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Celebrating Greyhounds Magazine - Stories by Greyhound Gang

Throughout the years, we've submitted stories to CG Magazine. Here are those stories for your reading pleasure. These first three were submitted for How Greyhounds Inspire You.

You Always Remember Your First - Winter Issue 2010

You always remember your first.

It was 1987. My East Coast corporate life was all consuming. Up at 5 am, walk dog, shower, dress, an hour of travel, work ten to twelve hours without a lunch, drive home. Repeat scenario. To get away from it all one weekend, my black afghan hound, Jezebel, and I took a four hour road trip to Vermont in my cherry red, Karmann Ghia convertible.

I thought attending a refresher obedience course, under blue Vermont skies, would be fun. Jezebel, ten, thought not. As we climbed out of the car, she took one look at the dogs in the class, and sashayed her skinny butt over to a spreading oak tree. This was how she was going to enjoy our vacation. Shaking my head, I started over to relax with her. Just then a white, industrial van pulled up. Two of the skinniest, stylish, stunning creatures peered out as the van doors opened. Running over, I reached out and ran my hand over a soft, sharp face. I bent down to breathe nose to nose, and then lifted her eyes to mine. I’d touched my first greyhound.

That weekend, I worked with Molly, a tall, white greyhound, cautious of everything around her.  Jezebel was perfectly content, watching from under the tree. Driving home to Connecticut that Sunday, thoughts whipped through my head, as quick as the wind snatched them away. I had to have a greyhound. I had to help greyhounds. I had to do something. The real world entered as I pulled up to my tiny, three-room apartment, without a fence and a landlord that lived above. He’d not wanted one dog living below him, and I’d used my powers of persuasion, and a fat deposit check to convince him to allow Jezebel.  

Two nights after I got home, I made lasagna for Louie, my landlord, and knocked on his door. I told him about my weekend, and the wonderful dogs I’d met. I told him I’d like to foster one, just temporarily, and after lasagna, another fat deposit check, I had his blessings. 

A week later my adoption application was approved.

I pulled into the greyhound adoption kennel, hands shaking.  My whole body was vibrating. I could barely be courteous to Paul, the kennel master, with my anticipation of seeing and choosing from over twenty greyhounds.  I’d explained to Paul that the greyhound for us had to be special because Jezebel was ten, and the queen. She was becoming less tolerant of other dogs as she aged, and I wanted to make sure that another dog wouldn’t challenge her place. This dog also had to be quiet, because I didn’t want the landlord to have any reason to say no.

Paul told me he had a guy for me, Eliminator, a 4 year old brindle boy.  Well, Eli was very hesitant when I met him, plastering himself against the back of his cage. I thought, ‘oh no, I don’t think he’ll do’.  I insisted Paul show me every single other dog.  One very bouncy, brindle Irish boy definitely caught my attention. But I left with Eli, having seen that Paul knew his dogs, and my priority was Jezebel.

Two quiet, uneventful hours in the car, and we were home. That first greeting was like the vassal meeting the Queen. Jezebel approached Eli with all her scorn blazing.  Eli stood still, and cow-towed to her from that first moment. She totally let him know she was in charge. At least ten times daily, he told her she was queen. Mollified, Jezebel proceeded to ignore him.  

Eli was very spooked those first weeks. The first few days he chose to sleep in the bathroom, the smallest room in the tiny, three-room, bottom floor apartment. The only time I got him out of the bathroom on his own volition was when I stepped out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my head. He bolted like he’d seen Medusa. But curiosity got the best of him and he did come back to see what creature had invaded his room.

The first day I took him to a fenced field, he plastered himself to my leg and refused to move a step if I didn’t.  But each day saw him gaining in confidence, as he would venture a little further from me, and start to investigate the TV, the table, the counters.  And my landlord…he fell in love with Eli at first sight.

By the fifth week, he’d become my buddy.  Everywhere I went, he went. He was my quiet, but constant, shadow.  

