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."