Zephyr

Five years ago today, John and I adopted our first Greyhound: Zephyr. I really want to tell her story, but this is going to be difficult, because tears are running down my face and the screen is getting blurry.

I have loved all my dogs and have mourned the passing of all the dogs I have lost. Every dog is unique. Every dog has brought particular graces into my life.

But Zephyr was an Incomparable.

Mame was a Grande Duchess. Champers was a Good Soldier. Daphne was a Free Spirit. Britches, Portia were Princesses--as is Magic. Bingley is a Good Old Cowboy.

Zephyr was a Queen.

But when we were introduced to Zephyr at Greyhound Adoption Center, we had no idea that we were meeting Royalty. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her coat was dull. She did not look us in the eye. She wasn't even close to my idea of a Greyhound. She was BIG. She was dark--almost black--brindle. She didn't even let her ears flop sideways in the adorable way of most Greyhounds.

The first dog presented to us, she was totally lacking in animation, but leaned against me as other dogs were brought out for our consideration. While the other dogs romped and played, Zephyr just stood there, leaning.

I felt no connection, no attraction to her. But John and I looked at each other and said, "This must be the dog. The others are ignoring us."

We began to fill out the adoption papers when one of the other dogs came over and tried to tell us that we should forget the dull, over-sized girl and adopt him. But by that time, we couldn't reject the quiet, detached, but dignified creature we had named Zephyr.

This is her story.

Her racing name was Bella Rita Pita. She raced in Tuscon and was a winner. She was accustomed to beating the boys and coming in first. But time took its toll, and the first place finishings became less frequent. She was shipped to The End of the Line for American racing Greyhounds: Caliente in Tijuana.

Many rescue organizations do not bother with older, dark dogs, because they are the most difficult to place in adoptive homes. Fortunately, Greyhound Adoption Center gives these dogs a chance, and in October of 2004, Zephyr was rescued.

In January, 2005, Zephyr was adopted and became the companion of an older gentleman, who was in failing health. She spent her days by his side, watching television.

In early February the man's family became concerned when they had not heard from him for a few days. When they opened his apartment door, they discovered that he had been dead for at least two days. Zephyr was lying beside him, still keeping him company.

An experienced Greyhound adopter wanted to adopt Zephyr, but she had a cat, and Zephyr was absolutely NOT cat safe. So she went back to the rescue kennel and waited until June, when she was adopted again.

She became the third Greyhound in a household with two male Greyhounds. By mid-July, it was clear that no house was big enough for Zephyr and two other Greyhounds. Back she went to the rescue kennel, where she stayed until September 17, 2005, when we brought her home.

As we had been instructed, we took her on a tour of our house. She inspected the rooms, apparently looking for something. Finally, when she came to my study, she saw the television. She relaxed a little and hopped up on the love seat. She had found her spot and knew her "job". Whenever one of us watched television, we had a silent companion.

For six months, Zephyr was a quiet presence in our home. She let us know when she was hungry. She let us know when she needed a walk. She suffered raging diarrhea, but never had an accident in the house. She patiently ate the food we fed her until we finally discovered something that cleared up the diarrhea.

She was due for dental and blood work. She had to have eight teeth extracted, the result of years of being fed lowest grade beef--sometimes through a racing muzzle. We discovered that her thyroid function was almost non-existent. She was placed on heavy thyroid replacement. She began to shed, and shed and shed.

Meanwhile, she made friends during her walks. Neighborhood children ran out to greet her and she stood patiently as they petted her.

Then, one day, after she had lived with us for six months, she looked me in the eye for the first time. I realized that I had passed a test. From that day on, she let John and me know that we were her people. We were among the honored.

The shedding stopped. Her new coat was unique among Greyhounds, not only lustrous, but soft as duck down. The white of her tuxedo markings sparkled. Her eyes were clear and bright and her ears were always pricked and alert.

She walked with new confidence, treating each walk as a victory lap, accepting the admiration and praise of her fans. If we passed a house where some of her admirers lived and they failed to come out to greet her, she slowed and looked for them, not wanting to deprive anyone the treat of meeting her.

If she spied a friend walking toward her, she pranced and shook her head flirtatiously. Sometimes she did that with strangers who didn't know what to do about a VERY big, black dog accosting them in such a strange way. I would explain as best I could and encourage them to give her a pat or two. A Queen expects homage from her subjects.

I expected to grow old with Zephyr. She would have been a Grand Aging Monarch.

But it was not to be. Shorty after her second anniversary of living with us, she was struck with osteo sarcoma. She died as she had lived: with courage, dignity and style. That story deserves to be told. But I cannot bear to tell it right now.

Today, September 17 is a day for happy memories. The anniversary of the day Zephyr honored us by deciding to take a chance on us to be her humans.