The very first time I met a greyhound, on that vacation in Vermont, I was inspired to adopt Eli and help Connecticut adoption groups. That inspiration lead me, six years later, to quit my East Coast corporate job, sell everything I owned, drive cross country and start  Greyhound Gang in 1995 in Kanab, UT. Jezebel and Eli are with me in spirit. I’ll always remember my first.

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My Lady                

Every greyhound has a story. What lover of greyhounds doesn’t regale you with ‘stories’ about the hounds he or she has loved in his or her life? Greyhounds inspire us to reveal intimate details of their actions and reactions to the world around them. Through all these stories is one thread - Love. Unconditional. Unreserved.

I’m no different. I want to write about each and every greyhound that has passed through Greyhound Gang’s doors.

My Lady inspired me to write this story, on the day I learned of her death.

It was 1996. Six am. I was at the Tucson kennels to pick up a few greyhounds. These kennels, behind the scenes at the track, had never seen better days. I gingerly cracked open a dark wood gate, that was cobbled together with broken pieces of used wood. Crisscrossed, nailed and hammered to death, so that it would hold onto its hinges. Securely closing it behind me with an extra loop of wire, I stepped into the early morning kennel turnout. Gary, a former trainer, and now rescuer of unwanted greyhounds, greeted me.

”Just about ready to let the girls out,” he said, as he strode over to say hello.  “Can’t wait”, I replied, with a grin. He ducked his head under a ramshackle building doorway, which housed about thirty homemade crates made from chicken wire, and old pieces of wood. Shredded newspaper covered the crate floors. Dogs, with muzzles, peered through the wire. He started opening crate doors, and I was quickly mugged by twelve girls. They leapt, they jumped, they cavorted. They bit at my nose, ears, hair. Anything to get my attention.   The thirteenth hung back and just looked.  It was still early morning light, and so it was hard to get the details on her.  But I couldn’t miss the way those eyes looked me.  Guarded and evasive, yet wanting. 

I couldn’t really focus much on her, as the other muzzled dogs were very busy sniffing, rubbing and jumping against me as they vied for my attention.  When the rest of the dogs tired of me, and strode off to do their morning duty, she was there. She took four steps, slowly, towards me.  I stretched out my hand, and she sniffed. I took a step towards her and she held her ground.  I massaged behind her ears, as I removed her muzzle. 

Gary was watching.  “She doesn’t come up to many.  She’s one of my favorites.  I was hoping you’d take her back with you.”

Back with me was to the Greyhound Gang, a non-profit, tax-exempt organization dedicated to the rescue, rehabilitation and adoption of ex-racing greyhounds.  My Lady was nine, and had raced until she was four and bred puppies since then.

She needed to be bathed, defleaed and deticked.  She needed all her shots. She needed to be spayed and have over twenty-five teeth pulled.  When she came out of anesthesia, she tried to bite all the vet techs.  But she never tried to bite me.

She did fine with limited teeth, and she shined up really nicely.  She had her special spot in the living room, and her job as matriarch of all the other greyhounds. 

At this time I had four greyhounds at my home, waiting for me to find them their forever homes.  I decided to take them for a hike, on dirt roads away from traffic.  I could only handle three on leash.  My own two knew the routine, so I decided that I would chance Lady off leash.  I knew I was taking a chance as  I’d only had her with me for a week and a half.  And she was shy and easily spooked when she was in an unsure situation.  But she had definitely bonded to me, so I decided to give it a go.

We drove to our secluded pasture. As I opened the car door, she took a slow, tentative step on the dirt. Each leg placed very carefully. She looked around. She looked at me, and then she became possessed. This old girl became a young puppy, as her blue brindle body leapt into the air all around me. She danced circles around all of us – speeding up faster and faster as she did her dance.  Her tongue was hanging out, her few teeth were gleaming, and she was flashing her biggest smile.

That little girl stayed by my side for the two mile walk, except when she was doing her circle dance. We all laughed and played and reveled in our freedom that day.

