Duffy's First Gotcha Day! Life is Good

It's been a year today since I got to bring Duffy home.  He has come a long way, has learned a lot, and has taught me a lot in the last 12 months.  I'd like to write about some of those lessons, but it's getting late and I just spent an hour trying to upload pictures to the GreyTalk forum, so I'm just going to post them for now and will write more later. 

Duffy got an extra special stuffie for his big day  .... finally, his very own SQUIRREL!!!

No, it wasn't a live squirrel, much as he'd like to have one, but one with SIXTEEN squeakers ... the next best thing to live!

I believe he's giving me his "mom, this is SO cool" look here:

He tried to ignore it, like it was no big deal for a while ...

... but that didn't last long, then it was right back to some serious playing.

And then finally he settled down for a nap with his new buddy.

And the whole time, Canoodle couldn't have cared less.  He was too busy hiding in the kitchen from all those scary storms.

A Graceless Season or a Chance to Notice Small Blessings?

[Just logged in for the first time in months and found this entry.  Obviously it's not a timely post, but one that still feels relevant to me.  I'm happy to report, though, that the winter, while long already, hasn't seemed as oppressive as I felt it might be in the fall.]

Several days ago I mowed my lawn for what may be the last time this season.  The last few mowings of the season usually make me sad because I enjoy this outdoor chore.  It's a chance to disconnect from thinking and just do what needs to be done.  The noise of the mower drowns out other noises and lets my mind wander.  The physical activity is a good chance to loosen my muscles that stiffen after days and hours behind a desk.  My soul even rejoices in the chance to be a caretaker of a very small part of God's creation.  But when daylight shortens, temperatures dip, and grass stops growing, besides meaning I won't have the pleasure of mowing, it also means I'll be shut up inside for several months.  Even being the homebody that I am, I do enjoy getting out and enjoying nature, and the approaching winter feels like a punishment looming on the horizon. 

In the last couple of weeks when the weather has permitted, I've also tried to sneak in some good walks with the dogs, knowing that before long neither they nor I will want to be out any longer than absolutely necessary.  This too was making me sad.  I enjoy the benefits of walking them - time to soak up the beauty of God's creation, a chance to meet and chat with neighbors and friends, and the opportunity to give the dogs something I know they really enjoy.  We have had a summer and fall of long walks, morning and evening, as much as possible, for 30 minutes to an hour at a time.  These outings have truly been good for me, body and soul,  and I've been dreading the end of them, even for a season.

Overall, I've had a nearly overwhelming sense of doom and despair with this coming winter, feeling like it just may crush me, and I don't know why.  I used to enjoy winter, but with the last several years have enjoyed it less and now have switched over to actively disliking it.  The fear of a bad-weather accident, the pain that the cold sets into my joints and connective tissue, the short, dark days ... all these feel like too much to bear.  The added realization that I may never have another spring or summer or fall with Canoodle doesn't help.  He seems to be continuing his downward spiral with his muscles slowly disappearing.  He is such a sweet, gentle, happy soul that the thought of no longer having him in my life is crushing.

Yet, as I was thinking these thoughts, I realized that I needed to focus not on what I may or may not be about to lose, but instead on what I've enjoyed and what I can continue to enjoy one day at a time.  None of us is guaranteed another day, another season, another year.  We have only this moment, and I'm determined to do all I can to soak up as much of each one as possible, not regretting the past or looking forward to a future that is unsure.  True, the future may not be what I'd consider ideal; however it is just as likely or more so, to hold unforseen good things and I do not want to waste the present imagining bad things that likely won't even happen.  So, as the days get shorter and I spend less time enjoying the great outdoors, I'm going to make every effort to not focus on the graceless gray of winter, but instead to be conscious of and truly thankful for all the little blessings of each day. 

Forgiveness and Other Blessings

Because of my work schedule - filled with recurring events and meetings scattered throughout each week of each month and the fact that there are only two of us to run a busy office - I can't often take a week off at a time.  Instead, I take most of my paid time off on random Mondays and Fridays when I can do so with as little impact on the schedule and my co-worker as possible.  Today was one of those scheduled days off.  I was looking forward to a slow, easy start to a day that I envisoned including a cup of coffee, some yoga stretches, a nice, long walk with the dogs, a few chores, and finally sending my book draft out to a couple more potential publishers. 

