Honey, If This Is Home Then I’m Definitely Not Home


For whatever reason I thought that vacuuming and spiffing up the house would somehow make me a better candidate for adopting a retired Greyhound. As if  the hound would magically roll in for a white glove inspection and, once pleased, joyously flop down and declare, “Honey, I’m home!” 

No surprise, the inspector woman showed up exactly on time. And she brought a dog, a beautiful girl named Chloe.  I was concerned about Llewis, my cat, but I was assured that Chloe was fine—she lived with cats and had close to zero prey drive.

I invited Chloe and the inspector to come in. Both were very tall, thin and polite. Llewis? Not so much. Llew took one look at Chloe and did what any self respecting feline would do: he hissed, he puffed up and he growled. Fair enough. This all falls into the realm of normal.

The inspector wisely guided Chloe into the other room. Chloe then sat, calm, serine, sweet and pointy nosed while Llewis followed. Wow, I thought. This could be me. This could my little family: a dog, a cat, a Greyhound inspection lady.  

I’m not exactly sure what happened next. But I do know that it didn’t happen in slow motion. People always seem to say that bad things happen in slow mo. But this bad thing happened in fast mo. Real fast mo. I mostly remember Llewis lunging for Chloe, Chloe barking and me pealing Llewis off Chloe’s chest.

To say the moments following were awkward would be like saying it feels awkward when you find out your first cousins just got married. Awkward just doesn’t begin to describe it.


I couldn’t help but think that this was the end of the line for me. The inspector loved this dog and spent years helping her to come out of her shell. Using all my keen powers of observation I was able to determine that despite the professional demeanor things were not stacking up in my favor. 


“He’s very territorial” is all the inspector could manage.

I offered up apologies but the apologies, like baseballs being tossed to a blind person, went uncaught, ignored and definitely unappreciated.

We did go through the motions. We looked at the fence. We talked about the kind of dog I’d like but I might as well have been talking about the kind if ice cream I like. I mean wasn’t this all a bit irrelevant at this point? But we talked anyway and we both silently agreed to ignore that pink elephant in the room that was, in fact, a grey tabby.

The time dragged on. I apologized once again. But it didn’t work again. And finally, just when the visit was nearly done, we all (my boyfriend had joined us at that point) noticed a trickle of blood trickling down Chloe’s chest. Llewis had lunged at, bitten and apparently broken the skin on Chloe’s chest. While the inspector was looking in her purse, possibly for a gun, P. turned to me and whispered, “Are these dogs made of crepe paper?” I hushed him. I couldn’t afford one more bad mark on my application.

“I’ll be in touch” the inspector said as she and Chloe made a beeline to the door. I could see the relief in both their eyes as they said their goodbyes. They were finally free of LLewis’ Greyhound Torture Chamber. I imagined her flipping her cell phone open the instant she was out of earshot. I could see the message boards online all light up. I could envision Llew’s picture being posted under Most Wanted at every Greyhound rescue group’s website, the story carefully being passed along to generation upon generation of Greyhound lovers.

I closed front the door behind them. The universe was no longer talking–it was screaming at me. But I was a little too dumbfounded to listen.

Besides, I needed to let Llewis out of the bathroom.


One Response to “Honey, If This Is Home Then I’m Definitely Not Home”

  1. Half To Run « Dog Virgin Diaries Says:

    […] then along came Stella. Since I couldn’t rescue an adult Grey (Llewis would not allow it), I wound up with a pup. Turns out Greyhound pups, like most any other pup, like to bound around […]

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