The paws that refresh us
My life has gone to the dogs and it’s not because of the Spokane Valley City Council, the Sprague/Appleway Revitalization Plan fiasco or the disincorporation folks, it’s because I own two Italian greyhounds. This, in and of itself, isn’t a feat of wonder and amazement; it is, however, delusional. The truth is these two Italian greyhounds own me, lock, stock and dog biscuit.
Lucky and Sam are adopted, which means they came to me with all their bells and whistles attached. Unlike our city council, that’s a good thing. They’re constant companions who, without prompting, spur constant questioning. “Whippets?” is a familiar question. “Greyhound puppies?” is another. This, in and of itself, isn’t bothersome, for the two enjoy embellishing their approximately 2,000-year history of being lap/bed/pillow/couch/comfy chair canines who inhale every morsel of food by popping up their ears in true flying nun fashion as if to say, “What kind of stupid question is that?”
Their physique is slender, face regal, eyes mischievous; and woe to the newly IG owner who thinks otherwise. This breed is not easily house trained – the vast tundra of the backyard is too cold or too warm; too wet or too dry; too hard or too soft – similar to a honey-do list, it’s endless. Fortunately, my dogs’ bell-and-whistle baggage are in sync with the carpet; they have yet to have an accident. They do, as I recently discovered, bleed, profusely at times, from any small knick or cut on their thin-skinned, no-body-fat frame.
Such was the case recently when I arrived home from work. My husband, Bill, was filling out reports on his computer and the boys were canvassing the backyard in search of pesky critters that go bump in the night. Upon hearing the door close they ran into greet me.
“How are my boys?” I asked and looked down at Sam. Blood covered the kitchen floor in small pools. “OMG! Someone’s bleeding,” I screeched to Bill. “And it’s … Lucky!”
Papers flew into the air, the computer came close to meeting its maker (that being Dell), as Bill ran to scoop up his boy. A toenail hung from the end of his paw. Not a whimper, not a whine, just Lucky looking at us as if we were absolutely nuts.
Bandages were brought out and although, in the day our hands were quick and nimble when wrapping a canine injury, we flopped and floundered with Lucky’s itty-bitty paw while he sat in mute observation. Thirty minutes later Lucky was losing patience, jerking his paw back and gnawing on Bill’s hand. Finally the bandage was wrapped with precision, only to fill with blood when he took a few steps.
Oy vey.
Off to the vet, but the mythical dinner bell that rings in every dog’s ear at a specific time every gosh-dang day was ringing loud and clear for Lucky and Sam. “Should we feed them first?” I asked. Their ears popped up. . “Let me rephrase that,” I said slowly. “We should feed them first.”
With dinner devoured and everyone loaded in the car, off to Manito Vet Clinic we went. Lucky managed to rip out his entire nail from the nail bed; the reasons, much like the disincorporation movement, are a mystery. Two visits and $106 later, he was sporting a handsome purple wrap on his paw (very complimentary to his coloring) and had to skip his evening walks for a week.
Unlike the Sprague/Appleway Revitalization Plan fiasco, there’s an ending to this story. Later that night, I picked up all of Lucky’s 11 pounds and held him close. He sunk into the hug like warm butter. The purple club that was now his paw lay gingerly on my collar bone as he closed his eyes and fell asleep. Sam, who in the six months he’s lived with us, can challenge the antics of “Marley and Me,” stared up at my face, his tail wagged like a dog that had free rein inside a meat factory.
I knew then that my life, indeed, had gone to the dogs, but no matter the money or blood, it was worth it.