The Sundance Kid & Me

How many people can pinpoint the precise minute they entered puberty?  I can.

For weeks my sixth grade classmate and best friend, Tricia, had been raving about this great movie her parents had taken her to see. It was Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and she simply couldn’t stop talking about it. It was the best movie ever, she swore. I had to see it, I simply had to.

The problem was, it was rated (the now defunct) M, which in 1970 was the equivalent of today’s PG rating. After begging and pleading and whining and moping, and pulling every pre-teen stunt guaranteed to drive a parent absolutely nuts, my parents agreed I could see the movie. Only, that is, after they interviewed others who confirmed it was indeed acceptable viewing for a 12-year old. And even then I had to promise to sit in the very last row of the theater and in an aisle seat. For a quick exit in case of fire or pervert.

So there I sat by myself on a warm Sunday afternoon inside the Dublin Cinema. It was May 3, 1970 and I was about to see the 2:00 pm matinee of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I was chilled, not so much from the air conditioning as from nerves. I had never seen an M movie and wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

The lights dimmed. The clacking of the projector sounded as the film began rolling, displaying grainy sepia tone images on screen. Instantly I felt a ping of disappointment. $1.50 for a matinee and the movie wasn’t even in color? 

I munched on my Hot Tamales, cursing Tricia for making me sacrifice a sunny spring day to sit in a theater and watch a brown and white movie. And she hadn’t mentioned it was a western. I sighed and settled deeper in my seat.

Once the opening credits were over, the movie shifted to a boring card game in progress as the camera panned the players’ faces. Ugly adult men.

Card Player #2: Well, looks like you just about cleaned everybody out, fella. You haven't lost a hand since you got to deal. What's the secret of your success?

Then the camera zoned in on the stoic, rugged mug of Robert Redford as the Sundance Kid.

Sundance Kid: [pause] Prayer.

My heart stopped. Suddenly this brown and white western with the Sundance Kid was absolutely fascinating. And for the next two hours, internal fireworks began exploding as hereto unleashed hormones now surged through every cell in my body, kick-starting puberty like the launch of Apollo 11 that previous July.

(When that little event took place Tricia and I were outside playing handball. My mother asked us nicely to come in and watch the world’s first lunar landing and I recall saying something like, “thanks but no thanks.” It was only when she yelled at us to come in right now because “…history is being made dammit, and you are going to watch whether you like it or not!” that we reluctantly dragged ourselves in inside and saw man walk on the moon. Big deal. Can we go out and play now?)

Oh but this. What was happening right now was a far bigger moment than Neil Armstrong’s little traipse in space. This, my friend, was puberty.

I was unaware of anything. Of breathing or raging hormones or rockets red glare. I could only sit and stare unblinkingly, absolutely mesmerized as the next two hours flew by. Dumbstruck by that gorgeous man on the silver screen. When the movie was over I returned home in a love-struck stupor. Robert Redford was really old. At least 30. And I was only 12. Could we make it work?  I had to phone Tricia to discuss my newfound feelings.

“Didcha like it?” she asked. Before I could answer she added anxiously, “What did you think of Paul Newman?”  Ah, so puberty had launched for Tricia too. Who cared that at 44, Newman was even older than my new paramour. Tricia and Paul could overcome any obstacles. Just like me and Robert.

That summer Tricia and I saw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid a half dozen times. And when it left the Dublin Cinema for the Dublin Drive-In, we planted our pubescent bodies on a nearby grassy knoll near Tricia’s home and on warm summer nights, equipped with binoculars, we watched the silent movie from afar. We didn’t need sound anyway.

That fall Tricia and I entered seventh grade. Junior High as it was known back then. And we soon discovered other things that accompany puberty. Like tie-dyed shirts, hot pants, Love’s Baby Soft perfume, slumber parties and rock n’ roll. Eventually Butch and Sundance were replaced with Doug and Mike. And Scott and Richard and Spencer and all those other Junior High boys so young. So immature. But so real.

Today, when I want to remember that one pivotal moment in time, I don’t review yearbooks or peruse old diaries. Instead, I pop in my DVD of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Today still my favorite movie.

And I bid adieu to old age, newfound wrinkles, and burgeoning gray hair. Instead, I’m twelve one more time. With the world at my feet and Sundance by my side.