A few months later, I brought Lady on a road trip with me to good friends, the Close's, in Wyoming.  On the night we arrived, she told me that she would like to stay there, for she climbed up on their sofa and made herself comfortable.  I cried the whole way home.  I knew she would be loved, but it was so hard to let a piece of my heart go.

They called today.  Lady is not well.  She has cervical spine damage, from all her years of service. They will have to let her go if they want to alleviate her pain.  I sit here at my computer, her picture in front me.  That white muzzle, the wide, wary eyes, the one ear that crossed over – and the nine years spent serving.  She only had six months of whirling and twirling and love.

 

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Dog Stars

I have always wanted to draw.

As a child, I started with coloring books. I had many Crayola boxes of different colored crayons, and I would happily complete one coloring book after another. Then I graduated to those color-by-number kits. I was good at following directions, and putting the color in the already created lines. I plastered my bedroom wall with horse and dog paint-by-number pictures.

Then my parents bought me books on drawing. They installed a big chalkboard in our garage, and I’d spend hours out there, drawing ovals, trying to turn them into horse heads. Or legs. Or bodies.  I did more erasing than drawing. The beauty of what I saw on the page never translated into what my hands were willing to do.

So I turned to writing. My first poem was published when I was in fifth grade. It was about Toesy, my cat with twenty-four toes.

As an adult, my writing abilities helped me create Greyhound Gang’s website. I’d been rescuing and adopting out hounds for a while, and their daily antics were amusing and touching. Observation would turn into stories.  Tiger, Winslow, Smiles, Blue and others, moments captured. These stories became part of the Greyt Angel sponsorship program, and helped raise funds to help more hounds. These stories are now available to all on Greyhound Gang’s Blog.

The website meant people could get access to information 24/7. It’s a boon for adoption efforts. I started to hear from people around the world.  “Who is Greyhound Gang?” “Who is Claudia?”

I wanted to find a fun way, while raising funds, to answer those questions. When I got involved with greyhounds, I met wonderful artists, who donated their art to help Greyhound Gang and many other groups raise funds to rescue hounds. I befriended them, not only because of their largess, but because of their large talents. Needless to say, I’m in awe of those that can draw. I still have hope, that through osmosis, maybe I will draw one day, too.

With the help of my artist friends, I attempted to answer the ‘Who’ questions by creating the text for a graphic novel – Ok, really a comic book.

My inspiration was the daily goings-on at Greyhound Gang. Six artists collaborated with me for that first issue – Dog Stars. It depicts the comical day to day funhouse at Greyhound Gang. The stealing of food off a counter, the hogging of sofas, the Pied Piper retinue into bathroom, computer room, bed – nothing is sacred.

This collaborative effort had a cover by Kim Parkinson of Turbospud fame. Inside art sections donated by Lynn Roick of Greyhound Pal, Julie Neidlinger of Lone Prairie, Kathy Hoynes of Greyhound Studies, Karen McDonnell of Golden Hound and Jen Zalewski of Jenz Studio

I tricked Kim & Julie into doing two more issues with me. Dogma I & II. It’s about how greyhounds are really aliens, come to save the world through Love. Where there is evil, they thwart it. Where there is love, they compound it. It all starts – “Far, far away, in a galaxy we can only imagine, lived a race of beings whose pure purpose was to love and spread love. Odd looking to some, with their pointed noses and long, pointed bodies, these beings were infused with the ability to give and receive love.”

My plans are to adapt a screenplay from it, for an Oscar winning animated film. I’m looking for an animator to befriend. Because all you need is love…and greyhound inspiration.

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I think this was printed in some issue of CG Magazine.

Conversations with Hounds

My head is enveloped in three down pillows and I’m being billowed with kisses from Chris Isaak. His guitar worn hands frame my embarrassed cheeks as his lips gently graze mine. Chris Isaak likes me, he really likes me is running through my head like a mantra. The gentle pecks turn into a full tongue lick from chin to nose, as my eyes fly open to see big brown eyes belonging not to Chris Isaak, but the long, fawn, furred face of my Beauty.