Memories, 9-11-01

Shortly after 6am, Pacific Time, I was awakened by a phone call from my daughter, who lives in Mountain Time. I could scarcely absorb what she was telling me. New York City and Washington, D.C. were under attack. "Turn on the T.V., Mother!"

Not until I have walked the dog. I'll deal with it after I have walked the dog.

The dog was Daphne, our first rescue. The charming outcome of a mix of a Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier and a sight hound--Whippet or Greyhound, I was never sure. We had adopted her in April, 2001 and were quite unprepared for the "issues" of a dog who had been abandoned on the streets of L.A. as a puppy, who had been adopted and rejected by two families, and had spent two years in a rescue kennel. She wasn't eager to share anything, space or food. I had never before had a dog who was so possessive of toys, gathering them together, noticing if one was missing, guarding them as treasures.

In numb disbelief, I threw on some clothes, leashed Daphne, took her for an extended walk and reluctantly returned home.

I really didn't want to turn on the T.V. I really didn't want to know for sure what was happening on the other side of the country. But denial was too hard to maintain. I settled in for what turned out to be hours of unbelieving monitoring of horror. As I watched, tears blurring my vision, I felt a damp nudge on my leg. I looked down into Daphne's face. She was holding her most prized toy in her mouth, a well-licked peachy pink Dolphin that she had picked off a display the first time I took her to a pet supply store.

"Here. Take this. It always makes me feel better. It will make you feel better, too."

Daphne stayed right by me during that terrible day. And each time I gave way to tears, she brought another one of her treasures to me. She had given me her entire collection by the end of the day.

Happy Birthday, Bingley!

Today, Bingley is seven years old! He joined our family on February 16, 2008. We hadn't planned to get a second dog after acquiring Portia, but we quickly realized that a dog of Portia's energy, intelligence and deviousness needed a canine companion. Bingley was her perfect foil. Always ready to play. Always good natured about having toys stolen from him. Always ready to forgive and forget and start over.

Bingley survived the vicious attack that took Portia's life on July 7, 2009. His mourning for his lost playmate was heart breaking.

On November 20 of last year, Magic came to live with us. Poor Bingley was truly puzzled by her at first. He kept expecting Magic to act like Portia. But Magic is very different from Portia--every bit as feminine, every bit as devious, but lower energy and far more subtle.

She didn't know how to play with toys when she arrived. Slowly, Bingley taught her how. She has been an apt pupil. Just this morning, she stole Harvey, Bingley's rabbit, away from him and draped an elegant paw over Clyde the bear, just to let Bingley know who was boss. Good Old Boy Bingley let Magic have Harvey, but he did persist in pulling Clyde out from under Magic's paw. When Magic tired of Harvey, Bingley reclaimed him. No harm. No foul. That's our boy Bingley.

We hope and pray Bingley lives to a very ripe old age. If sweet temper is the key to longevity, he'll be around a very long time.

Happy, Happy Birthday, Bingley!

Welcome September

I think the Jews are on to something, celebrating the New Year in September. September always has the feel of a fresh start: the beginning of the school year--at least for those few remaining school systems that wait to take up classes until after Labor Day--and slightly shorter days, which give promise to the end of summer heat. Although this summer in San Diego County was wonderfully temperate, we remain vigilant for heat and winds. Our worst Santa Anas--and, Heaven Help Us, fires--usually come in late September or October.

John is on the mend, using a cane only for difficult maneuvers. He is accompanying Bingley, Magic and me on our nightly walks, although he isn't quite up to taking one of the leashes. Soon, though, I think he will.

Last week, Magic had her annual shots and complete physical with blood work. Her lab results were "perfect." She can put on an impressive display of anxiety, but she is a healthy doggie. For which we are very, very grateful. She continues to explore her inner princess. Who would believe that our opinionated little lady who insists on being first spent four years in an outdoor cage, exposed to summer heat and winter cold with no loving care? I'm beginning to think that her proper name is Lady Me Me.

Bingley continues to be Bingley. Sweet tempered but always ready to give chase. Our street has been occupied by a family of rabbits. It is one of the true sadnesses of Bingley's life that he cannot be permitted to fulfill his inborn destiny and pursue them all. But he is enjoying new super-tough toys: Harvey the Rabbit and Clyde the Bear. So far, both are living up to the claims made by the catalog, In the Company of Dogs. Magic occasionally pays Harvey and Clyde a little bit of attention by tucking them under her chin. Adorable.

Meanwhile the needs of our canine companions continue to challenge all of their human care givers and well wishers. Too many dogs are being bred. Too many humans acquire dogs without consideration for the basic responsibilities that come with dog ownership. Too many people thoughtlessly permit their dogs to roam off leash, risking the safety of their dogs, other people's dogs, and the humans that might happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Friends of Portia is back from summer vacation, ready once more to be a voice for sanity and responsibility in the care of that great gift to human beings: our sweet, funny, knowing, mysterious, courageous, forgiving, trusting, irreplaceable and sadly vulnerable dogs.