And in the End

Sigh. There have been three deaths over the past three weeks and well, it gets a person thinking. A few years back, I outlined my Celebration of Life preferences in specific detail but I was young and healthy at the time. I did it more as a lark. Now? I'm retired, collecting Social Security, and flashing my Medicare card like it's a backstage pass to a Springsteen concert. So, here's an update, folks. This is how I'd like my Celebration of Life for reals, not to mention one very important detail to omit from my obituary. 

Flowers: I love carnations. When I was a child, my sister and I lived across the street from carnation nurseries and I have fond memories of us playing with the owners' daughters, Mari and Leslie, in the hothouses amidst row after row of growing flowers. Today, just a whiff of their sweet cinnamon scent takes me back to those happy days. Really, no roses. Nothing foo foo, fancy or expensive. Just carnations. Oh, and maybe a few hydrangeas. They're a nostalgic reminder of my abuelita, who grew them in the yard of her San Francisco bungalow in the Avenues.

Attire: I'm not a snob. Honestly, I'm not. But it's my Celebration of Life and here's the thing--I really don't want to look from way on high (at least I hope) at hairy men toes in sweat-stained Birkenstock sandals. Save those for your next Jimmy Buffet cover band concert. My attire has always been the epitome of casual and I'm the first to stress comfort. But dead me asks that you leave the paint-spattered cut-offs and Rolling Stones 1992 World Tour t-shirts at home. Just about anything else is welcome. Humor dead me? Thank you.

Music: Ah, this one's tricky. Music at my Celebration of Life should reflect who I was when I tip-toed through the tulips, but this isn't a concert so I need to reign it in a bit. Ideally played during a video montage of photos, I'd like tunes that are meaningful, irreverent, and nostalgic. Oh yeah, and maybe a couple with just enough sentiment to elicit a teardrop or two. Hey, I'm dead, remember? I see you playing Words with Friends on your iPhone. At least pretend to be sad!

Here are a few of my favorites, in no particular order, with an explanation for some.  

• God Only Knows by the Beach Boys. It was at a Beach Boys outdoor concert at the Concord Pavilion in 1997. I was surrounded by people dancing, soaking up the sun, and having a great time. Then my favorite Beach Boy Carl Wilson took the mic. He announced that he was battling lung cancer but he was going to beat this, by God. Everything suddenly came to a screeching standstill. People just stood there, stunned. Then he sat on a stool and proceeded to sing God Only Knows as people openly wept. He was gone in six months. It's a beautiful song that reminds me of a beautiful man that brought joy to so many.
• Darlin' by the Beach Boys. Just because.
• Always Look at the Bright Side of Life by Monty Python. Snicker. At least I'm not suggesting the "Bring Out Your Dead" clip from Monty Python & The Holy Grail although come to think of it, that would be pretty funny. Yeah, do it. 
• God and Dog by Wendy Francisco. Every night, I laid alongside my Greyhound, Aiden, and sang this song to him. Today when I hear it, it makes me teary-eyed because I lost my goofy boy far too young. If you believe in a higher power and love dogs, you'll get this song.
• Wouldn't it be Good by Nik Kershaw. Probably my all-time favorite. 
• Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head by B.J. Thomas. From the soundtrack of my number one movie, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, which launched a lifelong crush on Robert Redford. I remember pouring over every detail about him in 16 Magazine and seriously thinking, "He's 34 and I'm 12...we could make it work!"
• Circles by Post Malone. During the pandemic, I heard this a lot on the radio as I worked at my computer with my other Greyhound, Hazel (pictured above), by my side. Today, when I hear this song I feel a painful little ping in my heart and remember my Hazel. 
• The End by the Beatles. A little bit of rock with a slam-dunk ending. 
• And close with...drum roll please....Come on Eileen by Dexy's Midnight Runners. C'mon, you knew I had to include this one.

And I promise, the first person to suggest Dancing in the Street is going to discover that a heavenly ass-whooping is indeed possible. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Pam. 

Lastly, my obituary should include my age, a photo of me (Gasp! She was so young!) with at least one of my dogs, and my tragic cause of death.

But here's one detail to omit and why. 

A while back, I was walking the dogs with my good friend Sandra when we started discussing how our parents had died. My dad, leukemia, hospital. My mom, ovarian cancer, hospital. Her mom, breast cancer, hospital. Her dad, aneurism, toilet. "He was on the toilet" I asked? "Yes," she replied with a stone face. Silence. 

