The Aloof Woof Part ll

It's not like I have low self-esteem or anything, but it's a little disheartening to be rejected by one's own dog.  

Hazel hasn't outright disowned me, not in so many woofs. But after 16 months of cohabiting with my adopted ex-racer, I'm still not feeling that overwhelming rush of love and affection that my previous greyhounds, Elvis, Lucy, and Olivia, lavishly dished upon me. Those dogs adored me. Idolized me. Looked upon me with such deep abiding love that sometimes I swore I could see little hearts shooting from their pupils. If ever I needed an ego boost, I could always count on my beloved four-legged fan club.

Uh Hazel, not quite. Oh, she loves me. As the can-opener. The dog-walker. The pillow-plumper. The dispenser of treats and driver of car to awesome destinations like beaches and parks.  

Basically, I'm a canine concierge.

Yeah, dogs are supposed to love unconditionally, but Hazel is clearly a bit more discriminating. And while I'm honored to be on her list at all, it's obvious that I'm not at the very top. Now call it presumptuous, but considering that I provide luxurious room and board, cover costly health care, and freely dish out premium treats, gourmet meals,and multiple walks, not to mention endless belly rubs and needle-nose kisses, shouldn't these provisions automatically elevate me to numero uno?

That would be a big fat no. Sure, my girl loves me. She seems happy enough to see me and allows me to spend my every waking minute tending to her needs.  It's just that Hazel has a few other preferences that take a higher priority. These would include:

• Other greyhounds
• Other dogs
• Men with treats
• Men without treats
• Big men, small men, fat men, bald men, hairy men, gay men, any men
• Going for walks
• Going for rides in my Honda CRV, sticking her head out the window, and roooing like a canine fire siren
• Barking at squirrels
• Kongs stuffed with peanut butter, creamy not crunchy, thank you very much
• Did I mention men?

Oh yes, and then me. 

Well, at least I'm one up from the vet, but let's not test that. My ego is bruised enough as is.

But then, right when I'm ready to concede defeat in the affection department, my 63-pound hound will knock the wind out of me with a surprise jump on my lap. She'll snuggle as close as she can, burrow her knobby head under my chin, and rest her face against my chest, followed with a deep contented sigh.

And as I wrap my arms around my goofy girl, I realize that it doesn't matter if I'm not first in Hazel's heart. Because she's first in mine.

Excuse Du Jour: Leaky Pipes

It's getting ugly here in drought-stricken California. Neighbors are snitching on water-wasters such as the car-washing dolt who was once revered for bringing the most amazing barbecued ribs to the neighborhood potluck; the apparently oblivious family on the corner whose sprinklers go off every morning like clockwork at 7am; or, that single gal with the two Golden Retrievers who hoses down her backyard patio every night under the cover of darkness.

Yeah, that's right woman, we hear the spray. We know what you're doing.

These days no one is immune from water shaming. Heck, thirsty Californians will throw grandma and her arthritic bones under the bus if her showers last more than three minutes. 

The pitchforks are out. We're dry, disheartened, and desperate, all drawing from the same straw and angry at those who are sucking up more than their share of our dwindling liquid gold.   

Water hogs. We've seen them and now, thanks to reports by the San Francisco Chronicle, we know them specifically by name.  But all these water-wasters have something else in common besides their multi-million-dollar mansions tucked behind wrought iron gates manned by security booths.

They all have leaky pipes. Imagine that!

Most were truly shocked when their stratospheric water levels were publicly exposed. Pay no attention to their massive acres of lush green lawns. Those lawns have nothing to do with their excessive water usage, nothing  at all. It's because of leaky pipes, they insist, darned leaky pipes! Every one of these fairly new luxury homes that cost more than most of us will ever make in three lifetimes have leaky pipes. 

What an amazing coincidence. These days, developers must be using LEGOS for conduits because never have there been so many sudden cases of plumbing gone awry.  

But now, thanks to the public exposure (or flogging, as some of the accused have whined), the water hogs are going to make nice and "fix" their faulty lines right away. Because they promise their excessive usage was truly unintentional and feel horrible about it and swear on their mothers' graves that they would never use more than their fair share of water, and stop looking at their damn green lawns! It was leaky pipes, mind you.

Leaky pipes.

Roo Hoo

I know, I know, three dog posts in a row.  Okay, maybe four, but who's counting?   

In the greyhound community, our hounds have certain endearing characteristics that amuse us no end. Every day on Facebook, multiple guardians from our rescue group, Golden State Greyhound Adoption, post photos or videos of their dogs exhibiting these singularly unique ex-racer traits, and I have to admit, after 14 years of living with greyhounds, I still never tire of them.