The sun is barely peering over the horizon, when her wet nose pushes its way into mine. My arms flail, as I roll over to other wide eyes peering at me, and tail thumping against covers. I roll back and look at the clock. Yep, never fails. It’s 6:00 am and time for us to get up. I roll back and throw my arms around Beauty, and Annie (whose nose is now peaking out from under the covers), giving them hugs and kisses.  “You guys are the best, you know how much I love you, can I sleep another few minutes please?” But it was too late by the time my eyes flew open, as now there are at least two more dogs at the head of the bed, grinning, and prancing cause they just know it’s time – time to go for a run.

So I roll out of bed, while the Mexican jumping beans start their morning salute, and my feet hit solid ground. “Easy, easy, give me some room,” I laugh, as they jam the door frame of my one person bathroom – licks and snorts, jostling feet, tapping out the dog code that the run is soon.

I drag myself to closet and throw on underwear, shorts and shirt. The whole time, my repetitive repartee “Easy, I’m going as fast as I can. Why don’t you go outside and wait for me? I need some room here, or we’re not going anywhere.”  When I grab the sneakers and socks – the ground vibrates as they drum their joy. They leap from couch to chair, and would tie my shoes for me if I’d give them half a chance.

I can’t help but laugh as they fly through the yard to the car – moving round and round, soon to melt into butter like Black Sambo’s tigers. “You guys are too funny,” I tell them over and over, as I shake my head.  Beauty in two big hops claims the front seat, Annie perches on the middle foam next to her. Winslow presses himself right against the front seats, and Marm goes to the back of the van – turning her head from side to side to not miss one thing.
 
We speed to our canyon, windows open, ears flying back against slick brows, gulping the palpable freedom this open window foretells. I open van doors, only to command them, “Wait”. And wait they do, still as rabbits cornered by prey, every muscle tense, waiting for the word -  “OK” And they leap out, running in hopeful rabbit directions. “Ok, everybody, this way” prompts them back to me, and past me. Shuffling, and sniffing as their day truly begins for them.  Their bodies talking as my mouth moves:

“Miss Marm, you are the best girl. You listen so well. You are so beautiful. Want to run up that hill?  Ok, on your mark, get set, go – ahhh gotcha – look at you up there, aren’t you something else.  Queen of the Hill! Be careful, not so fast. You are the best girl.”

 

 

“My most beautiful of beauteous potomuses. You OK, honey? Are you sure? Don’t run so fast, sweetie, take it easy. I know, you used to run farther and faster than Marm. You were the best. It’s a bitch getting old. But you’re still my most favorite girl, and my love for you runs deeper than any ocean, higher than any mountain – ok, I love that song too”

 

 

“Annie Bananie – go go go. You are too damn cute you little monster mash. Super girl, go go go.  Let’s go Annie, come on. Go Annie go. Go Annie go.”

 

 

 

 

“Winslow. WWWWWiiiiiinnnnnnsssssslllooowwwwww. Hey buddy, thanks for waiting for us. Appreciate that. You want a pet? OK. You are the best boy. Who loves you? Who do you love? Go on, go ahead you can check that out, just wait for us up there OK?”

As we make our turn, and head back for the car, my throat catches, my heart fills at the joy they get from just running for the pure pleasure. Marm, with her muscled, dappled butt gaining purchase as she scrambles up the red rock.  Winslow loping along, head high, ears back, always ahead of the pack. Annie doing her darts and figure eights. And Beauty always by my side; shaking her head at me, and kicking up her feet, we laugh together.

Car rides are another form of freedom. Heads pointed into the wind, ears, hair and eyes all slanted back with bodies and car moving forward. During the car ride back, it’s a stream of:
“Do you guys mind if I do a few errands?” What good dogs you are. Thanks for waiting, you’re so patient and sweet. Have I told you guys today how much I love you? “

 

These streams of words are always accompanied with touching. Hands rub noses, butts conveniently placed within scratching reach. Harder, higher, longer those moving butts demand. Annie’s driving comments – “you can, too, drive with one hand, the other belongs on me”.

