The Art of the Walk

10609593_10102633746827200_2678913566221894458_nIf the worst thing about having Slider is that he often collects and occasionally destroys our things, the single best thing is taking him for a walk.

Slider usually doesn’t wear his collar in the house, so when we pull it out of the closet, he knows it’s walk time. He goes bananas. He sneezes and snorts and runs in circles, his long tail helicoptering wildly and threatening doom to anything within reach. A headlock is sometimes required to calm him down enough to actually slide the collar over his ears and onto his neck. Because greyhounds have small heads that could easily slip out of regular collars, we use a martingale, which has a nifty loop of fabric that constricts when Slider pulls on his leash.

Out on the street, while Slider isn’t much for heeling, he generally lets us set the pace. He does, however, stop at every bush, shrub, and tree to lift his leg, mark his territory. On our street, that means pausing at just about every yard. “Hey, this is a walk, not a sniff,” I like to remind him. “Let’s go.” If it comes to a tug of war, I usually let him win. He takes great joy in discovering the world outside the house, and I feel guilty impeding his thrill of exploration.

Greyhounds are tall, sleek, regal, like the lovechild of a dog and a deer. They don’t look like other dogs, and therefore, they stand out from the crowd. Without ever making a sound, Slider makes an impression.

I’m not the sort of person who usually strikes up conversations with strangers on the street, but Slider has introduced me to dozens of my neighbors. “Oh, is he a greyhound?” they’ll ask. “Did you rescue him from the track?” When we answer both questions affirmatively, these people, especially the ones who object to dog racing, shower us in praise, lauding our good works as if we were the Good Samaritan and Mother Theresa. Just about everybody seems to know somebody who adopted a greyhound from Rescued Racers, and gee, aren’t those dogs just the greatest? Rather than wreck their hopes with tales of crushed Christmas ornaments and crushed dreams, I usually just say, “Yeah!” After all, we’re walking here, and this is Slider’s time to shine.

A relatively smaller, yet still surprisingly large, group of people are afraid of Slider. He’s unceasingly friendly, and he’s scared of almost everything, including cats, babies, and anything that makes noise. (More on his phobias another time.) But based solely on size, he can be intimidating. “Is he a doberman?” they’ll ask. A young child or an old woman or a strapping young man will see him coming. Their eyes will get big. They’ll take a couple of nervous stutter steps. Then they’ll cross to the other side of the street. I know this is terrible, but as someone who is the exact opposite of physically imposing, I feel a little proud when a particularly tough-looking guy runs scared from me and my dog.

While Slider occasionally spooks a meathead, he attracts children like he’s an  ice-cream truck. They are always remarkably polite. “Can I pet him?” they ask. Then once they are already petting him: “Does he bite?” Kids ask about his racing career or tell stories about their own dogs’ misdeeds, as parents roll their eyes in the background. Children, being children, are not always the most gentle, but Slider handles them like a pro, graciously submitting himself to all manner of rubbing and prodding, though occasionally he’ll try to hide behind us when he’s had enough.

IMG_0449

Walking Slider sounds awesome, right? It is, though every pleasant stroll with our greyhound can be ruined in an instant by the insidious furry scourge known as squirrels. Unlike most other creatures great and small, squirrels do not scare Slider. In fact, he wants to eat them, all of them, to eradicate them from the earth. We’ll be walking along at a leisurely pace, looking this way and that, appreciating nature’s beauty. Then Slider will spot a squirrel out of the corner of his eye and flat-out bolt. For this reason, I usually slide the loop at the end of his leash up around my arm, then grasp the leash farther down with one or both hands. Our dog is strong, and he can go from zero to 40 in just a few steps, which could easily knock a human companion off his feet.

Not helping matters, squirrels are assholes. The cheeky buggers seem to know that because Slider is on a leash, he can’t catch them. Rather than run up the nearest tree, the squirrel will tease us, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting just long enough to make Slider think the prey is within reach, then darting up a tree just as I’m using every muscle in my body to yank him back. Though I would never let Slider off his leash for obvious safety reasons, in that moment, I cannot tell you how badly I want to let him go, just this once, to wipe the stupid grin off that squirrel’s face. He’s faster than you think, rodent.