Then she cracked a smile. So did I. And that did it. The floodgates opened and we giggled like two ten-year old boys who'd just heard their teacher fart. Meeting your Maker on the toilet is actually quite common and just as sad as any other death, so no disrespect intended. But you have to admit, a can doesn't quite conjure up a heart-tugging image. Did Love Story, Brian's Song or Steel Magnolias feature an American Standard as a deathbed? I rest my case.

So, should I have the misfortune to meet my demise on the commode, I told Sandra, who's been charged with writing my obituary, just say that I was found on the floor near the toilet. Around the toilet. By the toilet. In the vicinity of the toilet. But please, not ON the toilet. And insiders who know the truth? Enjoy a good laugh. I'll be right there with ya.

Of course, take all of the above with a grain of salt, hopefully sprinkled around the rim of a Midori Margarita. Bring your dogs, enjoy chocolate chip cookies at the post-reception, and laugh. Because the only thing that really matters is what the Beatles once sang.

"...and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."  

Amen. 

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.

The Sound of Silence

For years, every Tuesday morning at 5am I've been awakened by the distinct "beep-beep-beep-clank-clank-clank" of garbage trucks on trash day. But suddenly, the past few Tuesdays have been silent. No trucks. No beeping or clanking. Just the pre-dawn stillness of 5am. Seems the sanitation department changed their schedule and pick up is now in the afternoon at 5pm.

I am not pleased.

Not that I can call Waste Management about this. I can just imagine the look on the person's face as I complain about the lack of noise at 5am. 

But in the hushed darkness of early morning or late evening, the absolute silence is louder than any garbage truck, honking car, or barking dog. It's an unearthly silence where I can hear the ringing in my ears, the pumping of my heart, and the blood coursing through my veins like the Indy 500. A silence that threatens to break at any given second with the sudden piercing intrusion of a dying smoke alarm battery or the ominous crack of breaking glass. The silence is the reason why I run my Roomba right before going to bed. I doze off to the reassuring whir of my little iRobot as it bumps into furniture and baseboards, warding off uninvited sounds while sweeping all that dog hair. And if it finishes before I fall asleep, I turn on a podcast, although I've yet to stay awake through one. It's not the subject I'm seeking, it's the noise. Any ambient noise to mask that ear-shattering silence.  

I know, weird...or maybe not. Because when I Googled the subject, I read that Robert Roth, Ph.D, Director of the Sleep Disorders and Research Center at Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit, told Prevention Magazine that "...if your room is too quiet, every little 'inconsistency of sound' becomes that much more evident and disruptive." 

Hear that, Waste Management? Straight from the expert's mouth. Or to paraphrase a certain song:

"Hello darkness, my old friend, we need the garbage trucks again."

Uh, at 5am, please. Thank you. 

Worry Warts and Wounds

My mom always used to say that it was a good thing I never had kids because I would have made myself crazy with worry. Is that a headache or a brain tumor? Tummy ache or Ebola? And sure, this little sliver embedded in the thumb may appear inconsequential, but what if it travels through the bloodstream and pierces my baby's heart? 

I don't know how parents do it, I really don't. How can you love someone so much and not worry every single day over every single thing, like tainted spinach, mall shootings, school bullies, and falling meteorites?

See? I'm worrying on your behalf. 

So yeah, it's probably just as well I never had kids because I would have driven myself into an early grave and them into lifelong therapy. But Mom had a point because I have dogs, and I worry. Good God, how I worry. 

Like with Hazel, my nine-year old greyhound. It started when I took her to my back-up vet for what I thought was a broken toe (Worry #1). X-rays showed the toe wasn't broken, but maybe sprained because she yelped every time it was touched. And so, Dr. H. stabilized the paw with plenty of tape and gauze, and told me to remove the bandage in one week. 

When I did, the problem toe was fine. However, the paw had been wrapped without padding in between the toes, so a toenail had embedded itself into the toe next to it, creating a bloody gash (Worry #2). Back to see Dr. H. who cleaned it, this time remembered to insert padding in between the toes (uh, thank you), and wrapped the foot again. 

