth, a happy, playful goofy pup that was incredibly affectionate, leaning his 84-pound body against me so hard for hugs that I soon learned to make sure I had a wall in back of me for support. He and Clara became inseparable, sleeping together, riding in the car together, going on walks together, eating together. In no time, it felt like Ember had been with us forever.

But that limp. His funny gait was causing a painful corn to form on the foot of the leg he had broken and judging from  his limp, I suspected he might need a boot. I called Stu for advise and he told me to bring Ember to his house and he would try different boots to determine what might be the best fit. Since I'd be preoccupied with Ember, I decided to leave Clara at home. 

As we turned down Stu's street, Ember's demeanor changed. He appeared nervous. Scared. I opened the car door to let him out, but he wouldn't budge, instead tucking himself further back in the corner. And when he saw Stu? The poor dog started trembling so hard I became concerned. What the heck? And then I knew.

Every time Ember had been to Stu's house, he had been ripped from his home and moved to a new one. First the racetrack, then his home of 11 months, then his foster family of four days. The common denominator was this street. This man. Ember saw Stu and thought he was being sent away yet again. His fear was so palpable it tore my heart. 

I didn't force him out of the car, instead letting him stay inside as Stu came to us to try different boots while I held my shaking dog. I talked to Ember, soothed him, told him everything was okay and he was coming back home. He leaned into me with worried eyes, offering his paw to Stu but not ever looking at him. 

When we returned home, Ember bolted into the house with the same speed I imagine he'd once exhibited at the racetrack. He saw his pillow. His toys. His bed and his companion, Clara. And above all else, he saw the one most important thing, the only thing that really mattered: 

My sweet boy saw his forever home. 

The Calling Card of Fear

Days after bringing Clara home, I started acclimating my new dog to her new life, which included, of course, walks. Or as it's known in my household, "going bye-bye," an expression carried over from my parents that I continued using when I got my first greyhound, Elvis, in 2002. "Let's go bye-bye," probably the most beautiful words you can say to any dog of mine. Bushes! Squirrels! More bushes! It doesn't get any better than that.

For years, I've walked my dogs around my neighborhood, but no more. Since fracturing my kneecap this past January, my weak knee can no longer handle local hilly streets. And so, I load "the kids" in my Honda CRV and off we drive to a nearby park, no more than ten minutes north or south.

It was on one of Clara's first car excursions when, minutes into our ride, I noticed toxic fumes wafting through my small car. Whoa. Apparently "somebody" had gas. But when we arrived at the park and Clara jumped from the back seat, I saw that it wasn't gas I'd smelled. My girl had left a calling card. Several, in fact. Okay, accidents happen. No biggie. 

Except it happened again. And again. Clara was never in the car for more than ten minutes, and I was even making sure she first did her business in the backyard, but it didn't matter. She kept pooping in the back seat. What the heck? Finally, out of desperation, I called Stu, the founder of Golden State Greyhound Adoption, and explained what was going on. His theory broke my heart.

"Think about it," he said. "It's likely that Clara's previous three owners never took her anywhere in a car. The only time she's been in a car has been when she was about to be surrendered to a new home. She associates the car with abandonment."

Oh my God, he was right. For lack of a more eloquent way to put it, with each car ride this poor dog was literally having the shit scared out of her. "Keep taking her to the same parks, keep the same routine," Stu continued. "In time, she'll come to recognize the route and associate the car with something positive."

It worked. After several weeks, driving to the same parks every morning and every afternoon, Clara stopped her fear-induced accidents. This should have been proof enough that Stu's theory had been correct, but months after she'd had her last back seat incident, her fear factor kicked in one more time. 

It was the day Aiden died. 

It was an unseasonably hot spring day and I was on my way to the vet with Clara in her usual back seat. I was trembling with fear, crying hot ragged sobs because deep in my gut, I knew what the vet was going to tell me after keeping Aiden all day for observation. He was going to say that surgery wasn't an option and I had to put my beloved boy down. Clara was with me because I've heard that dogs understand death and I wanted her to be there to say goodbye to the companion she had bonded with so fiercely during their short time together. Clara heard my cries, sensed my stress, thick and palpable. And sure enough, within minutes of our drive, that unmistakable acrid odor stung my nostrils. It was so strong I almost gagged and was forced to pull off to the side of the freeway to remove the source of the offending stench. Clara just watched me, shaking and subdued.

