Once upon a time, during her early to mid-teens, my youngest sister called me on a regular basis to discuss Very Important Things. She was often breathless with indignation on the other end of the phone.
“Do you have any idea how cows are raised? Do you realize that they’re all crammed together in pens, getting injections so that they get bigger, faster? It is positively barbaric! I am never eating another hamburger, ever.”
“I hope you aren’t buying stuff from the GAP. They use child labor. Children are going blind so that we can wear striped t-shirts! Where is the justice?”
“Racing greyhounds is a crime! Do you know what happens to them when they aren’t fast enough any more? You have to adopt one immediately!”
I fondly called her the Little Activist. She was deeply passionate about each and every new injustice she discovered… until she discovered another. She was a vegan for a week, and then, wracked with guilt several weeks later, became a vegan for another month. It was really quite adorable.
She’s now nineteen, and no longer quite the Little Activist. She still dons her scruffy high-top Converse from time to time (pictured above), and wears belts with metal studs, but she is far more consumed with text-messaging her friends than worrying over what might be happening in the Sudan.
That’s okay, because in some way I have her to thank for my newly adopted daughter. My newly adopted greyhound daughter.
It took me a few years to follow my sister’s urgent imperative, but several weeks ago, I drove to the East Bay home where a 3-year-old female greyhound was waiting, fresh off of a plane from a racetrack in Colorado. She was nervous; I was nervous. Neither of us knew what lay ahead.
I can report, nearly two months later, that adopting a greyhound is an altogether absorbing experience. Greyhounds live in a racing bubble for their whole lives; they have no idea what it is like to live in a “real” home. While they officially have a racing name, they have no association with that name. They’ve never seen stairs, or hardwood floors, or mirrors, or couches.
For the first couple of weeks, she startled at every strange noise or abrupt movement. I could scarcely lift my arm to pick up a book without her dashing in a panic to the other side of the room. The hardwood floors mentioned above will never be the same. But neither will her life, and I consider that to be a good trade-off.
She has calmed down considerably since those first few days. The highlight of her existence is our morning walks. I should really call them “sniffing expeditions,” since that is more accurate than “walk.” She is gentle and sweet, with enormous brown eyes that are impossible to resist. She follows me from room to room, wanting to be wherever I am. While I work at my desk, she flops onto a cushion near my feet and snoozes.
Now I have a whole new culinary realm to consider. There are so many choices out there – regular kibble, holistic kibble, vegetarian diets, raw diets. There are bones and Kongs and things called Greenies, which are apparently like crack for dogs, but might be dangerous. The options are dizzying, and I’m still sorting it all out.
She does resemble me in one aspect at least: she loves cheese. She might be one of the only dogs who regularly gets bits of chevre or aged gruyere or bandage-wrapped cheddar for a treat.
The Former Little Activist hasn’t made the trip down to see her “niece” yet, but when she has a free moment, in between movies and shopping and work, she calls to check in.
“Don’t forget that adopting her was my idea,” she says.
“Don’t worry,” I assure her. “I won’t.”