When we returned to my regular vet the following week to remove the bandages, the toe gash was starting to heal, except we found that the new bandages had created yet another problem (Worry #3): a bloody, dime-sized crater on the outside of Hazel's paw. The vet cleaned it, wrapped it again with extra padding, and told me to remove the bandage in one week. At my request, he also started Hazel on antibiotics, because, you know, flesh-eating disease and stuff like that (Worry #4). 

Well, I removed the bandage last night to find that the wound was now a bright pink, pulpy, oozing abscess. And Hazel was clearly not herself (Worry #5). No zoomies. No downward dogs or playful barks towards passing pups.

Maybe I was overreacting. After all, I recently had a blister the size of a grain of rice on the knuckle of my middle toe, and for days I limped like a failed Firewalker.  Maybe this was just the canine version of a blister. Maybe there was no need to worry and if we let nature take its course, everything would heal and my girl would be fine. 

Who was I kidding? I was worried. Back to the vet we went, where he took one look at Hazel's neon pink paw and confirmed a now-raging infection (Worry #6). He numbed the abscess. Cleaned it. Sutured it. Wrapped it with falsely cheerful green tape and sent us home with powerhouse drugs we hope will work.

Until then, I'll continue to worry, if not about sprained toes and infected wounds, but eventually over something else, because yeah, Mom was right: I'm on the road to crazy. 

With worry.

Just Another Morning

He's been there sporadically over the past year, leaning against the brick wall near the entrance of the Hayward Peet's. Standing alongside a confiscated Lucky's shopping cart stuffed with, well, stuff. A small, slight man, Hispanic, late 50s maybe, hard to tell with his weathered skin.

My excuse for being at Peet's at the ungodly hour of 6:30 am was to fuel up with caffeine before trying to beat traffic on the notorious Hwy 92 eastbound. But this guy wasn't a commuter. He was clearly homeless, although he never asked for money. All he said each morning was, "God bless." Going in, going out, a simple nod and "God bless."

I wanted to help him, but you just never know where your money is going, right? So, like other commuters, I occasionally bought him something from Peet's, although really, just how much Major Dickason or banana bread can anyone take in one morning?

Then one day while cleaning out a closet, I came across a nice nylon duffel bag that I'd forgotten about and thought, ta dah! How about I stock it with supplies, things a homeless person might need?

And so, off I trotted to Target where I bought a pack of undershirts and a sweatshirt. Men's socks. Toiletries, personal hygiene supplies, and a box of granola bars. Packed everything neatly and stored it in the back of my Honda CRV for the next time I saw him.

Except he disappeared. Perhaps the continuously cold, damp, windy weather proved to be too much. Sure, there were other homeless people who could use the supplies, but something about this guy with his simple "God bless" had touched me. This was his bag.

Then one day, months later, there he was at his usual spot in front of Peet's. Giddy with the thought of brightening his day, but also not wanting to insult him, I approached him tentatively and asked if he could use a few supplies. "Sure," he said.

Great! When I returned with the duffel bag minutes later,  he was engrossed in conversation on a phone that, I couldn't help but notice, had the familiar Apple logo. When he saw me, he nodded and continued talking while waving me, somewhat impatiently, toward a spot where I could place the bag. Sort of like he was a Wall Street stockbroker making an important trade and I was the local deli gal delivering his salami on rye, hold the mayo.

Uh, okay. 

I followed his instructions and dropped the bag atop his packed Lucky's shopping cart. I wished him a good day and he lifted his chin in acknowledgement, then turned his back to carry on with his conversation.

Alrighty then. And a God bless to you, too. 

The "Eyes" Have It

It was Monday and I was in the office talking to my coworker, Tami, when suddenly a floater the size of the Goodyear Blimp appeared in front of my left eye. It hovered, shifted to the left, then floated back to the center again.

"Wow," I told her. "You should see the floater that just blotted out your face. It looks like a big fat semi-colon." Tami nodded and said she gets floaters too, and we agreed that they're oh so annoying, like gnats swarming around your face.  And then we continued our conversation about whatever it was we were talking about.

That night, more floaters appeared around the blimp, which remained fixed in my line of vision. Not gnat-sized floaters, but spider-sized. Still, I wasn't concerned. I've had them before and my ophthalmologist reassured me that they're a very common eye ailment and nothing of concern. "But if you see flashing lights, call me immediately," he said. "Because that means the retina is detaching. Flashing lights are something to worry about." 