That was three months ago and her final accident. 

These days, when I say "let's go bye-bye!" Clara still trembles but now it's with excitement. She leaps into my car the second the door swings open, anxious to get to the park where she knows she'll see her new greyhound pals, Dawn, Bernie, Pickles, Hamilton, and Arrow. She knows a ride in the car now means cavorting with her canine crew to dig holes in the sandpit and check out bushes! Squirrels! More bushes! Best of all, when taking a new or different route, Clara isn't scared because she also knows one more thing: 

She knows she'll always return home.  

Something About Clara

She's eight years old, my newest greyhound. And the oldest dog I've ever adopted. Clara's been around the block, this poor girl. She's shy, hesitant to show affection. It's like she's afraid to bond, afraid to trust, afraid to believe. Can't say I blame her.

Upon retiring from a Florida racetrack, Clara was adopted by home #1. After having her for three months, her owners moved to Southern California and they decided it was easier to surrender their dog than move her with them. 

And so, Clara was adopted by home #2. Here, she stayed for three years until the couple's other dog died, and they determined Clara wouldn't do well as an "only dog." Instead of adopting a companion for her, Clara was surrendered. Again.

Now maybe the first two homes just flat out didn't want poor Clara and each time was merely a "relinquish for convenience" as the expression goes. Or maybe they honestly couldn't keep her. I have no idea who these people were or what their circumstances entailed, so I won't judge. 

Well, maybe I will, just a little. 

Because I would do whatever it took to keep my dog. Sleep in my car, escape to Canada, join the Witness Protection Plan. After living with this sweet, gentle girl for just seven months, let alone three years, I would be fighting anyone tooth and nail to keep her. Or to paraphrase Charlton Heston, any dog of mine would have to be pried from "my cold, dead hands." 

But whatever. Last March, Clara was surrendered. Again. This time, however, it was a positive move because she went to a couple I personally know; they were my dog sitters for Hazel and Aiden. Finally, Clara struck gold! She was in a loving home with two dedicated humans and three other greyhounds for canine companionship. That is, until the wife passed away unexpectedly and the bereaved husband was left with four dogs, too many to handle by himself. He kept one while our rescue group stepped in and helped rehome the other three. And Clara was surrendered. Again.

That's where I enter the picture. 

When Stu (our Golden State Greyhound Adoption founder) called me in November, I said yes before the words were done coming out of his mouth. Sight unseen. That's because Stu knows me, knows I have a neurological condition that causes walking challenges, and knows I need an even tempered, well-behaved dog. Since losing my beloved Hazel in April of 2021 to liver cancer, Aiden had been lonely and I've always said I'm happiest with a dog under each arm. If Stu said Clara would be a good fit, that's all I needed to hear. 

He was right. Clara bonded with Aiden immediately, sticking to his side like green on grass, doing whatever he did, mimicking his every move. Bolting up the stairs, using the doggie door, and even waiting in line to get her teeth brushed or have her leash put on for a walk. If Aiden did it, she had to do it too. She was bonding more with him than me, but that was okay. I was delighted with their relationship and knew in time she'd come around. I just wanted her to feel safe.

Then the unthinkable happened. Two months ago, Aiden woke up with his back legs paralyzed. A frantic trip to Pacific Veterinary Specialty and Emergency Hospital and an MRI revealed a bone tumor on his spine that was crushing his nerves. Damned dreaded osteosarcoma. Although I was prepared to pursue back surgery, the surgeon gently told me I should put him down immediately because the tumor was inoperable and causing immense pain. And so, through a river of tears and a heavy heart, I said goodbye to my goofy, funny, gentle boy. Aiden had just turned eight. 

My pain was beyond description, but what this also meant was yet another loss for Clara. For weeks, every morning she searched the house looking for Aiden. Was he in the kitchen? Hiding in the living room? Maybe in the yard? Where was her buddy? Then, when she couldn't find him, she'd start howling in a mournful way that pierced my heart. She was inconsolable, not eating, not playing with her toys, not wanting to go on walks. She just hid in my spare bedroom, the one that she and Aiden had once shared. 

