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A Thoroughbred’s Dream

                                        

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is “Son of Royalty” and once upon a time I was a racehorse. I know what you’re thinking. But you’re going to have to suspend your disbelief, because no one on earth could tell this story better than a Thoroughbred himself. I was born February 14^th, 1990.  I’m not a Kentucky blueblood, so to speak. But I have a little class on my dam’s side, which is probably where I got my attitude.

 

The first two years of my life were as carefree as can be. I didn’t like being separated from my mother at four months of age, but there were a lot of other colts and fillies in the same situation. Weaning, what an awful word. I didn’t need to nurse anymore; I was fine eating grass and grain. What I missed most, was standing at her side, and not being afraid of anything whatsoever. If I got out of line, she was always there to correct me. She was nowhere around the day I was gelded. Sometimes I pretend that never happened.

 

Being taught to lead was no big deal. I balked a little, until I realized what was expected of me. If they tug, they want you to walk forward. That was simple enough. Another tug, they want you to stop. If someone hits you, you’ve done something wrong. Or they have, and don’t know how to take the blame for it themselves. Let me tell you right now, there is absolutely nothing worse than a person who won’t admit to his own mistakes, a horse either for that matter. I wasn’t all that easy to break to the saddle. I was totally confused over what was expected of me. More than once I was called “Bullheaded,” but then I finally got the hang of it. Some of my fondest memories of growing up on the farm were the mornings when I galloped with all the other two-year olds.

 

I liked winning! I was bred to run, I was bred to win. I don’t know of any Thoroughbred alive that thinks any other way. I am amazed at how many times I would overhear a trainer or groom imply otherwise. It’s as if they actually think we pick and choose when we’re going to run our hardest. That’s simply not true. If a horse doesn’t run his best, it’s for reasons other than “just not feeling like it.” We’re living, breathing, feeling animals. And while I’m at it, let me bring up the subject of whipping a horse during a race. I mean isn’t that a bit barbaric? I remember this jockey once who was known for his long stick. I get heart palpitations just thinking about it. He took that whip to me once, and let me tell you, I didn’t run any faster. I wonder what would happen if whips were to be suddenly outlawed.  Oh, I’m sure race times would suffer. But in the end, would that really be a bad thing? There would still be a winner, tickets to cash in….       

 

I’ve bowed three times in my life, same leg all three times. It’s my right front. I’ve heard it said many times that it’s an ugly bow. I guess there’s such a thing as a pretty one. The first time I bowed, was as a three year old. I really didn’t feel it happening. In fact, I won the race. I was so proud. I’d won all my lifetime conditions and it was my first race against older horses. I think I might have tried too hard. I was out in front by two lengths at the head of the stretch, and finished going away, as the saying goes. When it came time to get done-up after the race, I felt a little something in that tendon. I didn’t know what, but something. Then here came everybody, the vet, the trainer, the owner. This was not good.

 

I could see it in their eyes. I could hear it in their voices. I could smell it on their skin. By that evening, I really didn’t care much about how they were feeling. I was in major pain. I was given some time off, blistered. Boy, that hurt. I came back and won two more races that year, and all seemed well. The second time I bowed, was as a four-year old. That one I felt during the race, and was eased. I was mad. I had “why me” written all over my face, I’m sure. When I heard it said I wasn’t going to get blistered, I all but jumped for joy. As it turned out, I might have opted for that over the surgical procedure I undertook the following morning. I had actually liked my vet up until that day.

 

The nice part about being laid up after the surgery was I got to see my mom. I was shipped out to this farm I’d never seen before, and after a couple of weeks of stall rest, was allowed outside in one of the paddocks, and there she was. She looked so pretty, standing out on the grass, grazing.  I whinnied to her, and she picked her head up - looking all around and whinnying back. “I’m over here,” I kept saying. “I’m over here.” And then she saw me. I can’t tell you how that made me feel. She came over to the fence and nickered, and I got to see her up close.

 

“Son…” she said.

 

I kept nodding my head. “Yep, it’s me.”  I told her all about why I was there, and that I was starting to get a little concerned with this bowed tendon. “I love to run! I don’t want to quit. What’ll I do then? This bow is ugly!”