Once, a squirrel’s bravado almost got it killed. It was dancing around the sidewalk, egging Slider on, then ran up a tree. Only it picked a short tree—a sapling, not a sequoia. Even at the top of the highest branch, the squirrel wasn’t out of reach. I did my best to wrestle Slider away, but he took one big chomp. The squirrel leaped away just in time, and the dog came away with a branch in his teeth.

Once Slider sees a squirrel, it’s all over. He is now in squirrel mode, with his squirrel radar activated, and there is no putting the squirrel genie back in the bottle. And our neighborhood has more squirrels than it does bushes. His ears, once aerodynamically tucked behind his head, are now erect. His eyes dart from left to right, scanning every nook for a bushy tail.

There is one good thing about Slider in squirrel mode, intently jogging down the street after anything that moves, with me getting an arm workout preventing him from killing woodland creatures: You’ve never seen a meathead cross the street so fast.

How the Greyhound Stole Christmas

IMG_4278OK, so the headline is a bit of an exaggeration. Slider didn’t wreck Christmas. If anything ruined the holiday, it was the nasty virus that took out Rachael. Even so, we spent a lovely few days in Quincy with her family, going to church, telling stories, playing cards, laughing a lot. I came away with the Song of Ice and Fire box set (I won’t need to borrow your books anymore, Shannon), a super hip pair of Beats by Dre headphones, and a totally ridiculous Knicks sweater that I’ll wear to all future Christmas parties. I gave some cool gifts, too. That’s where the dog came in.

Every year, we do a gift exchange with a small group of friends. This year, I drew the name of an expectant mother, who said she wanted stuff for the forthcoming child. As a typically clueless dude, I didn’t know what to buy, but I spent more than an hour in Target, judging the cuteness of outfits, comparing prices, pondering the practicality of various gadgets, and trying to decide which toys would be the most fun for a newborn. It’s not easy, trying to put yourself in a baby’s shoes. In the end, I bought three green, yellow, and gray onesies with a frog theme, three matching hats, and one Sophie the Giraffe, which is basically the coolest infant toy ever.

I brought this haul home and stored it in a high place, far from Slider’s reach. Then one evening, Rachael said she was going to wrap all of the presents, so I handed her my gift. Something came up (i.e. Rachael fell asleep), so she ended up just stashing all of the presents and wrapping supplies behind the tree overnight. The next day, while we were at work, Slider went for my gift. I think the plastic Target bag initially drew his attention, and once he noticed Sophie, it was all over. I came home to find him lying on top of the clothes, the onesies covered in hair. Sophie’s box had been destroyed. With her squeaker, the giraffe fit right in with the dog’s other annoying chew toys. A few ornaments had been knocked off the tree.

Upon discovering his misdeeds, I was devastated. All my thoughtful shopping had been wasted. But Rachael came to the rescue, salvaging the clothes with a lint brush and ordering a new Sophie online.

A few days later, we came home to find that Slider had kidnapped and beheaded the plaster Joseph from our nativity set. In the dog’s defense, the set was an antique that was already badly damaged and in need of replacement. Not in the dog’s defense, he ingested at least a few shards of the savior’s father.

On Christmas Eve, we drove the two hours to Slider’s grandmother’s house. He loves nothing more than riding in the back of our Outback, so the trip was a breeze. And for the first few days of the visit, he was on his best behavior, despite constantly being surrounding by large crowds of people, including small children. On Saturday, the Kecks had their big family Christmas celebration, where the mountain of gifts is always so tall, you can hardly see the tree. A couple of hours into the paper tearing, my brother-in-law and I went outside to bring in one final gift, for Rachael’s parents.

