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.