 

My mom said even as a foal, I tended to be a bit dramatic. I had a good time at that farm. I saw her every day. And then it came time to go back to the track. I was excited. My groom kept telling the trainer that he should up and enter me in a race, that I was kicking the barn down. I felt good! But I also felt a little sad. I didn’t know when I’d see my mom again.

 

“I’ll always be with you,” she told me, the morning I shipped out. “I’m in your blood.”

 

That made me feel good, but I still felt anxious leaving her. I started acting up. “What are you going to do without me?”  My groom said he’d never seen me not want to load in a trailer before. I heard my owner say something about maybe tranquilizing me. “Mom, are you going to be okay?”

 

“I’m going to be fine,” she said. “You’re going to have a little brother soon. I’ll have my hands full. Win one for me, okay?”

 

“Okay!”

 

I won seven more races that year. I was unbeatable. The bow was holding; I was maturing. I even heard someone say it was a shame I’d been gelded, that I would’ve probably made a good sire. Damn right!

 

Since I’d already had so much time off, my trainer decided to ship me to Florida to continue running when this meet ended. I didn’t really know him that well; he was my third or fourth trainer over the years. I was getting the best of care, so he must have been a nice guy. Occasionally, he’d stop and talk to me. I didn’t care. I liked my groom, Manny. He fed me peppermints.

           

I came up a little sore my first race in Florida. And my Florida trainer, who I didn’t know from Adam, decided to play it safe, and laid me up for six weeks. I went to a big open barn and have never seen so many flies in my life, or lizards either for that matter. I didn’t know what a lizard was at first, someone had to tell me. They had this one that kept insisting on jumping on my back. I knew it was him, and yet every time he landed, I’d practically turn inside out. I started watching for him, and if I thought I saw him, I’d buck and squeal in my stall. Next thing I knew, I was back at the track.

 

“He’s tearing the barn down. Enter him.”

 

I ran a second, and the next week, ran another second. I was feeling good. Too good, some might say. I got to playing on the walking machine the day before my next race, and got my left leg hung up somehow. Everyone started screaming, whoa, whoa. My groom was getting frantic. I couldn’t figure out how to get my leg down. I kept jumping in the air, thinking that if I could get higher than the walking machine, my leg just might magically come free. Someone turned the machine off. Someone grabbed my ear. I hate that. Someone else tried to get my leg free. I couldn’t have cared less at that point - I was more concerned about my ear. This person was twisting it like a pretzel. Yes, I know what a pretzel is, Manny used to feed me some of them, too.

 

“All right, he’s free,” I heard someone say, and realized I was standing on all fours again. I’ll skip ahead a little here. Suffice to say, my bouncing around on three legs put too much pressure on the right front tendon. I aggravated the bow. For the next two days all I heard was talk of running, not running, entering, scratching, finished. I was in pain, but could still hear. I heard every word they said. I couldn’t believe they were thinking of retiring me. And to what? Who would want me with my ugly bow?

 

“I’m a racehorse!!”

 

“He’s nuts! He’s his own worst enemy!”

 

So I was acting up a little. Big deal, wouldn’t you? I wasn’t even five years old yet! And they’re talking of retiring me.

 

“Who’s going to want him, with that ugly bow?”

 

Finally, somebody was making some sense. I stretched my neck to see if I could tell who said that. They were all in the tack room. It was my owner. He didn’t look happy. He didn’t look happy at all.

 

“I’ll try and find him a home. Otherwise…?”

 

“Otherwise what?” I wanted to know. I squealed and kicked the wall in my stall to get their attention.

 

“If only he had a nicer temperament.”

 

“What’s wrong with my temperament?”

 

“Bad enough with that ugly bow.”

 

I banged my head into my feed tub, swearing if they said that one more time….

 

“He’s not big enough for a hunter?”

 

“What? I’m 15.3.”

 

“He’s not that pretty either.”

 

“Excuse me…?” That did it. I walked to the back of my stall. I didn’t want to hear another word.

 

The following morning, I got a good suds bath from my groom. He was always nice to me, but was even nicer this morning for some reason. He cut my mane short, cut my bridle path. He even cut my tail, straight across. That really puzzled me. I liked my tail the way it was. He hugged me then. He hugged me for a good long minute. I didn’t know what to do, and just stood there. “I’ll miss you, old buddy,” he said, and walked out before I could say anything to him. No, horses can’t really talk. But I could have nuzzled him or something. He was my friend.

