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.

Ringing in 2018

"Tomorrow is the first blank page of a 365 page book. Write a good one." 
~Brad Paisley, country singer

Happy New Year to all God's creatures great and small. And greyhounds. Especially greyhounds (say Hazel & Aiden).

XOXO Eileen

Not a Problem

So yeah, it's been awhile. That's because for most of the year I've been preoccupied with my newest dreaded word in the English language: renovations.

The saga started in February, when my sister and I decided to do some minor updates to the childhood home we inherited from our mother. Bear in mind, this house was built in 1969 and hadn't been cosmetically touched since Nixon was in office. Picture the Brady Bunch home and that about sums it up.

We weren't overly ambitious though, mainly due to limited funds. In preparation to either continue renting or consider selling, we would simply paint the entire interior, install new hardwood floors, and that would be it. Period. And new carpets in the bedroom, too. Oh yeah, that means we would need new baseboards, so add that.  Hmm, new doors would look great. And new kitchen granite counter tops would look stunning. And new inset lighting. And a new dishwasher. But we can't do the kitchen and ignore the bathrooms, so let's do new bathroom counter tops, too. And marble floors. Oh heck, and throw in new sinks while we're at it. And water fixtures. And light fixtures. And toilets. And fans. And mirrors. And ventilation. And let's not forget curb appeal: we must do landscaping too, but the front yard only. And a new irrigation system. Okay, we'll do the backyard, too. 

Four months later, we're finally done and our beautiful childhood home looks like it's been blessed by The Property Brothers and kissed by Chip and Joanna Gains. That is, until we discover a fly in the ointment--or to be more specific, signs of water in the crawlspace. What the what?

So we call a water restoration company to remove the standing puddles and afterward, hire a plumber to locate the source of water. Except they can't find an obvious cause. They follow up with a thorough, more detailed, day-long inspection to find the leaking culprit but still, no luck. All pipes are in perfect working order, they say.  So we hire a drainage company to determine if perhaps the new irrigation system is at fault. Nope, nothing out of the ordinary there. So we hire a leak-inspection company for another, more targeted inspection. Again, nada. 

Two months later, after numerous inspections and countless costs that would have easily covered an all-expenses paid year-long trip for two to Tahiti, we get the final verdict: "It's just the way the house is built," they tell us with a shrug. "All homes in this neighborhood have some water under the house. It's not a problem."

Not a problem? Not a problem?  After months of stressing about this, I look like Keith Richards.  I've memorized my freaking credit card number and the security code in back, thanks to "it's not a problem." 

Which brings us to our final crowning touch to the house: the "For Sale" sign that went up after everything was done being hammered, painted, sprayed, and sealed. We got a preemptive offer before it even went on the market.

And once again, I can sleep. And smile. And splurge. Because--thank God--it's not a problem. 

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

A couple years ago for my birthday, my sister gave me a Fitbit. And in the second that it took me to clip it to my bra, I joined the legions of fitness fanatics who track their every footprint with the goal of reaching the recommended 10,000 steps a day. 

Yes, I love my tracker. Which is why I was happy to cover the fairly new phenomena of fitness trackers for pets. Recently I wrote an article on the subject for the San Francisco Chronicle  and of course, I had to get a Poof Pet Activity Tracker for Hazel. Her activity pattern is pretty much as I suspected; she sleeps most of the day until the hour approaches when I'm due home. Then she starts moving around, getting restless and waiting for me. You can tell precisely when I walk through the door because her activity level spikes.  We go for our 50-minute walk, I nail my 10,000 steps, she's happy, and we're both fit and healthy. We return home, Hazel goes back to sleep and I follow my usual routine of watching TV or reading before going to bed. 

Now here's the thing: recently I became Fitbit "friends" with a coworker. The purpose is to encourage one another ("c'mon, you're almost there!"), act as cheerleaders ("you did it!") and occasionally throw down challenges ("how much can you do in one day?"). And I was feeling pretty good about reaching my 10,000 steps a day until I happened to notice that Kelly was consistently averaging more than me. A lot more.  Like double more. Like to the moon and back more. I thought I was in pretty decent shape until I came up against my Fitbit nemesis. 

Oh, and in case you're wondering, we're the same age, so it's not like she has the advantage of youth. At night, while I'm huffing and puffing alongside my bed doing jumping jacks at 10pm in order to reach my 10,000 steps, Kelly has already far surpassed me and is banking steps that take her into next week. She motivates me, that's for sure.

And that's a good thing. But I wish my Fitbit could "friend" Hazel as well.  Because while I like being motivated, it would soothe my bruised ego to "win" every now and then too -- even if my competition is a sleeping dog.  

Hey, I won't tell if you won't.

Waxing Philosophic

After a cozy night curled up on my sofa, listening to the howling winds and pouring rain, it was time to take my laziness to the next level and go to bed. I'd been burning a cinnamon-scented candle and as I blew it out, I fanned the air to distribute the wafting fume--and knocked the candle over. 

Well, "knocked" isn't quite the right word. That is, unless you picture legendary baseball Hall of Famer Hank Aaron at the bat, ready to take a swing and knock it out of the park. Then yeah, "knock" would be an accurate depiction because the hot melted wax that sprayed from that knocked over candle was indeed, to use another famous baseball analogy, "the shot heard around the world."

Or "around my living room" might be more like it. With utter dismay, I saw sprayed red wax all over my Oriental area rug and beyond it, streaks of red wax across my hardwood floors. Damn! There went my visions of nestling in bed with a good book.  How would I even begin to clean this stuff? 

"Ah, young Jedi," said my inner Master Yoda. "Google,you should start with." So I did.

And instantly found easy peasy instructions: let the wax harden, cover it with a white paper towel, and then iron it on the hottest setting until no more wax transfers to the paper. So I did just that on both floor and carpet and voila--it worked like a charm!  And since the wax was red and my area rug is wine-colored, there was nary a sign of the aforementioned "shot heard around the living room." Crisis averted! I unplugged the iron and prepared to go to bed.

But then. I saw flecks of red wax on Hazel's slumber ball pillow, which, fortunately, is also wine-colored. Sigh. I plugged in my trusty iron and waved my magic wand. Again, it worked fine. 

But then. Surely the waxy spray couldn't have extended any further, could it? I looked beyond Hazel's pillow. Beyond the area rug. Beyond my coffee table. And there it was.

My beautiful sage-colored sofa was covered with flecks of red wax. It looked as if it had been stricken with a case of the measles. In a panic, I ironed, ironed, ironed! but soon discovered this solution wasn't as effective on light-colored material. It lifted the wax, yes, but the oil stains remained.  Desperate, I pulled out the Kryptonite that came with my purchase 12 years ago: a special sofa fabric cleaner I've never had to use because I've never spilled a drop on my sofa--until now. 

It didn't work. 

Now here's the irony: just hours earlier, I had told my friend Alisa that I was getting tired of this sofa, but couldn't justify buying a new one because it was in such perfect shape. It still looked like it came straight from the Macy's showroom--until now, that is. And at that moment, I realized I had broken my cardinal rule:

Say it, curse it.

Just like the first person to ever utter the words, President Trump, I was doomed the minute I voiced a thought and alerted the universe. 

Sighing for both couch and country, I finally trudged upstairs to bed. Say it, curse it. Indeed.

How to Make 2017 Rad

• Stop doing shit you hate

• Love your body more

• Hang with awesome peeps

• Smash some goals

• Share your magic

• Be freakin' brave

• Flaunt your awesome

• Love harder / Love louder

• Be kinder to yourself

• Be a nice human

• Give assholes the boot

~courtesy of Mommy Needs a Beer