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.

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.