And Tuesday morning I saw the flashing lights.  

I called. Left a message. Left another message. And another. By the time the ophthalmology department returned my call five hours later, the vision in my left eye was like looking at a blimp through a screen door. 

"The doctor can see you on November 13th," the scheduler said, not understanding the gravity of the situation. "No," I told her. "You need to get a message to him right now. Tell him I'm seeing flashing lights. I'll hold."

That did the trick. 

Ninety minutes later, I was sitting in his chair, having my left eyeball manipulated, poked, and prodded like he was kneading bread dough. I apologized for being paranoid, but said I remembered what he told me about the flashing lights and he nodded. 

"90% of the people who come in complaining about floaters have nothing to worry about," he said. "Unfortunately, you're the 10% that do. You have a torn retina." Seriously? I can't get one matching number in the lottery but hoo boy, something bad comes along and winner winner chicken dinner. 

And so, emergency laser surgery was scheduled for the next morning, which was Halloween. When I saw the retina specialist, I gulped. Was he in costume as a middle school student? This was the guy who was about to Darth Vader my eyeball with a blinding laser.  Oh, make that two eyeballs. Because when he checked my "good" eye as common practice, he found my right retina was also torn. 

"No symptoms, which is odd," he said. "But it's also at risk for a retinal detachment."

Alrighty then. Laser away, Darth.

Various websites indicate that laser surgery is painless and takes just 15 minutes, but Darth found a second tear in my left eye. This one was hard to reach and sitting on a nerve, which hurt like a #!@#! every time he stabbed it with the throbbing green light. One hour and three repaired tears later, I staggered out of the clinic, blinded by the light, in the most literal sense, and clutching the arm of Oliver, my nephew-in-law and driver.

So it's been three days and my left eye still has the Goodyear Blimp fixed in my line of vision. Plus, my peripheral vision is blurry, like looking underwater. When I told Darth, he said my retina is bleeding from the surgery (how's that for a good excuse to call in sick? "Sorry boss, can't come in today, I've got bleeding retinas!") and should dissipate in a few days. The blimp though, may be permanent. He'll know more when I see him again in three weeks. In the meantime, I'm getting by with my "good" eye.  

And buying a lottery ticket. Because really, if someone's going to beat the odds, I might just be that gal.

Wardrobe Malfunction

So there we were, me and the pups, making our usual lap around Osage Park when I saw two women up ahead. Each was walking a striking, straight from the movies, Rin Tin Tin stand-in quality German Shepard. 

We stopped to admire each others' dogs and talked about our shared passion for animal rescue. When they asked about Hazel and Aiden, I explained that they were retired ex-racers from Florida. I mentioned that although I'm absolutely, unconditionally devoted to Greyhounds, I've always had a soft spot for German Shepards. 

And it's true. Those were the dogs of my childhood, starting with a gentle black and white German Shepard named Lisa. She was so named because when I was born, that was what Mom wanted to call me.  However, Dad didn't like "Lisa," wanting instead to name me after his first girlfriend--really?  And her name was "Eileen," so I guess we know who won that argument. But when they got their first dog a few months later, Mom put her foot down: Lisa it would be. And for 13 years, Lisa was as much a part of my family as any two-legged version. 

When Lisa died at 13, my parents went to a breeder (because that's what people did in the 70s) and came home with Lobo. He was a goofy dog, a brown and black runt of the litter that turned out to have a bit of a destructive streak...and that was putting it mildly. From drywall and doorknobs to shoes, sofas, tables, and toys, lop-eared Lobo chewed his way through our home with the tenacity of an 80-pound termite. He was a sweet dog, loving and affectionate, but suffered from severe separation anxiety, a little-known condition in the 1970s to most people. In those days, canine resources weren't as readily available as they are today, plus Al Gore hadn't yet invented the Internet. And so, our family muddled through 12 years with Lobo, loving our crazy neurotic dog but always wondering what chaos we might return home to.  