But, as soon as I walked into the kitchen to fix the dogs' breakfast, my day took a detour.  As I looked down to admire the clean kitchen carpet I'd scrubbed on Saturday, I noticed a large urine spot.  So, as soon as I got the dogs out, back in, and fed, rather than heading for the coffee maker, I went for the rug scrubber.  I was less than thrilled to be repeating this particular chore within 48 hours of a routine scrubbing, but I couldn't really be mad at the dogs.  First, I didn't know which one had done it ... the incredibly sweet, old, failing one or the new, rambunctious one who hasn't yet learned all the rules or mastered self control but who has definitely laid claim to my heart.  And second, even if I did identify the perpetrator, I knew that he most likely couldn't have helped but have the accident because, in addition to their individual challenges, I had slept in past their normal going out time, so I couldn't deny my complicity in this canine faux pas.

As I scrubbed, I couldn't help but notice the similarities between this situation - having to clean up the mess, forgiving the dogs, not loving them any less, but realizing that this detour from the day's plans might mean they'd miss out on the extra-long special walk I'd planned - with how God deals with our sin.  He understands our weaknesses that lead to our sins.  But because He is holy and can't come in contact with anything that is less than spotless without destroying it, the sin must be cleaned up out of our lives.  He blesses us with forgiveness by providing the sacrifice of His son to clean up our messes and restore us to a right relationship with him.  But, He still lets us live with the consequences of our sin, which sometimes means we miss out on blessings He had in store for us.  This doesn't mean He won't bless us in other ways at other times, but that we will miss out on something special He wanted to share with us. 

I find this comparison both inspiring and comforting .  It's inspiring because it makes me want to live in a way so as not to disappoint Him and miss out on all the blessings He wants to share with me.  And it's comforting because it reminds me that when I inevitably do mess up, there's nothing I can do and no mess so bad that it will make God stop loving me because His love doesn't spring from what I do, but from who I am ... His child.  Thinking of God as a loving parent helps me begin to understand how He can possibly do the things that seem difficult or impossible in adult-to-adult human relationships.  His mercy (not giving us the punishment we deserve) and grace (giving us blessings we don't deserve) can be hard to imagine us imitating and passing along to adults who we view as having wronged us.  But, what loving parent could deny those gifts of love to their own children?  So, I try to remember that not only am I a child of God, but so are the people around me and God's love, forgiveness and other blessings extend to them just as they do to me. 

Sometimes our veterinarian, when coaxing one of the dogs to him in an exam room, will warmly say, "Come here, child."  The love and compassion in his voice are unmistakeable.  Compassion is "a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering".  This definition and the vet's very real demonstration of compassion help me better understand God's love and desire to alleviate the suffering we endure when we separate ourselves from Him by our sin and our misunderstanding of Him as a cold and vengeful God.  When I think of Him as a loving parent, I can't wait to obey the command, "Come here, child" and can feel myself wrapped in His love.

Greyt Gains and Losses

While each of my adopted greyhounds has given me many gifts by their loving companionship, the joy of living they exude, and the friends they introduce, they have also each required that I let go of certain things.

Aristotle made me fall completely in love with the breed. After research, it seemed the perfect choice for me on paper, but it wasn't until I finally got to adopt my first greyhound that I knew how perfect they were.  After a slow start to the adoption process, bringing Ari home and getting him settled in was a breeze.  He fit in to my life incredibly easily.  He joyfully welcomed me home from work and was always a ready and willing walking buddy, but he was also just as content to curl up and nap with me on a lazy weekend afternoon.   He helped me meet many people in our neighborhood who I'd never had the chance to talk with before.  He never gave me any trouble in the form of acting out or destroying things.  But, he did teach me that I'd have to let go of my long history of keeping my car spotless.  I traded a clean interior for one with dog hairs that wove themselves into the fabric on the ceiling (I could only protect so much with the throw on the backseat), and clear windows and shiny doors for ones with drool marks inside and out.  But I was amazed at how easily I said and truly meant that I didn't care because as much as I wanted a clean car, I loved my dog considerably more.  It was somewhat shocking to realize how easily I could give up a long-standing belief (that I'd be happy with my car only if I kept it spotless) and put the work of maintaining it behind me (no sense spending hours a couple of weekends a month anymore when a quick go-over would keep it "good enough").  And I was thrilled to have a concrete lesson in how my own thinking could hold me prisoner and the incredible freedom I could enjoy by changing the way I was thinking.  Of course, I knew this in the past, but had never before been successful in truly putting a change of thinking so thoroughly and nearly effortlessly into practice.

