This Is How Badly Greyhounds Need Adopting

The next day I went through the motions at work. I responded to emails, talked on the phone and wrote some checks. But deep inside I was desperately trying to accept the facts:  I loved and lived with a cat that bit a dog. I kept saying it to myself, out loud, each time slower.

My. Cat. Bit. A. Dog.

Over and over, slower and slower. Maybe this would help me to accept my circumstances.

 

The day felt long and I shared my strange tale with a few friends who, of course, took Chloe’s side. “Poor sweet thing” was the gist of  it. The other comment was, “Maybe you should pursue something else.” 

 

I was about ready to call it quits for the day when the phone rang.  I saw the caller I.D.: Greyhound Friends For LIfe. I figured I should let it go to voicemail. I could listen later on to the message informing me that they were going to be filing a lawsuit.

 

Instead, however, I decided to just deal with it head on and pick up the phone.

 

What happened next was possibly stranger than Llew drawing blood from Chloe’s chest to begin with. 

 

B., the uber adoption woman at GFFL was the person on the other end of the phone. And while she had, predictably, heard news of the viscious attack, the reason for her call apparently was not to discuss Llewis’ territoriality or Chloe’s puncture wounds. She didn’t want to yell at me and call me a psycho for loving such a beast. She didn’t even want me to put him on the phone so she could give Llew a piece of her mind.

 

B. wanted to talk about what these guys ALWAYS want to talk about. “I heard you need a little fence work.”

 

Huh? I looked at the phone. Did she call the wrong number? She must have accidentally hit a number on her phone thinking she was calling another prospective adopter, one that didn’t have black marks plastered all over her application. “Uh…fence work?” was about all I could manage.“Yes. There are a couple of areas like the gate and around the back that could use an extra foot or two.”

 

I was elated that this would be the main topic of conversation and I quickly kicked into some odd denial mode where I somehow believed, because we were discussing fences, that the subject of Llewis would never be raised. My mood lightened, my sense of humor kicked in and I was confident, relaxed and enthusiastic about everything including and mostly, fence work. We discussed possibilities for a friendly neighbor fence or perhaps just a few planks in certain key spots for starters. I went on for a while, elaborating on my ideal fence, when that would happen, the type of wood I would like. But as hard as I tried there really is only so much fencespeak to be had.

 

Silence crept in. And then B. used that classic throat clearing move. The one that communicates that we’re changing the topic now.

 

“So…I hear Llewis is a little territorial?”

 

Enter the pink elephant from the other day.

Part of me was actually relieved to be talking about it. Yeah, 50% of me was super high on getting a big skinny dog, but part of me was really scared. I truly was scared of getting a dog. I was scared of having this 70 pound dependent that never would never grow up and support me in my old age, scared about the prospect of picking up dog logs day in and day out but, most of all scared to have to, in the end, say goodbye to a creature that stretched my heart in more directions I knew possible.

So the part of me that was really scared was actually relieved to talk about the fact that I had a true issue here with Llewis.

The universe spoke to me in italics:

If there ever was an excuse to get out, you’ve got it sitting and drooling all over your lap. Your cat hates Greyhounds. You love Greyhounds—you’d take twenty of them if you could–but, well, you can’t. You can get out now and still look good.

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on which side of the split in my personality you’re talking to, B. was pretty low key about the whole thing and, surprisingly, humored by it. When we finally started really talking, she admitted that, well, it was kinda funny. “Maybe it was just this specific situation” she suggested and then added, “Do you have any friends, friends with dogs, that would be willing to come over?”

I thought for a moment. Isn’t that like saying your pet python swallowed a fourth grader but maybe it was just this one kid he didn’t like and would you mind bringing your child over so we can see?

 

“Well…I could…maybe…” I stammered. She cut me off quickly, “Good. Give that a try. Then let’s plan on talking, okay?”

 

After we hung up I flipped through my mental rolodex of everyone I knew with a dog. I would have to be honest but how would I both offer full disclosure on the incident while at the same time not scare them off?

I was stumped. But not for too long. The neurons in my brain finally all fired at once and the obvious answer flashed in my mind like a billboard. Like any great idea it was obvious only after you discovered it. Who else? Who better? Who sweeter and mellower and kinder than he? And who else had the coolest owner on the planet?

Sundance. Sundance, the sacrificial pit bull.

I called my friend, S., the one who helped get this whole ball rolling.

“Yes. This is perfect!” She loved the idea, loved his new title and shared further with me that Sundance not only likes cats but even more so if they abuse him. Her level of enthusiasm did cross my mind and for a brief moment I considered if we were headed for some sick Animal Planet version of Sid and Nancy. We talked about when we could connect. Turns out the best date for all parties would be the following Monday–which also happened to be, of all things, my birthday.

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