 

“If I played my cards right,” I was told, by a perfect stranger loading me onto a trailer about a half hour later. “I could make a right nice cow pony.”

 

“Cows?”

 

“You seem pretty sensible.”

 

“I ain’t no cow pony.”

 

“With a little schooling….”

 

“You can school me all you want. I told you, I ain’t no cow pony. I’m a racehorse. You hear me? A racehorse. I’ve won eighteen races in two years and made over $400,000 in my life. I don’t need to be able to read to know what my form says, I hear people talking.”

 

“Settle down now. I said settle down or you and I are going to come to blows.”

 

“Oh really?” Let me tell you, I’m not one to swear, but right about then I was tempted. Big time! I kicked the trailer instead.

 

“All right, that did it!”

 

I have never been loaded and unloaded so fast in my life.

 

My groom was already stripping my stall in preparation for a new horse shipping in. He sighed. “Son,” he said, and didn’t say it like my mom. “What are we going to do with you?”

 

“I want to run! I want to be a racehorse! I am a racehorse!! I’m a Thoroughbred!”

 

“What’s he doing back here?” my trainer asked.

 

“The guy didn’t want him. He changed his mind. He says he’s a rogue.”

 

“A rogue? A rogue…? Read my lips,” I said, getting louder and louder. “I am a racehorse! A race-horse!”

 

“See if Miller’s got an empty stall. Let’s give him a day or two to calm down.”

 

A day or two did nothing for me. I wanted to run. I wanted to play. It was decided I was not to go back on the walking machine, for fear I’d end up hurting one of the other horses with my antics. Hand-walking me became a big chore. I couldn’t contain myself. I was feeling too good. Day six and here came the vet. Probably to tranquilize me, I thought. Bummer.

 

My trainer and groom stood next to him, all three staring at my right front leg. Apparently it wasn’t looking all the more ugly at the moment. They speculated over whether or not the swelling after the walking machine incident was superficial. The bow was tight and pain free. I was not tempted in the least to even flinch when they examined it. I listened hard to what they were saying. They said I had spirit. They said I had class. They said I was a racehorse.

 

I was back!

 

My trainer entered me the following week after some light gallops, and I ran a third, beaten only by a length. I finished out the year with two more starts, a second and a win. I’d never felt better. My racing career continued. I had sixteen starts as a five-year-old, and hit the board every time. I ran nineteen times as a six-year-old, and had eight wins. The further I ran, the better I got. When I turned seven though I started to slow down. I’d gotten a respiratory infection that winter during lay-up, and it took a little out of me. My groom, Manny, was now my trainer, and he and I were pretty close. No one knew me better than him. I heard them talking in the tack room one morning about deciding what they were going to do with me. I thought this discussion might be about which race to enter me in, but apparently it went a little deeper.

 

My life was on the line.

 

“We know he won’t make a good riding horse.”

 

“Oh, dear.” Not this again.

 

And then the dreaded, “Ugly bow.”

 

“We’ll give him a couple of weeks off. Maybe he’ll come around.”

 

It’s a sad day when a man has to admit he’s losing a little punch. Same applies to horses. I hung my head. There was something happening to me I couldn’t explain. I didn’t have the same appetite. I didn’t have the same heart. If I couldn’t go to the racetrack, what was the point? I laid down one day and didn’t want to get up.

 

“Come on, Son,” Manny said. “Come on.” He offered me peppermints, he offered me pretzels. I refused both. Bran mash? No, thank you. Manny had tears in his eyes. “Get my saddle,” he said. “I’m not going to let him die without going to the racetrack one last time.”

 

At the sight of the saddle and bridle, I perked up. Why, I don’t know. Habit. I got up and he tacked me, and then he led me out of the stall and around the shedrow to get my legs underneath me. Second time around I started feeling pretty good. Manny got a leg up and we headed toward the racetrack.

 

“Hey, Son.”

 

I nodded my head up and down; a lot of people knew me. I’d come to Florida three years ago to live with the flies and the lizards, and never left.         

