Bloggin' dogs

With the curtain about to drop on 2005, I thought I'd take a breather from my usual rants to remember some of the really important things in life. Specifically, I'm talking about our little family.

For those of you who love animals for the companions and family members they are, I sadly report it's been a horrendous year here at the Dada household. For that reason, a few moments are owed to the memory of a lost "son" and "daughter".

I don't know if we're just lucky or there just aren't any bad dogs. I suspect, given the love and attention they deserve, the latter is the case, i.e., all dogs go to heaven. At any rate, despite only four experiences, I can honestly say we've never had a bad dog. In retrospect, I wonder why it took me and my wife 18 years to "start a family". Maybe we were just too busy before then.

While it was NOT my intention to include Susan here, I could not with clear conscience ignore her. She is the one who started it all. The smartest dog I've ever known. In all honesty, as much as I wanted a dog, a dalmation, after Susan came to live with us, there were moments I was overwhelmed by the tremendous obligation we had undertaken. I would sometimes ask myself, "Why?"

But I was lucky, for Susan had come to us with her own lessons to impart. And the most important one of all was about unconditional love. And in time, she taught me my trepidations at what had seemed the overwhelming responsibility we had undertaken were totally unwarranted.

It was in the autumn of 1989 we first took the plunge with Susan. Spunky remnant of a litter already picked over, we adopted the runt. I suspected we'd chosen something special from the tearful eyes of her owner as we departed with her.

I don't know where my desire for a dalmation came from. Maybe the movie. Maybe it was the Leakey's, those anthropologists in Africa, who--with the aid of their dalmations--explored the earliest beginnings of man. Maybe it was those Budweiser beer wagon commercials. Or just a combination of things I can no longer remember.

Shortly after joining us, we learned on a visit to the vet that dalmation's have a reputation for being "squirrely". But as the vet observed, "Susan doesn't seem to be the least bit." My wife and exchanged "funny" glances.

I could write chapters about this girl. With the vocabulary of several hundred words and abilty to understand sentences when those words were combined, Susan was far smarter than many humans admitted to voting booths in this country. She set the bar high for all others who would follow her. When she left us shortly before her tenth birthday, a huge hole in our world opened up. Susan had made our world a better place to live.

For those of you still reading, thanks for indulging me. As I said, I'd no intention of including Sue here, but not to would have been unforgiveable. What follows is what I'd originally set out to do. To remember our family in 2005. And commemorate them as they celebrated us while here.

Somewhere in the late 90's we became aware of greyhounds. Of the racing industry that exploits 'em. So after the departure of Susan, it was only natural we explore these beautiful animals further. Almost five months later, "Pony" (track name, Maricopa Pomo)--our little horse--moved in.

I think the thing that hit me most about greyhounds was the realization that they are not "normal" dogs. For the first 3-5 years of their lives, they have lived in cages. Their entire existence was solely at the whim of an industry who sees them as profit or loss generators for their owners, trainers or tracks. Greyhounds are not sure what "being a dog" is.

Maybe that's why we found Pony's quirkiness so irresistable. Maybe it was a piece of ear she was missing. Maybe it was her quiet, unassuming thievery of a pig's ear in the pet store where we first saw her. Whatever, we were hooked.

With greyhounds fresh off the track you sometimes get the feeling when you pet them, you're bothering 'em. Unaccustomed to so much human attention, we've enjoyed watching 'em grow, to become normal dogs, and to WANT our petting, attention, and love.

We got the impression, however, Pony was lonesome that first year and a half with us. One day, we brought home a female dalmation companion we'd found at the pound. Apparently I missed the point from our walks that Pony hated dalmations. I thought it was just one in particular in the neighborhood she detested. But after a few days with her new "sister" we learned her hatred extended to the entire breed. Sadly, our dalmation was returned.

Enter Cooper a couple months later, a gorgeous black and white grey whose parents we learned were being transferred to England. More cautious this time, we drove Pony up to spend an afternoon with Cooper as guests at his house. It worked. Pony acquiesced!

Cooper was pure delight. He lasted four years with us. (He was almost six when he joined us.) Watching him "grow" into our family is a memory we'll always treasure. It was his passing this past May that spurred me to dedicate this blog in his memory. But trust me, the anger I vent on these pages couldn't be further from his loving, shy, and comforting nature. Most times, my demeanor on these pages violates Coop's. For that, I ask, "Forgive me old boy, for being so un-Cooper."

Finally, the tragedy of 2005 rounds out with the loss of dear, sweet Annie. She left us unexpectedly in mid-November. Annie was testament to our inability to successfully foster a greyhound until she could find a permanent home. The day of her adoption, the paperwork done, delivery to her new home made, neither I nor my wife could let her out of the car. Annie'd hopelessly stolen our hearts.

Annie was never a racing greyhound. In fact, her early history is a mystery. She was a stray who ended up in the pound, was rescued by the local greyhound adoption agency, adopted out and returned five years later when her family could no longer care for her. That's when she entered our home and our lives.

Cooper took to her immediately. Pony was slower to accept her. Collectively they made a complete family. Nightlights sprang up all over the house. Annie, having never been in the racing industry, helped the other two become dogs. She taught them to be more playful. She taught them to howl. Sadly with her departure last month, there's only three of us now and sometimes we have to remind Pony of Annie's legacy she so enjoys, i.e., the three of us just have to have a good howl.

And so, as we reflect back on 2005, politics pale compared with our real losses. Pony, the last dog standing who's more cat-like than dog, is often here by my side as I construct these pages. She's become whitefaced herself with the years. She doesn't steal a shoe or the car keys like she used to. What she has done, however, is inherit 7 dog beds, all the toys and Annie's stock of frozen special diet boneless and skinless chicken breasts.

Oh, and something else Pony's inherited? All the love formerly heaped on three dogs. Pony's handling this "inconvenience" better every day.