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.