 

“Hey, Son…you’re looking good.”

 

I nodded some more.

 

Manny wiped his eyes. Every time someone greeted me, it made him cry all the more. We were going for our last ride.

 

“Looking good, big man.”     

 

“Go get ‘em, Son.”

 

The track clocker tipped his hat in reverence. I had no idea so many people thought so much of me, and with my big ugly bow yet.

 

I nodded, and nodded, and nodded the whole time Manny backed me up. And when we turned around and he clicked for me to canter, I was in heaven. I had the wind in my mane and forelock, a tight hold on the bit. I reached for more ground, and then more, and was soon galloping. I galloped the whole mile, and was dancing and prancing when it was all said and done.

 

I love the racetrack. I’ve always loved it!

 

Manny patted me on the neck, and I walked back through the barn area, proud as can be. I was all lathered up, snorting, every vein in my body pumped. I am a racehorse.

I was born a racehorse, and I’ll always be a racehorse. Could I win another race? No, probably not. Would I break down entirely if they tried? Probably. Did I have the love and affection of a great trainer? Most definitely. Manny was so pleased with my comeback from near death, he promised to gallop me as often as he could get away with. Sooner or later, every horse on the track has to run, or they don’t get to keep their stall. One morning Manny got the idea to list me as a pony. And as the saying goes, the rest is history.

 

I was used to being ponied. I’d been ponied for years and years. The only difference now, instead of being on the right side, I’m on the left. I’m well behaved. I’ve seen it all. I’ve done it all. I could probably outrun most of the horses I pony, at least for half a mile. But I’ve got nothing to prove. My record speaks for itself. Everyone on the track knows that; I’ve been here a long, long time. I turned sixteen this January, and will never tire of going to the racetrack. I’d like nothing better than to die here. No, I’m not being morbid. I’m serious.

 

If I could pick the day, it’d be sunshine and blue skies. My morning will have been busy; I’d like to have ponied three or four, maybe took one to the gate to get okayed. I’d like to have a good suds bath between then and race time, and a hot bran mash. I’d like to have a horse in the first, the third, and the seventh.

 

The horse in the first race would be one of the old veterans, running on pure heart. The third will be a race for two-year olds. I’ll calm that little filly; tell her there’s nothing to worry about, and to just do her best. That’s all any of us can do. Call me sentimental, but I’d like her to win. I’d like to lead her back to the winner’s circle, proud as can be. I’d like to see her happy and with her whole life ahead of her. The horse in the seventh race will be an allowance horse, all full of himself and trying to win his third in a row. I’ll make sure to remind him he’d best not leave what’s needed for the race, on the backside before the gate’s sprung. And I’ll make sure to be there for him if he runs second, and wishes he could turn right back around and try again. It’ll be me telling him to rest and then train even harder to come back next week.

 

That’s the kind of day I’d pick. And that night, I’d like to lay my head down and dream about my momma. I’d like to see her grazing in lush green grass as tall as weeds, and see her happy and content. I’d like to whinny to her and I’d like to see her look up and whinny back. I’ll be by her side then. We’ll both be happy. We’ll both be proud. We’ll have lived the life of a Thoroughbred.

 

                                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

    “Zoe”

 

Zoe used to be called Brianna. I stopped at a Wendy’s recently and there was her picture on an old poster, along with six other dogs from the shelter needing homes. She looked so scared in that photo; her expression was enough to break your heart. She’s frightened of so many things. Baseball hats, gloves, a person standing with their arms out to their sides, sudden moves, a certain look in a person’s eyes, being confined….  She cowers easily and has only two expressions, happy or sad.   

 

When she’s happy, her ears stand straight up. There is no in between with Zoe. Her ears are straight up or pinned way down. And there are no words to describe the look on her face when those ears lay down, or how quickly her expression changes.  There’s a feeling a person gets when something we see or hear causes the blood to drain from our faces in fear or sadness or sudden shock, when our hearts suddenly drop. That’s the expression you see on Zoe’s face when she lowers her ears. Zoe is a Basenji. She’s probably not purebred, even though she looks all Besenji. She is way too big and has a loud bark. Some dog people think she might have a little cattle dog in her. I don’t know.