I often wonder that if I spoke to my friends, lovers and family the way I speak to my dogs, what would their reactions be? If I spent my days telling them:

“Have I told you today how much I love you?”
“You are so gorgeous, I just can’t get enough of you. Look at me with those beautiful eyes, will you?
“You make my heart sing.”
“I just love you, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.”

If I said those things everyday. Over and over. To you. Would you start believing it? Would you say it back to me?  Could it, would it change the world?

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Tough Love -  SportNLove

Tough. Tough is a brood bitch.  They’ve seen it all; they’ve done it all.  Top of their game, and bottom of the barrel. 

Almost eleven, SportNLove had outlived her usefulness to her racing owners.  She made money for them for five years, and then bred winners for another five more. Too old to bred, and too old to race, they were going to kill her.  “Why keep her around?” were their feelings when she has nothing more to give. But this tough old broad wasn’t ready to stop giving even though she’d given her heart in racing and her soul with her babies.

 

But first, she still had to hang tough. She came to the Greyhound Adoption League flea and tick ridden, skinny, missing a toe, with rotten teeth, deteriorated gums and a huge lump between her shoulder blades. Over the next month she underwent a spay, a dental  - where every single one of her teeth were pulled, baths, shots, nails, ears and more. She also had the huge growth removed from between her shoulders that was deemed cancerous. Most didn’t think this girl would have much time left.

And yet this tough old broad just keeps continuing to amaze.  One day she’s on a cold, sterile operating table getting the last of her teeth pulled - her mouth a gooey, red, pulpy mass dripping slim.  And the next day, she is up and about and saying, “What is this day going to bring?”

She likes to start her days at 6 am.  She races into the bedroom and throws her paw with the amputee toe into my face.  Whining, she tells me the day has begun and the day is good.  Get up and seize the day. Stumbling out of my bed, I open the slider to shoo her out and crawl back to bed for another hour.  But SportNLove has started her day – with her romp on the grass, and her circles and leaps of joy, and her barking.  She has to tell you what she’s feeling, and so at 6:05 am I am back out of bed, and shushing her as I’m not sure the neighbors will understand her joyous morning expression of life.

 

We go for a walk every morning, and she sashays her swaybacked, arthritic body down the red dirt road.  If another greyhound decides to take a run, Sport is right there with him, telling him that she can hold her own, she’s always held her own, and no one is going to beat her at a game she knows so well and has played for so long.  But she’ll run right back to me when I call, barking again at me to say,  “See, I still have it, I can tell that youngster where to go”.

Taking car rides is another great pleasure.  She stands at the car door, and watches all the other greyhounds leap gracefully up into the back of the Isuzu Rodeo.  She looks up at me, and knows her only way in is through me, and she’s not going to be left behind.  I tried that once.  She actually outran my car down the full length of my driveway, beat me out the gate, and was pacing my car before I noticed this blur at the side of my car. I slammed on the brakes, shaking my head, picked her up and put her where she wanted to be – in the car with me.  Did I mention she doesn’t take no for an answer?

 

As befitting her age, stature and life travails, she is very insistent about what she wants whether it is riding in the car, or having you pet her.  She will literally hit you repeatedly with that amputated toe paw, until you realize it’s in your best interest to just do what she asks.  Love like that is hard to turn away.

Now grass, couches and sagebrush surround SportNLove, and she sleeps on a soft surface with a pillow under her head.  A tough old broad, who no longer just dreams about a chance for a softer life.

 

SportNLove Redux

Sport has hemangiosarcoma. Cancer. She can’t win this battle, but she is going to do her damnest living her last days at the Greyhound Gang.

She showed that old fighting spirit on the car ride home.  I rearranged the car with her comfort in mind, by putting all the luggage upfront, so she and three other greyhounds would have the total back of the van to stretch out in.  But she wasn’t having any of staying in the back with the other dogs. With some very pointed growls and snaps she told me in no uncertain terms that I was to haul all that luggage to the back, and put her in front with me, so she could ride the whole way with her head in my lap.