Bringing Bella home was a little tougher transition.  She was sweet (to me, not always so much to Aristotle;  she asserted her dominance over him quickly), but she was a bit shy, anxious, and skittish.  She seemed not to totally trust people or let her guard down for some time.  She made me relinquish my mistaken belief that all adoptions and transitions would be as easy as Aristotle's had been.  But she was funny.  She made me laugh a lot.  From the way she surprised herself playing the piano with her needlenose one day, to the way she bounced rather than walked, to the way she'd carry my slipper socks around the house and curl up with them to sleep (she'd never chew them, only place them on the bed next to her).  She taught me that with patience, understanding, and extra doses of love, she would eventually warm up to anyone.  Sadly, not long after both she and I learned this lesson, she was diagnosed with osteosarcoma and I had to have her euthanized in just a week because her pain was not controllable.  But even in her death, she had another lesson for me, which was that while I wouldn't like it, I would survive the crushing pain of losing her.  I had worried for as long as I'd had Ari that when his time came, it would seriously challenge my ability to keep my tendency toward depression under control.  While her death was difficult, I learned how to deal with it and was finally convinced deep down that I would always be able to deal with losing my greys, even though it would never be a choice I would want to make.

Canoodle was another easy transition.  Within seconds of our meeting, he was nuzzling my leg and I knew I'd found another friend for life.  Although capable of short bursts of energy, he is the quietest, most calm grey I've had.  He's so quiet that he doesn't even bark when he needs to go out ... he'll just come look at me until I get the message.  While my other dogs have lived up to the 40-mile-an-hour-couch-potato description of greyhounds, Canoodle is even more laid back in his couch-potato-ness.  The only time he does get agitated is when a storm is coming.  About a week and a half after I adopted him, we had a typical summer thunderstorm and the poor guy shook so hard that the floorboards vibrated.  I talked with the vet and we tried doggie valium, but it didn't help significantly.  When storms hit, I talk to him calmly and reassure him that he's fine and that the storm can't "get" him, but he doesn't return to his normal self until the storm passes. Over the years, he's come to tolerate storms a little better, but he still hides in either the bathroom or between the kitchen cabinets and the island (the two darkest places he has access to) whenever there's a distant rumble.  Observing his storm phobia has made me realize how utterly useless the human worry I am prone to be paralyzed by actually is, and now when an attack of anxiety over some (usually un-worry-worthy) thing or another hits, I am making an effort to remind myself that, as a child of God under his protection, the storms of life can't truly hurt me either. 

Canoodle has also taught me the effectiveness of passive resistance and made me give up my own misperception of control.  To deal with his current problem of muscle tone loss, the vet advised I walk him as much as possible.  Sometimes he gets as far as the door or the end of our front walk and won't go any further.  That I deal with by returning him to the house if I can't convince him, after a couple of tries, to go any further, and then continuing on the walk with Duffy.  However, sometimes Canoodle will agree to keep walking, but refuses to go the way I want to and freezes in the middle of the street until I go the direction he wants.  Most of the time this is no big deal; I look at walks as enjoyable time in nature and just enjoy the time outside.  Plus, I figure he's old and not feeling well and should get his way as much as possible as long as it's not hurting himself or anyone else.  But sometimes, I've really wanted to go a particular way, but Canoodle would have none of it.  Most of the time, when I've given in and followed him, I've been blessed by something I wouldn't have encountered had we taken another path:  a beautiful sunset I wouldn't have had such a great view of, a chance encounter with a friend, or the opportunity to answer a stranger's questions about greys.  (It's still surprising to me how many people I meet and get a chance to introduce greyhounds to this way and I'm always excited by the possibility of helping another potential adopter learn more about the wonders of life with a greyhound.)  By his silent protests, he's helped me see how you can quietly, calmly influence someone for the better, much more effectively than by more noisy methods, and how letting go of control can open you up to unexpected blessings.

Duffy has once again provided me with a challenging transition.  He's the first dog I've had straight off the track (with only a layover at the vet's while his broken leg healed), who's had zero experience living in a home.  So, we've had to balance the joy of his newfound freedom with learning what's acceptable to play with and what's off limits: stuffed squeaky toys, nylabones, and frosty paw treats are all okay to play with, chew, and destroy; library books, bottles of dishwashing detergent, cell phones, furniture legs and throw pillows, not so much okay.  But just as he's had to learn what he's not allowed to have, I've been reminded what I should be more vigilant about putting away and not leaving out to tempt him.  I've also learned that I can do without a lot of stuff that I used to value.  Granted, some of it I wasn't sure I was ready to part with (especially the cell phone that was my only phone and a model I really liked), but I can nonetheless live without it and am remembering more often to focus on what is truly important - relationships over things any day.  When I stopped in the vet clinic a few weeks ago to refill Canoodle's prescriptions, one of the techs I've talked a bit with about Duffy asked how he was doing and if he'd destroyed anything lately.  When my answer was basically something to the effect of "nothing important", she commented that he was lucky that I was an experienced greyhound adopter, that some people would have given up on him by now.  To be totally honest, the thought has fleetingly crossed my mind a few times, but in reality, I know I won't give up on him.  He's come so far toward being a model pet very quickly that I just know that he'll be a good pet for a long time.  And, while it's a lot of work to keep up with what amounts to a puppy mentality in a full-grown, 75-pound body, I've been rewarded with the joy of seeing the world and all the exciting possibilities it has to offer through his new, eager-to-explore-and-learn eyes, which at times makes me feel young again too.