There's ETS (Extended Tongue Syndrome), epic Bed Fails (half on the pillow, half off), and Chattering (teeth clattering when the dog is super happy or content). Perhaps their hound is Roaching (on their back, belly-up, with all four legs askew, like a "dead cockroach"), or maybe has a wild case of the Zoomies (in an enclosed yard racing 'round and 'round in circles).

But nothing makes me laugh harder than Rooing. This is when a hound points their long, skinny needle nose toward the sky and does what other dog owners might refer to as howling. Except greyhounds don't howl. Not exactly.

Oh, it starts out as a howl: "Rooo." Cute. The second one is a bit longer:"Roooooo." Okay. And then it happens: they go into a full blown, high-pitched, deafening, single-note, ear-piercing ROOOOOOOOO, exhibiting an impressive lung capacity worthy of a world-class soprano or deep sea diver.

And I laugh every time. It just sounds so darned focused, like they can't contain themselves.  This photo of Hazel was taken as I was playing a video that someone had posted of their hounds rooing. She was sound asleep, but when she heard the call of the wild, she perked right up and was seconds away from joining the chorus before I turned off the video. It was late after all, and let me tell you, my girl is quite the rooer herself. 

She's also a supreme Roacher, but that's for another day. Which I guess will mean another dog post. 

You've been warned. 

The Aloof Woof

My experience has been that greyhounds are the consummate snuggle bug. 

While Elvis and Olivia preferred cuddling on their La-Z-Boy pillows, Lucy would invite herself on the sofa, but that's where their differences ended. As I laid alongside them, each would melt into my chest, position their knobby little head under my chin, close their eyes, and revel in the luxury of having their belly rubbed, ears scratched, and nose kissed. Every once in a while they might make a little "mmmmm" sound, clearly relishing the affection. My pups lived for our nightly love ritual.

And then there's Hazel.

Sure, she's affectionate, but on her terms. When I lay next to her on her pillow, she looks at me with this expression that clearly implies, "Okay, if I must." She nestles close against me and I wrap my arms around her with a warm embrace, my heart bursting with love for this dog...and then, after a few minutes, she gets up as if to say, "That's enough," and moves to another spot on the rug, abandoning me on the pillow. The dog pillow mind you. Her pillow. That's right: she'd rather sit somewhere else than stay on her soft stinky pillow because I'm on it. 

I know this sounds crazy, but it hurts my feelings! It's like dating all over again. I'd expect this from the school Homecoming King, but really, my own dog? Because seriously, what dog doesn't want to snuggle? Especially greyhounds, who are notorious for being love bugs.

However, in our 14 months together, I've come to realize that Hazel is not your average greyhound. 

She's energetic. Rambunctious. Goofy, spirited, and playful. She's everything that our rescue group, Golden State Greyhound Adoption, tells people greyhounds are not. Canine couch potato? Ha! Her energy is endless...no one-mile stroll for this dog. That's just a warm up, mind you.  

And people ask how I stay so slim.

She's a barker, something greyhounds rarely do. She doesn't bark out of aggression, but as an introduction. "Hey there, I'm Hazel, who are you? How 'bout we sniff a little tail?" When we're driving someplace she loves, like her BFF's house or Central Park, she'll stick her head out the car window and howl like a fire siren the entire way, holding one single deafening note longer than Andrea Bocelli.

I do know she loves me in her own Hazel way. She follows me throughout the house, never leaving my side.  She loves jumping on my lap, not realizing that a 61-pound hound is not exactly a lap dog. When I pick her up from play dates, she plows into me like a canine steamroller, ecstatic that I returned. 

And sometimes--just sometimes--while I'm reading a book or watching TV, I'll sense that I'm being watched, and look to see Hazel gazing at me with heart-shaped pupils. It's the look of total adoration that I used to get from Elvis, Lucy, and Olivia on a regular basis. But Hazel is more discriminating, which makes her hard-won affection all the more precious. 

I'll take what I can get.

Life's a Beach

When Nicole suggested we take our hounds to the beach, I thought sure, that sounded like a nice way to spend a couple hours. Bury our toes in the sand, soak up some rays, listen to the waves, and catch up on "girl talk."

Uh, not quite.

How did I not know that taking a dog to the beach is like taking a kid to Disneyland? As soon as Hazel felt the warm sand beneath her paws, she started digging and pawing with obvious doggie delight, spraying sand behind her like a fire hydrant. I kept her on leash because when you adopt a greyhound from Golden State Greyhounds you sign your name in blood swearing that you will never, EVER let your dog off-leash in a non-fenced environment. Greyhounds are sighthounds with excellent vision that spans a good half mile. There's always the risk that they might sight something of interest, like a squirrel or bird, and bolt without warning. And at 45 mph, they're not likely to be caught. 