At this point, there was a bit of a miscommunication between me and my wife. I assumed that because I was going outdoors, she would watch the dog. She assumed that when Slider followed me out of the family room and up to the kitchen, he was with me. I returned inside just in time to see him making off with a cupcake from the counter. Before I could get it away from him, he’d downed it, wrapper and all.

As a present from her parents, Rachael received a beautiful nativity set to replace the one Slider had decapitated. Her dad even built us a stable.  I suppose now I should return the favor and give my mother-in-law a replacement cupcake.

Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Slider

IMG_0515Last time, we left off with Slider destroying his cage, bringing an end to any hopes we had of crate training. The next day, when we left for work, we shut him in the guest bedroom, but he tried to dig his way out, leaving scratches and gouges in the door frame and floor.

We were beginning to think that Slider didn’t like being confined. Defeated, we gave him freedom of the house. When we had to leave again the following day, we shut the doors to all of the bedrooms and bathrooms—and prayed.

One of us (can’t remember which) came home at lunchtime to find that Slider had been busy. He’d picked up Rachael’s umbrella and carried it to his bed in the living room. He’d done the same thing with a scarf, some mail, a spatula, some kitchen towels, and a half dozen shoes.

He hadn’t chewed anything up. He was just hoarding it. Apparently, this isn’t all that uncommon. Lots of greyhounds are collectors. Maybe cuddling with our stuff while we were gone gave him a sense of comfort.

For a couple of weeks, it seemed like every time we came home, Slider had some surprise waiting for us. The best case scenario was finding only a few shoes and kitchen utensils in his bed.  Given his height, basically every counter or shelf on the first floor was within his reach. We were at his mercy. It was good motivation to keep the house clean and the dishes washed (though even Slider carrying them around and slobbering on them wasn’t enough to convince Rachael to put her shoes away).

When people would ask me how it was going with our new dog, I didn’t know how to answer. While we were home, Slider was a model pet. He was affectionate, happy, easy-going, playful, very sleepy. But when we were gone, it was like he morphed into a four-legged terrorist bent on wreaking havoc upon our home.

For the first few days, Slider didn’t bother the bananas sitting on the counter. Then one night, Rachael gave him half of a banana for dessert, unwittingly teaching the pooch that there’s food inside those yellow tubes. The next day, we came home from work to find the whole bunch in his bed. He’d chewed up one and smushed a couple of others.

Another day, Rachael arrived home to find that Slider had gotten an entire loaf of bread, a box of English muffins, and a pack of buns. He shredded the plastic packaging and then, in true Hansel and Gretel fashion, left a trail of bread all over the house.

IMG_3923

At that point, we learned our lesson and enacted a strict household rule requiring that all food must be either shut in the pantry or stashed atop the fridge. Soon after, with no food to be hand, he knocked the entire knife block off the counter. Somehow, he avoided injury when it came crashing down on top of him. We had to shut the cutlery in a cabinet, too.

The dozens of AAA service guys who have rescued me all the times I’ve locked my keys in my car can testify that I’m an absent-minded person, to put it mildly. This plays right into Slider’s hands. One day, I accidentally left the door open to the laundry room. Slider picked up an industrial-size vat of OxiClean, carried it to the living room, and dumped it out, making an improvised sand box. Eventually, he must have started to feel guilty, so he dragged his bed over to cover up the heap of white powder. When I left the door to the bathroom open, we came home to find toilet paper everywhere. When I left the peanut butter jar out after breakfast, he got it off the high bar and used it as a chew toy. He peeled the label off and bit a hole in the top of the lid, but I got home just in time to stop him from eating any of the gooey goodness inside.

And while much of Slider’s misbehavior can be attributed to me, Rachael is far from blameless. Once, in the middle of baking on a Saturday, she decided to go outside to do some quick yard work. She came back in to discover that in the five minutes she was away, Slider had downed our entire supply of brown sugar. It didn’t upset his stomach as much as you might think.

IMG_2675

But all of that was nothing compared to what happened when Slider got his grubby paws on our Christmas presents and decorations. More on that next time.

