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.