But the leash didn't hinder Hazel in the least. When the surf first crashed around her legs, she jumped a good three feet with surprise. And then, I witnessed the purest joy I've ever seen in a dog. She was doing zoomies in the surf, barking and doing the Downward Dog pose, inviting me to play and chase after her through the water, soaking us both. She rolled in the sand, dug some more, dozed next to her BFF Nadeen, ate a bacon treat or two, and then repeated the process. Nicole and I didn't do that much sitting or talking--the day had gone to the dogs, but in the best way possible.

When we left the beach four hours later, Hazel and Nadeen were dripping wet, covered in sand, and exhausted. Come to think of it, so was I.  On our way to the car my girl kept plopping on the beach trying to nap. It was like she just couldn't muster the energy for One. More. Step. It was clear that she had had the most awesome day ever.  

And I had, too.  Watching my goofy girl experience such absolute canine joy was like the parent who watches their kid light up on that first magical trip to Disneyland; there's nothing like relishing the happiness of a loved one, be they two-legged or four. 

It was indeed the most awesome day ever.

Trip to The Big Apple

When it comes to technology I'm a total neophyte and turn to three foolproof solutions for any problem: hit Control/ Alt/ Delete, reboot the device, or turn it off. 

And if none of these work? I keep repeating the process until eventually I realize I'm in serious techo-trouble, freak out, and start calling everyone I know for help.  Their advice?

Hit Control/Alt/Delete, reboot the device, or turn it off.

Uh, thanks guys.

So when my iPhone stopped receiving email on Friday and none of my quick-fixes worked, that troubled feeling in my gut started to fester. Then, after my third reboot, my entire history of emails disappeared and I really started to worry. What if The New York Times was trying to reach me for reprint permission? What if The Atlantic Monthly was accepting one of my essays? How could I respond with my overwhelmingly enthusiastic "yes!"?

Trying not to reveal my growing panic, I nonchalantly mentioned my dilemma to a few co-workers. What I wanted to hear was, "Oh, that's happened to me before. This is what I did [enter solution] and afterward my email worked fine."

Instead, what I got was, "Yikes, good luck with that."

It was time for the big guns. The experts. The Genius Bar at Apple.

I arrived at the Apple Store promptly at 10am. They were just opening their doors yet the store was already swarming with excited customers. Really?  Had Steve Jobs come back from the dead or was Taylor Swift making a guest appearance? When I expressed my surprise, the greeter looked at me as if I'd crawled out from under the Stupid Rock.  

"There's usually a line out the door," he sniffed. 

Whatever.  I told him about my dilemma and said I needed help. I needed experts. I needed the Genius Bar. 

"No problem,"  he said, grabbing a skinny, bespectacled boy walking by. "Gerardo will help you."

If Gerardo was wearing a back pack, I would have guessed he was on his way to his first day of school.  Middle school, that is. But beggars can't be choosers and the store was packed. I was desperate. After explaining my mind-boggling problem, he reached for my phone.

 "May I?" he asked.  Such a polite child.  "Go to town," I said.

His fingers flew across my phone: swipe, press, delete, enter, swipe, scroll, scroll, enter, enter, send! 

And voila! Problem fixed."Your carrier changed servers," he explained with a modest shrug. "You just needed to delete the account and re-enter it." 

If someone put a gun to my head, I couldn't begin to repeat the process I had just witnessed. The boy was clearly a genius.

After thanking him profusely, I had to ask. "How old are you?"   He said he was 21 but knew he looked much younger. "Enjoy it," I told him. "One day you'll appreciate it." 

And gratefully equipped with a working phone and Gerardo's business card, I left the mayhem of the Apple store and crawled back under the Stupid Rock.  

Dog Sharing

My canine "stepdaughter" Nadeen is staying with me again this weekend while the Pedersens go camping.

I love having her. Love her gentle kisses and stinky breath.  Love the way she pokes her head between my legs while I'm trying to tie my shoelaces because she's knows it means we're going for a walk. Love the way she thinks nothing of jumping on my bed because  "su casa es mi casa, si?"

And I especially love watching Hazel and Nadeen together.  Not so long ago, the two were each mourning the loss of their companions (both, ironically, from bone cancer), so it makes my heart happy to see them spring to life when together. They howl with hysterical joy at the mere sight of the other. Drink from the same water bowl. Share the same chewy bone treats.  Sleep side-by-side just inches apart and walk belly-to-belly, just as Nadeen once did with Jasper and Hazel once did with Olivia.