Rattling the Cage

IMG_2837Confession: I’ve obviously fallen a bit behind on my dog blogging. We’ve now had Slider for more than two months, but this is a story from our first week with him.

When we met Slider at his foster family’s house, they shared that he was having some trouble with house-breaking. The couple would routinely wake up in the morning to not-so-special surprises. But a couple of weeks later, they emailed to say the problem was solved: They’d started keeping Slider in his crate at night, as well as when they were away during the day, and voila.

We had already been planning to crate train our dog. All of Rachael’s greyhound rearing books recommended crate training as a way to set boundaries and to acclimate a dog to a new home. So having him sleep in the cage didn’t seem like a huge deal.

Wrong.

Slider’s first night with us was a Friday, which was good, because we got so little sleep, work the next day would have been killer. At first, Slider seemed fine with the crate. We set it up in the kitchen, and shut him in there for a few minutes at a time while we watched TV. He walked in without objection and seemed comfortable inside, lounging on the bed we’d bought online. But when we shut him in there for the night, as soon as we went upstairs, he began to cry.

This was no little whine. This was a full-on, high-pitched wail. It was the sort of noise a person might make if they got an unexpected call in the middle of the day that their mother had been hit by a bus. Or maybe the sort of noise you would make after nine hours of torture in a Syrian prison.

He cried and cried. Pretty soon, Rachael looked on the verge of tears, too. Logic seemed to indicate that if we gave in and went down to get him, we’d simply be rewarding him for crying and reinforcing the behavior. On the other hand, it was such a terrible noise, and any sense of human decency seemed to require taking mercy on the poor pup.

Indecisive, we let him cry for about 45 minutes, which felt like 45 years, before running to his rescue. Rachael took him outside to pee, and the minute he came back in the house, he bolted up the stairs. Defeated and exhausted, we carried the crate up and put it in the hallway outside our bedroom. With much coaxing, we lured Slider back inside, but he kept whining on and off. When he wasn’t crying, he was rattling around, uncomfortable. He didn’t sleep much, and we didn’t sleep at all.

On the second night, we started with the crate out in the hallway, but the histrionics resumed, and we again moved the cage, this time into the bedroom. Finally, Slider seemed comfortable, and all three of us got some much-needed sleep.

The adventure was far from over. Rachael worked from home on Monday, but on Tuesday, it was time to leave Slider home alone in the crate. Over the weekend, we made half-hearted attempts to help him build up to being by himself, but the best we managed was to put him in the crate, leave the room, shut the door, and wait about five minutes, until he again began to whine. Even that required a good deal of effort and a great many treats.

Tuesday morning, we latched the door on the crate and tried to sneak out of the house quietly. Before we had even reached the back door, he was whining. Over the next few days, Rachael would go in late and leave work early, and I came home at lunch, but it was clear Slider was miserable being left alone in his cage. At night, he happily slept in the cage with us in the bed nearby, but any time we left, he freaked. Neighbors on both sides made comments about all the noise.

And we started to suspect that Slider was planning an escape.

The horizontal bars below the door showed signs of abuse, twisted with tooth marks. One day they were bent some, the next they were bent more. At night, I’d push them back into place, but Slider would push them right back, and then some. Soon, both of those bars had been snapped off on one end. They didn’t seem essential, so we just left them hanging there. The door would still close—barely—though the whole thing looked warped. We worried that Slider might hurt himself doing battle with the crate, but he didn’t seem any worse for wear. Rachael inspected his gums and teeth, but neither seemed sore.

Then one day, about a week after Slider moved in with us, Rachael came home to a surprise. Our greyhound greeted her at the back door. He’d ripped the whole front end of the crate apart, then somehow squeezed his way out through an unbelievably narrow opening.

At that point, we figured Slider had won his freedom. The busted crate went into the dumpster.

Slider, God help us all, was about to have free rein.

World’s Fastest Couch Potato

photoWhen I tell friends, co-workers, and strangers that I own a greyhound—and time flies: Slider’s been living in our house for more than a month now—they usually ask some version of the same misguided question.

