It was 1987. My East coast corporate life was all-consuming. Up at 5 am, walk dog, shower, dress, an hour of travel, work 10 – 12 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, 10 years old, 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 tree. This was how she was going to enjoy our vacation. Shaking my head, I started to follow her. Just then, a white industrial van pulled up. Two of the skinniest, most stylish, and stunning creatures peered out as the van doors opened. I ran over, reached out and ran my hand over a soft, sharp face. I bent down to breathe nose to nose, and then lifted her head so her eyes met 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 three room apartment, without a fence and with a landlord who 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 later, 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. After lasagna and 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 more than 20 greyhounds. I’d explained to Paul that the greyhound for us had to be special because Jezebel was 10 and the queen. She was becoming less tolerant of other dogs as she aged, and I wanted to make sure the other dog wouldn’t challenge her place. This dog also had to be quiet, because I didn’t want my landlord to have any reason to say no.
Paul told me he had a guy for me, Eliminator. Eli. A four-year old brindle boy. Eli was very hesitant when I met him, plastering himself against the back of this cage. I thought, I don’t think he’ll do. I insisted Paul show me every 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 kowtowed to her from the first moment. She 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 spooked those first weeks. The first few days, he chose to sleep in the bathroom, the smallest room in my tiny apartment. The only time I got him out of the bathroom on this 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 then curiosity got the best of him, and he came 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…fell in love with Eli at first sight.
By the fifth week, Eli had become my buddy. Everywhere I went, he went. He was my quiet, 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. Six years later, I quit my corporate job, sold everything I owned, drove across the country with Slim and Hoser, and started Greyhound Gang in 1995 in Kanab, Utah. Jezebel and Eli are with me in spirit. I’ll always remember my first.
To read more about our journey to Greyhound Gang, here are letters I wrote to friends when I traveled cross country.