In fact, the two have so bonded that Nadeen's mom, Nicole, has now invited Hazel for two play dates a week versus the previous one. I accepted her kind offer, even though it adds another hour to my already horrendous three-and-a-half-hour-long commute. I'm sucking it up because it makes both dogs happy and that, in turn, makes me happy.  As I sadly learned with my former greyhounds, the lovely Lucy and most recently, my sweet Olivia, a young age is no guarantee that any dog will live a full, long life. Hazel is just five (as is her BFF), but that means nothing.  

And so, for however long I'm lucky enough to have Hazel, I'll continue driving out of my way to take her to play dates. Spend money I don't have to buy her quality food and safe treats.  Treasure every minute we share and do everything in my power to give this crazy, goofy, playful canine spirit the best life possible. 

Because at the end of the day, any joy I can give Hazel is just a fraction of the joy she brings me.

Hazel's New BFF

Shortly after losing my sweet Olivia to bone cancer in February, I threw out a request on my rescue group's Greyhound list serve: I was concerned that Hazel would be lonely without her companion. Would anyone be interested in an occasional playmate for their hound?

After a few days I got an email from Nicole. She'd also lost her greyhound to bone cancer last year and said her other dog, Nadeen, was lonely too. Let's try a play date on Tuesday, she suggested. Since Nicole worked from home and didn't live far from my office, this sounded like a good plan. 

And so, on the first Tuesday in March, I kept my fingers crossed as I dropped off Hazel, feeling much like an anxious mom taking her toddler to daycare.

"You be a good dog," I whispered in her ear. "We want them to like us!"

When I returned that afternoon to pick up my girl, Nicole told me of the striking change in Nadeen's personality upon meeting Hazel. Quiet and low-energy since losing her companion last year, the black 5-year old suddenly came to life when faced with another greyhound. She started doing zoomies in the yard, playing with her abandoned toys again, and in no time the two became inseparable, walking belly-to-belly on walks and spooning during naps.  That evening when I got home, I saw that Nicole had text me to say that after we left, Nadeen stared out the living room window with a mournful gaze and whined.

I think they liked us.

Since then, we've had a standing play date every Tuesday. When I take the freeway exit toward Nicole's neighborhood, Hazel pokes her knobby head out the window and starts howling like a canine siren, much to the amusement of fellow drivers and pedestrians.   Ten days ago, when Nicole and her family left for vacation, Nadeen was my house guest for a change, making herself comfy on my bed and awakening me each morning with gentle doggie kisses.  She reminds me a lot of my first greyhound, Elvis:  sweet, mellow, and affectionate. I'm going to miss her a lot when she goes back home. Because yeah, I do have to return her. Although unspoken, I guess that was part of our sitting arrangement. Sigh.

But at least we'll always have Tuesdays. 

It's a Dog's Life

One year ago today in Florida, a 4-year old dog named Miss Bessie ran her last race as a racer greyhound. Gone were the days of spending up to 22 hours in a small crate, dining on "3-D" (dead, diseased or dying) food, and living life as nothing more than a commodity. Things were about to change because as of May 23, 2014, Miss Bessie was now officially retired. 

She was handed over to Golden State Greyhound Adoption who spade her, gave her all her shots, and then put her through what basically amounts to a doggie spa day in preparation for adoption. 

And that's where I come in. Just two months later I was visiting friends who were fostering Miss Bessie. I had no intention of adding another dog to my household, but we all know those are famous last words. 

As it turns out, adopting the dog I renamed Hazel turned out to be the very definition of the word "serendipity" because six months later, I lost my other beloved greyhound, Olivia, to bone cancer. She was just six years old. Adjusting to the sudden loss has been a painful journey, but every day Hazel helps heal my heart and soothe my soul. She makes me laugh, brings me joy, and reminds me why I love dogs--and especially--why I love greyhounds.

Which may explain why lately, I'm feeling a familiar "urge." I'm picturing coats--another fawn maybe? A brindle perhaps or a black and white? I'm looking at the "available for adoption" site and playing with names. I'm imagining Hazel tucked in my left arm and another dog tucked in my right. I've learned there's another haul of newly retired greyhounds arriving in October and I'm thinking maybe it's time. Hazel needs a companion and I need another dog to fill the hole in my heart left by Olivia.

Right now that unknown dog is still a racer greyhound at a Florida track. Living in a small crate, dining on "3-D" food and living life as nothing more than a commodity. And some day next year, I'll be writing a similar post marking the one-year anniversary of this dog's last race.

The race in which she won my heart. Just like Hazel.

From the Mouths of Babes

It was a glorious spring day and I was walking Hazel through the park, which was packed with Little League baseball players and future soccer stars. It was from one of these groups that one small boy broke away from and rushed toward me.

"Can I pet your dog?" he asked.  I'm not good at guessing kids' ages, but he looked to be around four years old, his turned up nose just barely reaching the height of my greyhound's needle nose. 