Clara's doing better now, mainly thanks to my awesome greyhound community that has shared their dogs with me to help provide her with canine companionship. Still, she's lonely, I can tell. This is a dog that clearly enjoys the company of other dogs more than she does humans. Maybe because she knows that, unlike humans, dogs will never disappoint.  

The other night I joined my girl on her pillow in the spare bedroom, the one she never leaves except for walks and meals. I cradled her in my arms, faced her nose-to-nose, and told her I love her, this is her forever home, and she is never going away. I'm convinced that dogs understand more than we give them credit for, so call me crazy but I talk to my dogs. Clara just stared at me with an unwavering gaze. The next night I did the same thing. And the night after that. And last week, for the first time since adopting her, Clara joined me in my bedroom where she has slept every night since. Now, while I'm watching TV, she's also keeping me company on her pillow next to the sofa. She just lies there, looking at me with her head nestled between her paws. I think it's starting to sink in.

I love her and this is her forever home. She is never going away.

Legacy of a Dog

I've loved each and every dog in my life with an intensity that borders on a physical ache. It all started with Elvis, my first greyhound that I had the luxury of writing about in my "Dog's Life" column in the San Francisco Chronicle for almost 13 years. Since Elvis, I've always had two greyhounds so they could have company while I toiled away at work for 12 hours at a stretch. When one passed away, I'd soon adopt another.

First there was Elvis & Lucy, then Elvis & Olivia, then Olivia & Hazel.

But in 2015, after losing my beautiful brindle Olivia to osteosarcoma at the tender age of 6, I couldn't bring myself to adopt another hound. Not just yet. The cumulative losses finally wore me down and my heart needed time to mend before opening it up to another dog. Until then, it would be just the two of us, me and my newest girl Hazel, a rambunctious, playful four-year-old fawn.

And therein posed the problem. 

Hazel had been glued to Olivia's side. Her mourning was palpable and painful to observe. She was mopey. Lackluster. Food was half-eaten and toys were ignored. After a few weeks, I realized I had to do something for my poor girl, so I wrote a post on Golden State Greyhound Adoption's Facebook page; anyone interested in a playdate? 

The first to respond was Nicole. She had also had two hounds until losing one to the dreaded osteosarcoma and her remaining dog, a black beauty named Nadeen, was lonely as well.  Nicole lived just a few exits from my workplace so the plan was for me to drop Hazel off for a playdate before heading to work. Worked like a charm! Not only did Hazel and Nadeen become instant BFFs, but I found that Nicole was pretty cool, too. We started scheduling beach excursions, dinner dates, and backyard BBQs. Sometimes her husband and son joined us, other times it was just us and the dogs. In between get-togethers, we texted book suggestions, movie recommendations, and daily updates about health, work, family, and friends.

Then a woman named Celena responded to my Facebook post. She lived just a few miles from me and suggested meeting at a local park. Hazel and her boy, a big goofy brindle named Maverick, bonded immediately, walking belly-to-belly as if they'd known each other for years. Celena and I started texting each other on a regular basis, making dog walking dates several times a week and then later, dog-sitting arrangements when one of us was traveling and in need of someone we could trust. 

In the meantime, Golden State Greyhound Adoption was still trying to find homes for ex-racers greyhounds, so I thought, why not start a new Meet & Greet? The purpose would be to introduce greyhounds and help raise awareness of their plight. After receiving permission to do so, I coordinated with Pet Food Express to hold Sunday Meet & Greets in their store once a month. Then, I again reached out on Facebook inviting fellow greyhound owners to join me. 

It was a resounding success. Celena came with Maverick, and others came as well: Scott and Isaac,  Emily and Arrow, Sandra with a gentle fawn named Birdie and Marilyn showed up with a shy black hound named Dawn. The dogs loved hanging out with each other and when we weren't chatting up visitors about the virtues of greyhound adoption, we talked endlessly among ourselves. Soon, we were arranging group dog walks at local parks, which quickly evolved into backyard pizza parties, beer-tastings, and birthday celebrations, both human and canine.  At one Meet & Greet, Marilyn introduced me to her latest foster, a bony black boy named Aiden. The boy I later adopted and embraced as my newest love and companion to Hazel.