While like most things in life, living with retired greyhounds has both advantages and challenges, I wouldn't trade the experience for anything and consider the losses to be far outweighed by the blessings.

Aging Gracefully

Canoodle will be 10 years old next month and he's an absolutely gorgeous greyhound. I'll admit to being just a wee bit prejudiced, but that doesn't make it any less true. About a year after I adopted him, while we were waiting to check out from a routine exam, our vet came into the lobby, looked across the room at him and said "that is a beautiful greyhound". And this man knows greyhounds ... many of them. So I don't hesitate to say that Canoodle is quite the specimen of his breed. His coat is fawn, which fades to white on his face, feet, and stomach. His long tail curls into a graceful upward sweep and when he's really happy, he whips his whole tail around in circles, helicopter style. He is the embodiment of the word lithe ... characterized by easy flexibility and grace. And his "personality" is beautiful; calm, quiet, patient and sweet. Because I have adopted, to date, four greys and have known many others, I understand that all of these characteristics can be pretty much universally applied to greyhounds and that they're all wonderful in their own way, but Canoodle outshines them all when it comes to pure beauty, inside and out.

Quickly over the course of a few weeks this summer though, he has gone from lean, lithe, and beautiful, to gaunt, which Webster's defines as "excessively thin and angular often as a result of suffering". The change started this spring, after the death of Aristotle, my first adopted boy. At first the vet thought it was the effect of grief, which would have been understandable, and fit his symptoms of not eating well and not being as active as normal, but otherwise looking and appearing healthy in a routine exam. As I've learned that most things greyhound require some time and adjustment, I was accepting that he just may take longer than I expected to grieve, even with the addition of a new 3-year-old, just-off-the-track brother whose major success in aiding the grieving process seemed to be keep me constantly on my toes and too busy, exhausted, and amused to be sad. (Okay, so I guess that means he was succeeding with me and the grieving process, but more about Duffy later.) But my relief that the problem was not physical came to a crashing halt a few weeks later when, on one of our daily walks I noticed that Canoodle was limping, a red flag to anyone who's lost a beloved grey to osteosarcoma (bone cancer) ... and I'd just lost my second one to the dreaded disease. So, back to the vet we went, to find out that Canoodle has a neurological problem which is causing his muscle tone to deteriorate as if he were closer to 15 years of age, rather than not quite 10. With the help of muscle relaxers, pain medicine, and as much walking as he'll tolerate, he seems to have finally, at least stopped declining, even if not getting any better. In those first few weeks it seemed that if he continued on the same path, he would disappear right before my eyes. He'd always been very thin and not a hearty eater, so his newfound nearly total lack of interest in food and muscle tone loss reduced him to little more than skin and bones quickly.

But none of what he's dealing with has changed his beautiful, sweet nature; and, even though he's not as physically beautiful as he once was, he's still just as beautiful to me. I'm sad to be reminded by his appearance that he'll never again be as stunning looking, but worse, he may not be with me much longer. Nonetheless, I am encouraged and uplifted by the grace with which he carries himself. If he's really inspired, he'll still run through the yard with Duffy, looking strong and majestic; but even on walks where he's slower and you can see his back leg twist in slightly with each step, he moves with a quiet, dignified grace. At first we were lucky to accomplish a 20-30 minute walk a couple of nights a week, but now he's up to a 30-40 minute walk every morning and most evenings. Although his gait has changed from his once graceful appearance of floating along on air to a much more labored plodding, he keeps going and seems to enjoy his time outside as much as ever. He doesn't "complain" on walks even when he's clearly uncomfortable, like the morning he had a pebble lodged between the pads of one paw. He kept on walking for the several steps it took me to realize where that clicking noise was coming from, stop to inspect his paws, and remove the stone. He also doesn't whine around the house, something my other greys have done on occasion even when they were healthy. Even though he winces about half the time when someone pets him, he still comes up for attention. He seems to accept what's happening to him without fighting it by letting the pain make him irritable. He is being, as I should have expected from him, the perfect model of aging gracefully, albeit prematurely. He is being an excellent reminder to me that, while I too live with frequent pain and exhaustion that makes me feel way older than my years, I don't have to give in to feeling sorry for myself, whining about it, or let it make me cranky. My new goal is to be as graceful as Canoodle as I go plodding along myself.