We spend a lot of time with her head in my lap. When she lets her exhaustion take over, we lay together with her pink, dry tongue hanging out the side of her toothless mouth. Me petting her, and she looking directly at me with those strong eyes.  Tears well up, unbidden, whenever I stop my day to give my attention to her. Her fighting spirit is still with her, but her physical body is losing this battle.  It’s as if she is carrying around an alien growth. It hangs hard and bulbous from the angle where her leg meets her chest. An alien egg that has attached itself, and keeps on feeding on her life force. And her life force is so strong, so the alien just gets bigger and harder.

Each morning when I take the other dogs for their morning run, Sport is right there, battling out the door to get to the car. This morning, she refused to go inside. She stumbled around the car, looking up at all the dogs, so full of life, and anxious for their run.  She stood there, pleading with me, whining at me to take her too. To put her in that car, and take her for a glorious run in the morning breezes. To just run one more time. It took me 20 minutes to cajole her into the house, where I closed off the dog door, and gave her some chicken stew to assuage my guilt in leaving her behind. She refuses to let life leave her behind.

 

And invariably, after I return from the run with the others, she walks over to the car. Very clear that she expects a ride.  And she gets one. Even it’s just around the block. I gently slip my arm around her front legs, trying not to pull and push the growth, and lift her up. Up where she belongs.
 
We had a bath today. She had that old musty smell that seems to follow death around. She let me pick her up and put her in the tub. She let me suds her down, and spray her with water. She leaned against me, as her weight started to collapse. Trusting me to not hurt her, to keep her up, to make it all all right.  My tears mixed with the hand held sprayer’s drops.

But Sport has no time for tears. She always knows what she wants. Like when she’s hungry. She hustles over to me, and puts her head insistently under my typing hand. She emits her ummm noise. A cross between a whine, and a bark. “Feed me NOW. Stop everything you are doing, and take care of me. Because I deserve it.”

So I go into the kitchen and start opening a can, she is right there watching my every move, knowing that she is first for the organic warmed chicken soup, the baked kibble, the well cut up cooked meat and the holistic canned food. She slops it all up, food particles clinging to the side of her face, and walks over to rub it off on me.

Last night, when the weather cooled down, Sport was outside snooping around. I called her name, and she awkwardly turned around, and then, totally unexpectedly, galloped towards me. At least that’s what she thought she was doing in her mind’s eye. It was more like a galumph towards me. The alien growth swinging and stretching, the back legs attempting to leap up, to propel her forward as she threw her head in the air, and she powered her way to my side. I dropped to her level, cradled her face in my hands as she looked straight at me with clear eyes, and tiny face. Her precious, almost 13 year young face, all white around the muzzle and eyes, but for the brindle and gray V distinctly etched between her two eyes. My mantra to her -  “You are so tough, Sport”, trying not to ruin her dignity and her joy with my sorrow. Because there is nothing that is going to stop this girl.

Except a huge growth that she carries as if it doesn’t exist. The ticking time bomb of cancer that will abscess, or will impede her movement so much that the decision will have to be made. I want to rip it off of her. I want to do voodoo to make it go away. I want to excise it from her. I cannot believe that this fighter is fighting her last fight, and it will be a losing one. I cannot stand to be so helpless in the face of death.

But she’s not leaving us yet. And in true Sport fashion, she lets the other dogs know. Tonight there was barking outside. I dashed through the door to see what the commotion was about. It was Sport. She was standing over a stuffed colorful teddy, and a huge knotted rawhide. She was telling the other dogs to stay away, because these treasures were hers and no one else’s.  And they listened, and so did I. She and I tossed that bone around outside – her doing her damnest to hold this 12 inch rawhide in her little, toothless mouth. She slept that night with toy and rawhide by her side.

 

 

Imminent death will not stop this girl’s spirit. She is what she is. Tough, demanding, clear in her needs and the battle she has fought to live. Huge growth be damned. And I can honor her daily, by honoring her spirit, her life and her will to live.