“Isn’t that a lot of work?” or “Do you have to take him for a lot of walks?” or “How do you keep up with him?”

What these people don’t know is that greyhounds are like skinny, canine versions of Charles Barkley.

The Round Mound of Rebound and Slider both had long careers as professional athletes. And while they both like sports well enough, what they really love is eating and chilling. If you’ve seen Barkley’s retirement waistline, you’ve probably thought to yourself, “There’s a guy who eats pizza while sitting in a recliner.” Slider would like nothing more than to rewrite the laws of the universe to make it possible to scarf kibble and take a nap at the same time. And just like being Barkley’s roommate wouldn’t require a person to play in the NBA, living with Slider doesn’t mean we suddenly need to run 45 MPH.

As I mentioned in a previous post (and again in the headline), greyhounds are often called “the world’s fastest couch potatoes.” The description couldn’t be more apt. The day we adopted Slider, we took him into our small back yard, to let him explore his new turf. He nosed around for a minute or two, then flopped down in the grass. We brought him inside, sat down in the living room, and he plopped right back down. He’s hardly left that position since.

Slider is what some people call a magnet dog—he never wants to leave our sides, following us around as if pulled by an invisible force. Every time I get up to go to the kitchen, you can see the inner monologue playing out on his face. He wants to follow, but that would mean standing up. He’d have to leave his bed. Is it really worth it? Eventually, he’ll slowly peel himself off the floor, pausing for a big stretch. By the time he catches up to me, I’m usually headed straight back to the living room, beverage in hand, but he never seems to figure out that if he lets me go, I might return.

If you know Rachael, you’re probably aware that she’s world-class at napping through football games, but even she can’t keep up with Slider. On a Sunday a few weeks ago, he snoozed right through a Rams game and then a Cardinals game, back to back.

There are basically three situations in which Slider’s energy meter perks up above zero. At his twice daily meal times, he throws back kibble like it will all disappear if he doesn’t finish the bowl within 30 seconds. When his humans return home from work, he celebrates enthusiastically, prancing and wagging his tail. He gets so excited, he starts snorting and sneezing. If you’re unfamiliar with his mannerisms, you might think he’s about to bite you, though he’s really just smiling.

Then, maybe once per day, he gets a case of what greyhound owners call “the zoomies.” He’s struck with a sudden burst of energy and wants to run—fast. Inside, this means flying across our wood floor, skidding to a stop, throwing his toys 10 feet in the air, then sprinting back the other direction. Outside, he races figure eights around our cars and leaps up the deck steps in a single impressive bound. Even better is when we take him to visit friends’ who have bigger back yards, where he can literally run circles around other dogs. These bursts tend to last just a few minutes, not much longer than his races at the track. Then he goes right back to looking for a place to lie down.

We do take Slider for a lot of long walks, but that’s just because we like to go for a lot of long walks.

Run, Slider, Run

photo-2

Once we decided to adopt Slider, we had to wait a couple of weeks before bringing him home. I decided to spend the time researching his racing career.

After Googling around aimlessly for a while, I ended up on a website called Track Info, which aggregates results from various animal races. (Well, really just greyhounds and horses.) In the greyhound section, there’s a dog search. I typed in Electric Slide, and his racing history popped right up.

At first, I couldn’t make any sense of the racing results, row after row of gibberish. I deduced that Slider’s whelp date was his birthday: September 18, 2009, exactly one year before Rachael and I got married. A dog born on our anniversary? Maybe this was meant to be.

I discovered that his father was Flying Penske, the Wilt Chamberlain of greyhounds, who according to the site has a mind-boggling 8,159 children. Slider’s mother, Eye Oh Wah, was much more responsible, birthing just 32 pups. Some of Slider’s brothers and sisters had names like Eat My Dust and Instant Winner and Track Super Star. I can imagine the sibling rivalry was intense.

Much of the racing info on the site still confounds me, but I was able to decipher a few things. The first column on the left, obviously, is the date of the race. Slider’s first race was in June 2011. He finished third. His last race was just this past June. He came in seventh. Most of the races include eight dogs.

