My Beauty

She came to me sick and nameless. One of nine ex-racing greyhounds that needed medical care and socialization before being placed in loving homes.

That first night I was hardly aware of her. For three hours, I stood in the bathtub of my two-room, garage apartment sudsing down eight flea and tick infested greyhounds. As the last one skuttled away from my slippery grip, I plopped, bedraggled and wet, on the sofa next to her.

"It's your turn, honey," I said, as I leaned in to pet her. She was burning up. The thermometer showed 105 degrees, and it was 11 p.m. on a small town Saturday night with no vet around.

Through the night, as I applied cold compresses to neck and feet, we talked about her new life. "You're designated to go to the home of a little old lady with a little old, white poodle", I told her. Hoping that the promise of life in a home would help her feel better. "And you need a name, sweetie," I said. "Probably a little old name like Princess… or Tiffany… or Beauty, will be your luck," I said ruefully. And at the sound of the name Beauty, she extended her paw and touched my arm. "Well, Beauty it is then," I smiled at her.I

We slept that night curled together on the couch. Three days later, after IV fluids and blood tests, she was diagnosed with tick diseases that affect her immune system. It's serious stuff when not caught early. I told her she wasn't going into a home until she was healthy. But Beauty knew better. She knew she had chosen her home.

Beauty and my life revolves around adopting out ex-racing greyhounds. We travel for hours to educate people about the wonders of greyhound adoption. Beauty sits shotgun, curled up, swooning with me to Chris Isaak. She doesn't move, bark or change the music. The car is her second home. And often if I leave a car door open too long, I'll find her curled up, having waited there for me, insisting that this is her place, and sooner or later we are going somewhere, and when we go, she is coming.

When Slim, my greyhound boy who moved from CT to Kanab with me, needed his spinal surgery, she was with me for the twelve-hour drive. When I was in intensive care with him for ten days, she sat quietly and without complaint in her home, the car. Just waiting and watching. In the hotel, night after night, she curled next to my pillow, offering me her constant solace, as we came to the realization that we were going to have to let Slim go.

Her liquid eyes follow my every move, my every motion. She knows what I am going to do, before I do. When I listen to her I see the world. She has pointed out to me that I use the word "OK", when I get off the phone, and it's a sure sign we're going somewhere. I can't open the closet door without her shadow right next to me, to see exactly what pair of shoes I'm putting on that will tell her what's going to happen next, and what facial expression she should assume. If it's the sneakers, then her jumping bean persona appears. If it's dress shoes, then her pleading look begs me to bring her. And flushing the toilet - a sure sign we're headed out. When I pull out my suitcases, she becomes glued to me, sure if she can just stay close enough, she'll get to come with me wherever I'm going. Once I even found her curled up, on top of half packed clothes, in the suitcase. Assuming I'd just close her up with the clothes, and she would go with me.

And though she never hesitates to tell me she adores me, she's not above playing the coquette when a man comes to visit. He'll sprawl on the sofa, and she'll glide onto the couch next to him, posing provocatively. Giving him her come-hither look, she gently taps him with her paw. "I'm here, look how beautiful I am. You can't resist me," she coos at him. And they never do.

We are two halves of a coin. Two peas in a pod. One soul. We speak in whole sentences to each other, though words are seldom needed.

Her unspoken constant reply, "This is my home, here, next to you...always."

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