Of course I said yes. He followed my instructions and let Hazel sniff his fist before gently stroking the side of her face. 

"I love dogs," he said, "but I don't like dog poo."  I agreed that dog poo was pretty nasty. "I don't like dog poo," he repeated, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head for emphasis. "Pizza tastes better." 

I didn't even ask.  

Uber baby

So I got a new haircut, and it's short and different, and I like it a lot, but that's not why I'm jazzed.

It's because I tried Uber and lived to tell the tale. 

You see, in my childhood household, there were three cardinal rules our parents drilled into my sister and me on an almost daily basis: 

1. Don't run with scissors
2. Always bring a sweater or you'll catch your death of cold (not just a cold, mind you, but "death")
3. Never, ever get into a car with a stranger

So you might understand why the whole Uber and Lyft ride-sharing phenomena escapes me. You mean, purposely GET in a car with a stranger? Heck, why don't I just slash my own throat and be done with it? I'd no sooner engage in this fatal act of folly than I would swallow chewing gum, which, I was warned, would never digest and sit in my stomach for all eternity.

But here is where vanity overruled safety. I had made an appointment with a hairdresser who specializes in dry cuts for curly hair, plus he works Sundays! However, his salon is--according to this East Bay gal-- in the outer boondocks of San Francisco and not near any public transportation. After taking BART, how would I get to the salon?  

As the appointment date drew near, I started stressing.  Hey, I'm a walker, maybe I should just walk!  But City friends discouraged me, saying it was too far and uphill at that. I could take Muni, but was told I'd have to switch here, then switch there, and make sure you get on the southbound bus and not the northbound one or then you'll really be lost. I could take a cab, but they're more expensive, and then I remembered that news story years back about the driver who raped and killed his 24-year old passenger, then ditched her body in a shallow grave. 

See? 

Maybe my current hairdresser wasn't so bad after all. I touched my frizzy hair and remembered my childhood nickname, "Cousin Itt" from the 1960s series, The Addams Family. 

I decided to keep the appointment.  

So I downloaded the Uber app and trusted my friend Omar, who himself is an Uber driver. He assured me that the company does rigorous background checks and I'd have nothing to worry about.  Yeah, right, mention that at my memorial.

On the dreaded morning, I arrived at Civic Station and, with trembling fingers, ordered a car.  Within seconds I got my text confirmation: I would be picked up by Evan in a Honda Civic. Evan, Evan.  I tried reading warning signs into the name...Evan the City Strangler, Evan Son of Sam, Evan wanted by police in five different counties. Then my cell rang and it was the Evan telling me he was parked a few yards from the corner.  I turned around and saw an arm waving out the window of a Honda Civic.

It was...(queue warning music from "Jaws")...Evan. Gulp. 

Before even getting in the car, the first thing I did was check the inside door panel. Okay, good.  There was a working handle in case, you know, Evan lunged at my throat and I needed to jump.  Then I looked at the man who held my life in his hands. Evan.

He appeared to be in his late 60s, a well-dressed African American in a snappy vest and bow tie that suggested he might have just come from Glide Memorial Church. He greeted me with a warm smile and spoke with the slightest trace of a southern drawl. During our ten-minute drive he told me he had just started driving for Uber last week and was really enjoying it because he was meeting so many nice people, "...like you," he said.  I was charmed.  

And I was just as charmed by my return driver, a pretty young girl named Oubah.  She was from Somalia and studying conflict resolution at Berkeley City College. "My country is so war-torn," she explained. "I want to return home and make a difference." 

The day ended not only with a chic new cut, but also with a sense of euphoria. I wondered, when did the girl who once hitchhiked in Ecuador, hiked through Ireland, and traveled solo in England become such a 'fraidy cat?  Today I had stepped outside my comfort zone, met two really nice people, and in the process reclaimed the girl I once was. Even if it was just a couple Uber rides.

Who knows where this might lead? Tomorrow I may leave the house without a sweater.

Flipping on the "C" Switch

Ever since losing my mother in 2009, I've been haunted by one question regarding her death. Not why she died, but rather, why she died of cancer.

Now I know that every day millions of people die of cancer, so why should my mom be an exception? Sure, it's possible that, like the aforementioned millions, she just drew the short end of the stick. As her oncologist explained to me during Mom's three-week battle with Ovarian cancer, everybody has potential cancer cells lurking in their body, but for reasons unknown, in some people something, somewhere, somehow, flips the "on" switch. The switch certainly never flipped for that 124-year old Brazilian, a chain-smoking childless bachelor who was tagged in 2014 as the world's oldest living human being.

Seems that dodging cancer is a crap shoot at best.