In between, Slider ran about 150 races, one every few days. Most were held at Southland Park, a casino and greyhound-racing venue in West Memphis, Arkansas, just across the Mississippi River from Memphis, Tennessee. The first few races of his career, though, came at Mystique Casino in Dubuque, Iowa.

In the center of the list of results is a series of bold columns. The one on the far right is Slider’s time in that race, usually around 40 seconds. The distance is most often 703 yards. That means his average speed was usually around 35 miles per hour, though greyhounds can top out at more like 45. They’re among the fastest land animals, behind cheetahs and not much else.

To the left of the time is how far Slider finished behind the leader, and the number to the left of that is where he placed. (The shorthand text to the right of the time also indicates how he fared.) By my quick tally, Slider won 13 races and finished second another 20 times or so. (There’s also a grade system, with A races and B races and so on, but I won’t bore you with those details.) He wasn’t a grand champion, but he held his own.

Best of all, the site has video of each race. I have to admit, in those weeks before we brought Slider home, I already felt a strong bond with him, just from watching him win races. When he crossed the finish line first, I felt an irrational sense of pride, as if I were somehow connected to his success.

The races at Southland all follow a similar format: The dogs begin in a starting box. A siren blares, and then without fail, the announcer always says, “Rusty’s on the move!” A mechanical rabbit then comes shooting past along the inside rail. “Here comes Rusty.” A split second after the rabbit passes, the doors of the box flip up and the dogs coming charging out. “They’re off and racing!”

Greyhounds at a full sprint are a sight to behold. Their strides are impossibly long. The dogs go from a crunched position to completely sprawled out in a split second. In both positions, they hover above the ground, all four legs floating on air.

In Slider’s wins, he tends to start out in the middle of the pack, then come charging forward at the end. In his final win, on May 12, he emerged from the pack at the final turn (in the video, look for dog No. 2). The announcer refers to him as a “crafty veteran.” His first win came in his second career race, a Grade E matinee, at the track in Iowa. There, they say the mechanical rabbit is “rolling by the river.” In a green-striped No. 7 jersey, Slider gets pushed outside early and falls behind, but he makes a move through traffic around the far turn, and pulls away down the stretch, clearly outclassing his competition.

My favorite of Slider’s wins came on June 29, 2012, during the best stretch of his career. It’s a nighttime race, which I think adds to the atmosphere. Wearing No. 4, he gets off to a slow start. Quickly, he falls  back into fifth place, so far behind the leaders that at some points, he’s not even in the view of the camera. But midway through, he makes a move on the inside, pulling into third, then second. As they enter the home stretch, he’s still probably two or three lengths behind.

Then he puts his head down, kicks up dirt… “Four cranking it up!” the announcer yells. “Electric Slide! At the wire!” He wins by a nose.

Yep, that’s a pet I can get behind.

Why This Greyhound

10649531_10102534790621230_4984072324574030157_n

So we decided to get a greyhound. I explained our reasoning at length in my last post, but in case you missed it, here’s the quick version: I liked greyhounds because they bark, shed, jump, and lick less than most other dogs. Rachael was on board because she and greyhounds have the same favorite hobbies—cuddling and sleeping.

Once we settled on a breed, the next step was to meet some dogs. We started in late August by making the drive west to Purina Farms for Pet-a-Palooza. Given the tenuous nature of my newfound openness to pets, Rachael was taking a major risk, dragging me 40 minutes from home to a giant convention hall full of weird dog people and their mongrels. The main building was divided into two sections. The smaller one was an agility course, where people learned, much to their pleasant surprise, that even the dumbest dogs can be made to walk over a small wooden bridge. The other side was a maze of booths set up by adoption groups and every type of pet-related business you can imagine.

While I tried desperately to avoid being licked or peed on, even Rachael was starting to feel overwhelmed by the number of canines all around us. If the dogs had wanted to stage a mutiny, we would have all been goners, especially since seemingly 99 percent of adoptable dogs in St. Louis are pit bulls.