Blogging Hiatus

An explanation is in order for the hiatus in blogging.

I could explain that I am of French extraction and tout le monde knows that the French go on Holiday for the entire month of August.

But I've already mentioned that John had a knee replacement.

So. I have been exercising whatever aptitude I might have in the area of home nursing. The pups have made their adjustment to strange appliances and machines. And I have more respect than I can express for people who take care of infirm loved ones over protracted periods of time.

John is on the mend. But blogging will continue to be light for the month of August.

P.S. The other Big Event on August 6 was an expedition to the skilled nursing facility where John was receiving physical therapy before coming home. With the help of my friend, Zoe, Bingley and Magic paid a visit to John. They were well behaved, but I don't think anyone mistook them for trained therapy dogs. Thanks to Zoe for making the trip possible.

Happy Day!

I have been waiting for August 6, 2010 for some time. Just how long is hard for me to pinpoint. Let me explain.

Penny, my first dog, and Mame, Champers and Britches, John's and my first three dogs were pedigreed. Pure-bred dogs whose births were planned, who were well cared for while still in utero. Penny lived to within a month of her 16th birthday. Mame lived beyond her 16th birthday. Champers died "young" just shy of his 13th birthday as a result of an vicious attack 18 months earlier. Britches lived beyond her 16th birthday.

I had this crazy notion that a dog's normal life expectancy was 16 years.

Then we started to adopt rescues.

Our first rescue, Daphne, a Wheaten/Whippet--or, perhaps, Greyhound--was 3 when we adopted her. I expected to have her for 13 years. A few months after her 7th birthday, she hopped up on the love seat in the living room for an afternoon nap. Forty minutes later, John and I called her for a walk. She didn't move. She was already in rigor. I was still in shock over her loss when we adopted our next rescue.

Zephyr was 4 1/2 when we brought her home--a very large, dark brindle retired racing Greyhound. When she was restored to health, she tipped the scales at 97 pounds. She was a dignified, courageous dog. I figured that Zephyr would grow old with me. But she had the bad fortune to get osteo sarcoma--and died exactly one month before she would have turned 7.

Our next rescue was Portia, for whom this blog is named. Her life was cut short by a vicious attack. She had just celebrated her 4th birthday.

Now we have Bingley and Magic. We will never know Magic's exact age for certain. We have declared her birthday to be July 15, 2004, which makes her 6.

Bingley's birthday is tattooed in his ear. September 5, 2003. He will be 7 years old on September 5 of this year. Today, he is one day older than Zephyr was when she died. I have been waiting for this day. Perhaps, I will finally have a dog who will grow old with me.

I live in hope.

August 11 will be another important day for Bingley. It will be the 5th anniversary of his very first race. He won it. Poor baby wasn't even two years old.

We will celebrate today in a unique way. More on that later.

Happy Day, Bingley and Magic!

But, in many ways, every day with a rescued dog is a Happy Day.

With A Little Help....

Blogging has taken a week's hiatus because John had his left knee replaced last Tuesday. The good news is that he had a skilled surgeon who operates in a hospital that has a surgical floor dedicated to orthopedic and neurological patients. However, the hospital is at least 25 miles from our house. To get there, one must travel Interstate 5. Del Mar Racetrack is now running. It too, is accessed from Interstate 5, between our house and Scripps Memorial Hospital. I spent quantity, if not quality time on the freeway going back and forth to the hospital.

When planning for this past week, John and I quickly realized that we needed help with Bingley and Magic. Once more, we have reason to thank our lucky stars for Windsong.

A week ago, I delivered my treasured canine companions to the care of Mike, Michelle, and Jessica, knowing that they not only would have their basic needs attended to in a safe place, but that they would be given love and attention--and the treat that they enjoy above all others--the chance to run, run, run in a large fenced in space.

I have just brought Bingley and Magic home, freshly groomed and happy. Bingley has appropriated the preferred location on the love seat across the room from where I type. Magic has stretched out in the doorway, catching the soft cross draft from open windows.

Once again, I cannot recommend Windsong highly enough. Good friends of Friends of Portia recently boarded FOUR Miniature Dachshunds at Windsong for ten days. These are people who spent years without a real getaway vacation because they could not face putting their dogs in a regular kennel. Having Windsong for their dogs has changed all that.

It's wonderful to have Windsong there for travel and vacations. But, it is even more important to have them for stressful situations. Like major surgery!

John's surgery was a success. He's learning to use his spiffy new titanium knee. And I could be with him during this past week's events without worrying about Bingley and Magic.

I am very, very grateful.