Still, I've been convinced that Mom's cancer wasn't genetic, but environmental. She came from a long line of relatives notorious for living up to triple-digit numbers and without  a single known case of cancer. A few heart attacks maybe, a stroke here and there, but no word of the Big C.

Mom had a really poor diet. She loved junk food and lived off canned and frozen meals; the more mysterious ingredients and preservatives, the better! And she guzzled bottled water like crazy, two, three bottles a day. When I learned that she stored the plastic containers in her warm garage, I warned her about the dangers of toxins leaching in the water and suggested she keep her water supply in a cool spot.  But every time I went to visit, I'd find a six-pack baking in their usual corner of the garage.

Then there's the notable fact that every single family on my childhood block has experienced multiple cancer deaths. Our 1968 neighborhood was built upon a former walnut orchard...were pesticides to blame? Or was it the 1980 spraying of malathion used to stop the medfly infestation? Perhaps it was the asbestos in our popcorn ceiling or the saccharin we used to sweeten our coffee.  Hell, maybe it was the red M&Ms. 

The list goes on.  

So you may understand why I've had my doubts about Mom's cancer gene just "suddenly" igniting. Now, I've added yet another contender to my many suspects and it has shot to the top of the list: 

Baby powder.

That's right. The delicious scent that conjures up images of gurgling, cuddly, chub-a-lub newborns. As far back as I could remember, every single day after showering, Mom would sprinkle baby powder in the crotch of her underpants for a clean, "fresh" feeling. When my sister and I entered puberty, we followed Mom's lead because Mother Knows Best, right? However, I always seemed to get that darned white powder all over my blue jeans, and my sister didn't like the feel of it, so we soon quit using it. Well into adulthood though, whenever I'd visit Mom, I'd always see the familiar white container of baby powder in her bathroom, right next to the Jean Nate, and would smile at her lifelong habit.

But I wasn't smiling when I saw a recent magazine headline stating a link between talcum powder and Ovarian cancer. When I Googled "talcum powder and cancer" my search engine exploded with articles from around the world, followed with lawsuits and ads from ambulance chasers.  

Is there a link? The answer appears to be inconclusive, although there's enough concern to motivate the American Cancer Society to address the issue and advise that "research in this area continues." Regardless of what future studies may reveal, I'm glad my sister and I tossed the talcum.

Knowing the answer won't bring back Mom, I realize that. Perhaps it's just human nature to want to assign blame, point fingers, assign a culprit, and say in a loud, sanctimonious voice, "Yeah, YOU, you're the fault!" 

And the incongruous baby powder is as good a suspect as any. At least for this rueful daughter. 

Tales From the Dark Ride

I used to be a nice person. Really.

But commuting up to four hours a day on congested Bay Area roads has turned me into an unearthly abomination not unlike the Creature From the Black Lagoon. Thinking of moving to California? Consider Idaho, please. Or Utah. Both are lovely this time of year, plus they have plenty of water to boot. Flush all you want!

Because crammed California roads don't have room for even one more Prius or Google Bus. And years of navigating an auto maze of millions has morphed me from that friendly neighborhood lady who walks her greyhound and pats children on the head into a growling, snarling she-beast with the patience of a Tasmanian Devil about to devour her young. I've stopped counting the number of expletives I mutter to myself during my 90-minute drive every morning. Who knew I had such a potty mouth?

My fellow road warriors are responsible for this frightening transformation.  And you know who you are.  

A typical day starts with the dude in the Ford pickup who tailgates me with his brights on because I'm not going fast enough to please this self-proclaimed King of the Road. Never mind that we're on a winding, single lane with no shoulder, it's 6:00 in the morning, still pitch black, and so foggy that visibility is just a couple yards beyond my headlights.  I'm already going 65 in a 45mph zone, but apparently Mario Andretti wants me to go fasterfasterfaster. He lets me know of his need for speed by riding my bumper and blinding me with the glare of his halogen lights in my rear-view mirror. 

Expletive #1.

Then there's the Fast and the Furious wannabe who weaves in and out of traffic, left-right-left-right, in-out-in-out, never using a signal, mind you.  Let the others maintain the rate of speed, thinks this Vin Diesel dolt who usually leaves a string of fender-benders in his wake. Unlike the rest of us, he's got places to go, people to see. We're crawling at a snail's pace because, well, it's just so gosh darn relaxing. Plus, I can't hear enough of those sincere, "We'll give you ten thousand dollars right now because we trust you!" radio commercials. 

Expletive #2.