We made our way to the Rescued Racers table, where a pack of greyhounds was waiting to let us scratch them behind the ears. Most of the dogs already had owners, but a couple were available. One, Carl, seemed like an energetic guy, but when we told his foster father that we would be first-time dog owners, he politely suggested that we might want to consider a different dog. My memory is a bit hazy on the specifics, and I’d hate to defame Carl, but I seem to remember that he was chewing things and ruining furniture and that sort of thing. Very undude.

Next, we met Skippy. People sometimes refer to greyhounds as “magnet dogs,” because they stick so closely to their human companions. Skippy, who seemed to be just as intimidated by this event as we were, wrapped herself around and between our legs, leaning hard against us. It was a good first impression. According to her foster family, Skippy had no problems with house-training, didn’t mind spending daytime hours in a crate, and was a generally cool dog, though she would pretty much kill anything that got between her and her food bowl.

Afterward, we made arrangements for a one-on-one meeting with Skippy. We also set up meetings with dogs named April and Slider. (Retired racing greyhounds have two names: their official race name, used mostly for betting and announcing purposes, and then a nickname that they’re called by at the kennel. The names given here are of the latter variety.)

Up first was Slider. I had some initial misgivings. When we arrived at his foster family’s home, he freaked out, licking my hands and running around, which was not at all the energy level I was expecting from “the world’s fastest couch potatoes.” I thought he was going to bite me, but they told me that he was just smiling. Since Slider had come up from the track within the past week or two, the foster folks said it was unfair to judge his house-training, but to be fair, if we were going to judge, he was doing poorly. He’d had multiple accidents, and he had overeaten to the point of vomiting (though that could easily be fixed by giving him less food, one would have to think).

The foster family’s own dog was at the super-lazy end of the spectrum—the man of the house joked that when the dog died, they could replace it with a blanket—which made Slider look even more hyper by comparison.

Rachael, of course, was smitten. It was the sort of connection she couldn’t really describe. She liked his look, his size, his quirky personality.

We took him for a walk. That part, I have to admit, even I thought was great. Greyhounds are tall, strong, regal, and obviously very fast animals. Walking a dog like that makes people turn their heads, which maybe felt normal for Rachael, but was a totally new feeling for me.

We met April a few days later. She was super sweet, and I liked how laid back she was, but Rachael was unimpressed. The dog hardly seemed to notice we were there, and while I tried to explain that not having to interact with the dog was the whole point of getting a greyhound, Rachael didn’t feel that spark. April was too timid.

Next up was our second date with Skippy. Her foster family had two other greyhounds, so the total of three dogs running circles around me was admittedly a little intense. In the comfort of her own home, Skippy seemed much more energetic, not nearly as clingy as she had been on our first meeting. In terms of her temperament, she was similar to Slider—affectionate and a little goofy. Unlike Slider, she was having no trouble doing her business outside the house. And since her foster family worked, she was used to her crate.

We both liked Skippy a lot, but I could tell Rachael preferred Slider, and much to both of our surprise, so did I. Sure, Skippy was a little more polished, but she pulled a lot on our walk, and I was worried that, in the event we someday have children, she might bite them the way she had another dog who tried to eat her food. Plus, if I’m being totally honest, I liked the idea of owning a male dog, in the same way that most guys secretly hope their kids will be boys (that’s a real thing, right?). And if I’m being really, really honest, I guess I sort of felt that same connection that Rachael did.

With the proviso that he needed to be making progress with his house-breaking issues, we decided to adopt Slider. When Rachael contacted his foster mother, she said, yep, the issue had been all squared away. They simply put him in the crate to sleep, problem solved. (We would later come to find that Slider didn’t enjoy the crate quite as much as she indicated, but more on that another time.)

We called our adoption contact at Rescued Racers with our decision. Rachael started reading books about the exact right way to parent a former racing greyhound. And I started to think, “My God, what have I gotten myself into?”