Goin' to the dogs......

I'm so in need of a respite from the bullshit of this Rove thing. Just when you think there's a chance we might get this slime mold off our backs, it looks like he may weasel his way out of another tight spot. But there'll be plenty more to say in the days ahead as another rotten episode unfolds around him. For now, however, I'll focus on a sweet diversion.

Okay, I should explain. This site was begun in part because of the sudden, unexpected loss of "Mister" Cooper in May. He was a gorgeous, sensitive greyhound, a rescue dog off the Tucson racetrack. (His picture is the very first entry on this blogsite.) Mr. Cooper had a very long snout and I would sometimes tease him how his nose was probably responsible for him placing in more than a few races.

We still have two greyhounds remaining. A nine year old female, also retired from Tucson. Her racing name was Maricopia Pomo. I honestly don't know where breeders come up with the names like that for these dogs. I really wish they'd just stop breeding these gentle animals and let the industry die. But so long as greyhound racing continues, a need to place these great companions in homes will exist.

I only went to the dog races once years ago. It was a transgression before I was enlightened. Seems to me, trying to remember that experience, a greyhound race happens pretty fast. That's why I can't imagine naming a racer Maricopia Pomo. Like the race would be over before the announcer could get her name out. Maybe he just calls 'em by their numbers during the race, "And in second is Six, followed closely by Eight in Third." Something like that. I don't know.

Well, it was obvious Maricopia Pomo would never work as a permanent name. I imagined her getting off her leash and out in the street. In the path of an oncoming United Parcel truck or something. In a panic I would anxiously scream, "Mar-I-Cop-pee-ah--'Honk'--Screech--*THUD*--SPAT--Oh Shit!!!" See? A shorter name is definitely a healthier name.

And so it was. Upon her arrival at our home almost six years ago, Maricopia Pomo became "Carol." Truthfully? It was a name I'd picked out for our next dog months, maybe years, before she ever arrived. A day or two with us and I realized, she was no Carol. "Carol" was a small, fast, and quirky girl and after spending a short time with her, the obvious name for her suddenly manifested. The "Pomo" part of her track name became "Pony." It was a natural fit. She's our little horse.

Pony is also my co-author. She often is beside me as these thoughts unfold on the computer screen. After nearly five years, Pony has become a permanent indention on the consciousness of both me and my wife. She's still as quirky as ever and, while she'd be the last to admit it to anyone, has become extremely attached to us and her life among the family.

Living within a mile or so of the baseball park, tonight we'll face another challenging evening with Pony. Why? Fireworks are on the post-game agenda. So around 9:30 or 10:00, the house will vibrate with the sounds of TV's, CD's and radios. All to mask the sounds of explosions that so upset ol' Pony. She'll be okay because that's a little trick taught to us by her now departed brother, Cooper. Our retired racers seem to be hypersensitive to such perturbances of the norm.

I was going to also mention our other "daughter" Annie herein. But I seem to have run on about Pony. Better save Annie for another day. Annie, although a greyhound, never raced a day in her life. I'm not sure if that was "lucky" for her, or her misfortune. She, too, has a checkered past. But that's for another blog, another time. We'll get back to Annie. Just as we'll get back to Karl Rove.