But I haven't experienced my true auto-aneurysm until I reach that one dreaded light on the corner of Jackson and Mission: You know the kind I'm talking about; the light that stays green for seven seconds and red for seven minutes. I'm waiting, waiting, waiting, and then glory be! The light turns green and I praise God and Allah and Buddha and every other heavenly superhero I can think of, and prepare to take my foot off the brake except....

The driver in front of me has her head down in a position that can only mean one of two things: either she's dozed off during the long red or --and I'm taking a wild guess here--she's texting a really important message to her BFF such as, "OMG, and ever since she pierced it she has to tinkle in two...." 

HOOOOOONK!  I lay on the horn and she looks up with a surprised jolt that says, "OMG, I'm in a car!" and toodles through the light, which is now yellow. And I'm stuck at the red.  

Expletive #3, #4, #5 and #6. And it's only 7am.  

But the plus side of commuting is that it leaves me plenty of time to think. And I hear that Idaho and Utah are lovely this time of year. 

What's Up With Hazel?

So, what about Hazel? Those first couple days after losing Olivia, watching Hazel was pathetic. Every morning, upon awakening, she'd bolt down the stairs and immediately start searching for her companion throughout the house.  In the kitchen, behind the sofa, in the backyard, out the window, sniff, sniff, sniff, where are you, Olivia?

Then it's like she would suddenly remember, and she'd flop herself on Olivia's pillow like a wet rag and just lie there, heaving the occasional sigh. As if my heart wasn't already breaking, watching Hazel mourn was like rubbing salt in the wound.  I know how you feel, girl. I miss her, too.

But today Hazel is thriving and adjusting to her single status better than I could have hoped for. Of course it helps that I'm heaping her with affection, taking her on marathon walks twice a day, and bringing her with me when I run errands, something I couldn't always maneuver with two dogs. She's probably thinking, "Hey, this isn't so bad."

I'm also taking her to doggie day camp once a week so she can enjoy a little canine stimulation and socialization while I'm at the office.  I don't know what goes on at these soirees, but when I pick up her 10 hours later, she is exhausted, raising her head only to eat dinner, and then returning to her pillow to pass out until the next morning. Let me tell you, this dog snores like a buzz saw.

I'm repeating everything I did after Elvis died--at that time, I focused all my attention on Olivia and that's what helped cement our bond. 

In time there will be second dog, I'm sure of it.  Yes, two dogs are more expensive, more messy, more work. But dogs are pack animals, and watching Olivia and Hazel interact together--walking belly-to-belly, sleeping side by side, and even drinking from the same water bowl (even though they each had their own)--confirmed my belief that dogs may love their humans, but they need their peeps, too. 

I'm just not ready for that second dog, though. Not yet. I still miss my girl too much, but that's okay. Like I said, in time. 

For now, it's Hazel's turn.

P.S. Olivia

Oh, how I miss Olivia. 

Last Friday would have been her 7th birthday.  I've never been one to celebrate canine birthdays (even I know when to draw the line!), but on Friday morning I awoke with a vivid image of what Olivia must have looked like as a greyhound puppy, and what a hard life she would face for the next four years, not as a pet, but as a commodity: a race dog. 

That hard life came to an end when, at age 3 1/2, she was retired and I adopted her. However, I've documented how Olivia didn't adapt easily to being a household pet. She didn't know how to receive love or affection. Didn't know how to react to other breeds or how to share her space. During several walks, she lunged at passing small white dogs (her particular bug-a-boo), inciting one angry owner to scream at me in a thick French accent, "Zees is a horrible dog dat ees worse dan zee pitbull!"  More than once Olivia bared her teeth when I got too close to her pillow or growled when I tried to remove something she shouldn't be eating. One time she snapped so close to my face I swore she shaved the peach fuzz off my cheek.

And during our first year together, I often wondered just what had I gotten myself into?  Sure, I would continue to feed her. Walk her. Care for her. But would I ever really love her?

Of course we all know the answer. Eventually Olivia came to realize that an extended arm didn't mean she was going to be smacked, but instead be stroked.Passing dogs wouldn't attack, but just sniff.  Slowly, Olivia transformed from a frightened, wary dog into my loving, happy girl who bounced with sheer joy at the mere sight of me. On walks, she came to greet strangers with a wagging tail, nuzzling nose, and happy trot, expecting them to love her as I did. 

The big orthopedic pillow that she once fiercely protected with a threatening growl soon became "our" pillow. Every single night I'd lay near her side and she would immediately get up, circle three times, then lay back down and spoon against me, draping her head over my shoulder so I could rub her neck, scratch her ears, and kiss her needle nose. While watching TV that's what I would do, giving my lovely 'Livvy all the love and attention she had missed during her first three years of her life. It saddens me that after such a rocky beginning, she knew love for such a brief time. 