Our final dog from a German Shepard breeder was an all-black beauty named Grizzly. From the beginning, he was Dad's dog, attaching himself to our father like green on grass. When Dad was in the hospital, one of his dying wishes was to see Grizzly one last time and the nurses agreed to smuggle him into his room. Sadly, Dad died before we could set our plan in motion. By then, I was a young adult and no longer living at home, but Mom would tell me how her mourning was made even harder by watching Grizzly mourn, too. The dog would wander from room to room, looking for his master, and sometimes Mom would find Grizzly in the garage lying next to Dad's yellow diesel Volkswagen, a car with a very distinct engine rumble. One day, while walking Grizzly in a crosswalk, a yellow diesel Volkswagen approached and was idling at the stop sign as they passed.  Ears up, eyes alert, Grizzly suddenly bolted and dragged Mom to the man's car, where he excitedly jumped up on his hind legs and stuck his big black menacing head through the driver's open window. The poor guy was frightened out of his wits until Mom tearfully explained the reason for the dog's erratic behavior.  Just a couple years later, our hearts were broken yet again when we lost Grizzly to bloat, a painful condition where the stomach twists and fills with gas. 

These were just a few of the memories that raced through my head during the 10 minutes we chatted about the importance of animal rescue and placing homeless pets. As I admired their majestic-looking dogs, I explained why Greyhounds had stolen my heart but said that I fully support any rescue organization. Noting their identical blue t-shirts that read, German Shepard Rescue of Northern California, I added how, given my history with the breed, I especially appreciate their organization. 

"Adopt, don't shop, right?" I said in the spirit of camaraderie.

"Oh, we didn't rescue these dogs," replied the one gal. "We support the group, but we went to a breeder."

Alrighty then. 

We said our goodbyes and, pausing only to pick my jaw up from the ground, I continued walking Hazel and Aiden. 

May be Summer But Feels Like "Fall"

Last week, my 30-minute small group session with Chris, my personal trainer, was about coordination and balance. Dang. I was hoping for something a little more challenging, like strength training or --even more fun--boxing, which is a great way to work out stress. But this was important too. I guess.  

Actually, I'm all too aware that coordination and balance are critical since I have this annoying neurological condition that threatens my stability. A common complaint among people who share this disease is that they walk like they're drunk and it's true. Without my leg braces, I stagger like I've been hitting the vodka when really, my most serious vice is the occasional Midori Margarita at Los Panchos, my favorite Mexican restaurant.

So, yeah, I paid attention to what Chris was saying even if it wasn't "fun." But talk about serendipity.

Not three days later, I was walking my two greyhounds, Hazel and Aiden. Suddenly, Aiden caught a whiff of something that was deliciously stinky and made a sharp left in front of me just as I was stepping forward. I wibble-wobbled. I flailed. And, in that "oh my God I can't believe this is happening" slow motion sensation, I started to fall.  

But miraculously, in that split second, I had the presence of mind to remember what Chris said. "Bend your knees. Lower your center of gravity so you're closer to the ground and hit with less impact." That's what I did.

With bent knees, I missed the hard pavement by inches and went splat on landscaping. I waited for that sharp bolt of pain to tell me something was broken, but nothing was bruised other than my ego. Really? I took a deep breath. Looked around. Whew. No witnesses, although I'm pretty sure someone from the adjacent apartment complex was looking out their window and having a good snicker at my expense. Hazel and Aiden just stood there looking confused.

I got up. Dusted myself, grateful that I hadn't landed on the hard pavement or, for that matter, anything else since I'd fallen on a popular canine "relief" station. My clothes would go in the wash, just the same.

And we continued our walk like nothing had ever happened. Two happy hounds and one intact,  if not shaken, human. 

Why Pet Tales Mattered

Hazel and Aiden

There we were after work yesterday at Osage Park, me and "the kids." We were taking our nightly walk when we passed this couple who were walking their own two adorable wiener dogs (a word I use only because, for the life of me, I cannot spell daucsand... dacsand... dauschand... aarrgh!). I also use the word "walking" in the spirit in which it was employed because they were actually pushing their elderly dogs in a baby stroller.  

Of course, we stopped to chat, as dog lovers often will, cooing over each other's pups, asking their names, their ages, their stories.  They were intrigued when they learned that Hazel and Aiden are ex-racing greyhounds. 

"Did you ever read that woman in the Chronicle?" the wife asked. "The columnist who wrote about her greyhound, Elvis?"

"Uh, yeah," I replied, flattered that anyone would remember Pet Tales since it ended more than two years ago.  "That was me."  Her enthusiastic response was equally flattering.