Today, greyhound racing has all but ceased in every state but West Virginia, making Meet & Greets obsolete. And since Hazel was now paired with Aiden, I didn't have to drive all over the place seeking canine companionship for my lonely hound. But the unexpected friendships that resulted from this endeavor continue to thrive and blossom to the level where today, these people aren't just friends, but more like family. We've exchanged meals, laughs, tears, and even house keys. When I fractured my kneecap recently, Sandra made sure I was well fed with delicious home-cooked meals, and Marilyn and Emily walked my dogs religiously. In 2021, when I lost my sweet Hazel to a fast and fierce liver cancer, Emily was the first to appear at my door with condolences, flowers and to hold me as I sobbed. 

Yes, Hazel is gone. And so is Aiden, who I lost to osteosarcoma just a few weeks ago, a sudden loss that I'm still reeling from. But my beloved greyhounds live through these rich and valued friendships, a legacy for which I'm very "greytful."

And I'm Watching Because...

 

So last night I started watching yet another Hallmark Christmas movie. Not my first, I confess. The plot?

A woman who is adopted and owns a restaurant does a DNA test and discovers she is half Jewish. But she loves Christmas and now has to learn about Hanukkah? 

Oh no!

However, she is lonely because her mother just died, so she’s excited to learn that newly-discovered relatives live oh so conveniently in the town next door. Yay!  She meets them. Finds out that the matriarch of the family is her biological mother who abandoned her at birth. Conflict!

But they end up resolving all issues and soon become BFFs. Yay! 

In the meantime, the mother has a friend who is a restaurant critic and he recently gave the adopted daughter's restaurant a poor review, so she doesn't like him, of course. More conflict. 

Boo!

I dozed off for a few minutes and when I woke up, the restaurant critic and the adopted daughter were holding hands and staring lovingly at a menorah. All this in the first 30 minutes.

Schmaltz to the tenth degree. In every movie, the women are smart and beautiful, the men are ambitious and kind, the towns are beautifully decorated, and even the snow remains white and pristine. By any stretch of the imagination, these plots are absolutely unbelievable.

And yet, I'll continue watching Hallmark's parade of dime-a-dozen Christmas movies starring mostly no one I've ever heard of, which is okay. Because in the same way that I devour Peanut M&Ms, three-cheese macaroni, and chocolate chip cookies, I'll click the remote with the full awareness that I'm about to indulge in something bad that I'll still enjoy.

Because these days sometimes the soul needs comfort food, too.

Oh, and the dog photo? No reason why except that he's my boy and looks super cute. Hey, maybe there's a movie there for Hallmark! Handsome hound howling for love on Christmas. 

Are you listening, Hallmark? Let's talk. 

Pumpkin Spice Not So Nice

August. Otherwise known as the Sunday of Summer. Read that somewhere, and ain't it the truth? The sweltering heat is pushing triple digits with a humidity index that's making my curly hair look like a worn-out Brillo pad and boy, nothing would quench my parched throat like an ice cold beer.  A Midori Margarita or brain-freeze Slurpee would also do the trick. 

Or how 'bout a steaming hot pumpkin latte? Yup, they're back and I love 'em. 

But not in August. 

Pumpkins represent autumn--that chill in the air, falling leaves, changing colors. Pumpkins are scarecrows and harvest festivals, not swimsuits and beach days. Pumpkins in summer are like Santa sightings in October--encroaching on the current season and just really damned annoying. 

And when pumpkin lattes and pumpkin brownies and pumpkin muffins and pumpkin everything become so readily available ahead of schedule, it ruins the anticipation.

Or as I like to say, "How can I miss you if you won't go away?"

Anything launched ahead of schedule loses its luster because in this age of instant gratification, it's here before we've even had a chance to register its absence and look forward to its return. We no longer have to wait for any "special time of year" because salivating retailers are hawking their wares with that mentality that, "If you like it in October, you'll love it in September, and you'll really LOVE it in August!" 

Same goes with Christmas. Why not take a beloved, joyous two-day Christian holiday and turn it into an obnoxious three-month marketing opportunity that steamrolls over Halloween and Thanksgiving? Don't even get me started on the exploitation of Christmas and these "Christmas in July" sales. That's a future rant. You've been warned. You're welcome.

Right now I'm focused on pumpkins. Love 'em, don't want 'em. Not yet.  I want to relish the Sunday of Summer and all that goes with these waning summer days before we enter a new season, replete with pumpkins, pumpkins, everywhere.  And not one minute, or gourd, before.

But after Labor Day, let's talk.