But my dear friend Deb said that what happened to Olivia was destined before she ever even entered my life, and if I have faith in the Divine, the decision was made that, "This dog gets to spend some time with Eileen." What mattered was the part of her life she spent with me was as good as it could possibly get and to consider the happiness we shared in our short time together.  Deb's words slowed my tears and warmed my heart. 

"Any dog that lives with you has won the lottery," she continued.  Perhaps, but I'm the one who feels like the winner. Because each canine spirit that graces my life expands my heart and finds new depths of love that I didn't know existed.  I never thought I could love another dog as much as I did Elvis. 

My sweet Olivia proved me wrong.  

'Livvy and the Rainbow Bridge

My constant companion. My faithful friend. My forever love, yesterday, today, and always.

Olivia

February 27, 2008 - 
February 13, 2015

Promise to Olivia

My sweet girl is still with me, but three months after her diagnosis, I cannot ignore the heartbreaking facts: she's now doing the three-legged hop, and our formerly brisk mile-long walks have been reduced to ten-minute jaunts to the corner and back.  Her tail is still wagging,  she still gets excited when she sees her leash, and she still has a healthy appetite, all of which almost lets me fool myself into thinking maybe it's not that bad...

...until I see that limp. That's when I remember the vet at U.C. Davis telling me that a bone tumor is very painful followed with her dire warning about the excruciating pain of a leg fracture that is imminent at this stage. I also remember my promise to Olivia-- the same promise I made to Elvis and Lucy:

I won't let you suffer. I will never let you suffer. I have to let Olivia go before the pain becomes unbearable, even at the cost of my own personal grief.  

And so, I'm preparing my girl for this journey she's about to take without me. It may sound crazy, but it's been distressing to think that when Olivia crosses the Rainbow Bridge, she won't know anyone on the other side. That's why, on the floor, next to her pillow, I've placed a portrait of my mom so Olivia might recognize her face. It comforts me to think of placing Olivia in my mother's loving arms and knowing she'll take good care of her newest "grandpuppy."

At night, when I'm lying next to Olivia on her pillow, stroking her velvety ears and rubbing her neck, I tell her about this wonderful place she's going to visit. A place where she'll be reunited with Elvis and can once again run without pain.  I tell my girl how much I love her, and how sorry I am that she's hurting, but I promise she's going to feel better soon.  I try not to cry because I can tell it distresses her and I want her to feel nothing but peace and love. So much love.

And she snuggles deeper against me and sighs a contented sigh and I hold her tight and wonder how can I bring myself to take this final step, how can I say goodbye to this dog I love so much?  I never want to let her go.  But I have to.  

Because it's time to remember my promise. 

A Lifetime Dog

Last night I invited my friend, Lynn, over to watch an episode of the Twilight Zone. Not just any episode, mind you, but my all-time favorite. I love it so much, in fact, I wrote an essay about it several years ago that ran in my former "Dog's Life" column in the San Francisco Chronicle column. It also ran later in The Bark magazine.

Today, I'm repeating a portion of this essay because it still resonates so strongly. I originally wrote it about my first greyhound, my "lifetime dog," Elvis, but realize now that the emotions I expressed back then capture how I feel about the dogs I've had since Elvis; my mother's dog, Lucy (who I adopted after Mom passed away) and my current girls, Olivia and Hazel.   

If you love your pets with even a fraction of the intensity that I do, you'll know exactly what I mean.

A LIFETIME DOG*

Today, when I look at my beloved dog, who will soon turn 8, I can't help but note his now gray muzzle and eyebrows. Like his human, Elvis is showing signs of age. And I realize, with an ache, that our time together will be much too brief.

That's why I'm so fond of a particular Twilight Zone episode. Titled "The Hunt," it features a recently deceased man and his dog. As they ramble down a country road in the hereafter, they come upon a gate. 

"Welcome to heaven!" the gatekeeper declares. Except for the dog, that is. 

"What kind of heaven won't allow dogs?" the old man asks. "If he can't come in, then I'll stay out with him. He's been my faithful companion all these years and I can't desert him now." 

So the old man continues down the road with his dog.  Soon, they come upon another gate. 

"Welcome to heaven!" the gatekeeper greets both man and dog. When the old man asks about the previous gatekeeper who said that dogs weren't allowed, he learns it was the devil. 

"He gets all the people who are willing to give up a lifetime companion for a comfortable place to stay," the old man is told. "They soon find out their mistake, but then it's too late." 

And the old man and his dog pass through the gates, toward the light. Toward heaven.

When I cradle my dog's face in my hands and look into his liquid eyes, so full of unconditional love and loyalty, there's no doubt.  Elvis is my faithful companion. My lifetime dog.

And this is heaven.

*Read the complete version in The Bark