"Oh my gosh, I loved that column!" she exclaimed, asking shyly, "Can I hug you?" Now I realize that coming from a total stranger this might have been an strange request. But from someone who read the column and embraced its message, I understood her intentions and opened my arms to her. 

She shared how she had saved several columns, such as the ones about my first greyhound, Elvis, how I adopted my mother's greyhound, Lucy, and another story that I remembered well: the one about Kai, the Chihuahua. A pet psychic had said Kai wanted his photo taken with an abalone shell, which sounded like an odd and unlikely story. That is, until two days later when the owner took Kai to a beach and lo and behold, the dog suddenly bolted into a cave, unearthed a huge abalone shell almost twice his size, and then sat next to it and waited patiently.    

As we continued chatting, I was reminded why I so loved writing Pet Tales.  Its readers were people after my own heart, people who shared the almost fanatical, undying love I have for my dogs, and the affection and respect I hold for others. I met many readers over the column's 13 year lifespan, and each time there was an instant connection, thanks to the pets in our lives. 

After 20 minutes or so, we parted ways and I headed home, my heart warmed by the experience. It wasn't but five minutes before a Toyota SUV pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down and a woman called out, "Hey, are you Elvis' mom?"

I am indeed.

A Sight to Fear: the Greyhound Limp

That limp. That cursed limp. 

For two weeks I'd been trying to ignore what I thought might be a shadow of a limp on Hazel's right rear. But when I asked my friend Marilyn if she noticed anything about my dog's walk, she watched for a few minutes, then nodded reluctantly.  "Yeah," she said. "It's her right rear. She's limping."

Her words filled me with a trepidation I knew all too well. Because anyone who has ever owned a Greyhound knows that even the slightest hint of a limp is enough to Fed Ex your heart straight into your throat. Just as Cocker Spaniels are predisposed to epilepsy and German Shepards are prone to hip dysplasia, Greyhounds suffer from their own disease du jour:  bone cancer. Three years ago, my Greyhound, Olivia, started out with an innocent limp that two different vets thought was the result of nerve pain. It was three months later before the bone tumor appeared on X-rays, and two months after that when my sweet six-year old 'Livvy died in my arms.

And now Hazel was limping. With dread, I made the appointment for an X-ray. 

Two days later, I waited in the cold, sterile room with my other greyhound, Aiden, who was there for "moral support." As they carted Hazel off for X-rays, I fed myself a litany of excuses: maybe this time it really was nerve pain. Or arthritis. Or a corn. Or a slipped disk, or...

...and then I heard them. The office staff was reacting to Hazel's X-rays with exclamations of "Wow,"  "Take a look at this," and "Unbelievable." 

Oh my God. It wasn't just a tumor, but a big one. I was dizzy with fear, wondering how much time I had left with Hazel. When I was beckoned, my legs felt like rubber.

"It's not a tumor," was the first thing Dr. Endo said when she saw the look on my face. "Check this out." I stared at the X-rays, not sure what I was seeing except that something seemed off.

"See her left leg?" Dr. Endo asked, pointing to the mirror image. "It's straight, as it should be. Now look at her right."  It was oddly "S" shaped and not symmetrical with the left. "At the race track, Hazel apparently broke her leg and they didn't set it. This is how it healed." 

So it wasn't a tumor. It wasn't cancer. My dog wasn't going to die. 

I felt dizzy again, but this time it was from relief. I recalled what Stu, the founder of Golden State Greyhound Adoption, told me when I adopted Aiden, who had broken his right rear hock during a race. Often, the track won't set a broken bone, he said. Instead, they'll stick the dog in a crate for six weeks and wait for the bone to heal. That would explain why Hazel's right femur was shaped like an "S" -- it hadn't been set. I cringed to think of the pain my playful girl must have experienced.

"Joint supplements should help with the limp," Dr. Endo suggested. "Other than that, she's fine." I got teary-eyed at the sound of those beautiful words. Words I hadn't expected.

With a wry sense of humor, I couldn't help but observe that with my neurological leg disorder, Aiden with his broken hock, and now Hazel with her broken femur, we were, indeed, a household of gimps. Three slightly damaged bodies making up one perfect family.  

I hugged Hazel under one arm and Aiden under the other. And with my perfect little family in tow, we headed home.