She’s so kind. She loves people, particularly women. But she doesn’t really trust anyone.  Something terrible has happened to her in the past. I don’t like thinking about it, but I have the feeling she was hurt by someone she really trusted. She never totally drops her guard. You can be petting her and she is happy, but if you make a sudden move, she’s ready to pull back in a flash. It’s as if she’s saying, “I’ve been here before. This is when I’m going to get hurt, and it’s going to hurt really bad….  Please don’t hurt me.”

We were told that Zoe was found on a construction site. It took the workers days to lure her near enough to catch her. She came closer and closer each time, for food. She was hungry. She was scared. Hunger won out. It’s sad to think of her hiding out for days, hungry and scared. It’s even sadder to think of the awful things that must have happened to her to make that decision between life and death so difficult. When the construction workers were finally able to get a leash on her, they were surprised by how friendly she was. She’d duck whenever they raised their hands, but as long as they were petting her, she wagged her tail.

Her tail is silly. There is no other way to describe it. It curls up over her back and when she wags it - it flops back and forth from side to side like a windshield wiper. She’s a sideways tail-wagging wiggle-worm when she’s happy. When she’s scared, just like with her ears, down goes the tail as low as it can go. Zoe knows tricks. She knows how to sit. She knows how to give you her paw. She absolutely loves giving you her paw, so gently, and smiles and wiggles all over when you praise her for a job well done. Whoever taught her tricks, at least made her happy sometimes. Who knows, maybe more times than not.

Zoe was still a puppy when she came to live with us (nine months old) and she did some incredible puppy things. For one, there was housebreaking. I think the politically correct term is housetraining. But in Zoe’s case, housebreaking best describes the process. She apparently doesn’t like to poop. She didn’t then and still doesn’t. She holds it until the last minute, the last second. If at all possible she tries not to poop on the floor. Yes!  No!  Never! Instead, she would poop on the couch, the bed, the stairs. Whatever you do, Zoe, don’t poop on the floor. And never, ever poop without peeing at the same time. We couldn’t believe it. Was this peeing - pooping phenomenon a side effect of her being spayed? Probably. Maybe. We’ll never know.

Fortunately we have trained ourselves to drop everything certain times of the day, a half hour after meals, to make sure Zoe’s outside. Hurry! Quick! We are having more and more success. She has only had one accident in the last 3 months. Thank heaven.  But funny as this all sounds, this too is a little sad. I can imagine her earlier training, and her just trying to do the right thing. I’m sorry I pooped on the floor - I’ll never do it again. I promise. Please don’t be mad at me. Don’t hit me. I’m trying really hard.…  Maybe this is where her anxieties started, her fears. Her beatings.

Zoe’s afraid of water. If you give her a bath, she won’t talk to you for days. She won’t even come near you for days. And then when she does, it is with extreme caution, evidence of another trauma she had to get through. Fortunately she’s close-haired and does a very good job of keeping herself clean. Baths will be few and far between.  She was also terribly afraid of thunderstorms, and still is to a certain extent. She likes to curl up in a ball when she hears them coming and hide her face. In fact, that is her answer to dealing with just about everything that frightens her. She curls up in a ball and buries her face.  

Then there was her chewing the furniture. Don’t yell at her, don’t yell at her, we kept telling ourselves. But what are you going to do, let her chew the furniture to pieces and end up sitting on the floor. Well, at least there’s no pee or poop there. It’s clean as can be! Zoe loves to sleep at the bottom of the bed. She curls up in her ball and likes sleeping with her back against your leg. Sometimes she’ll stretch out, but it’s a rare occasion, and only for a little while. Then she curls back up in a ball. Safety.

Zoe likes other dogs, all of them. She’s gentle with puppies. She holds her own with dogs full size. She doesn’t like it when they play too rough, and if they do, she has her say and then walks away. Zoe weighs about 50 pounds, and throws her weight around. She wants everybody to just get along. She’s a peacemaker. We haven’t seen a dog yet that she doesn’t like or apparently sees some good in.  People, that’s a different thing.

Take off your baseball hat, lower your hands, look the other way, sit down, let her come to you, no, don’t reach for her, yes, she is goofy, we know that. Oh my gosh, she’s giving me her paw. Her ears are up. She’s pretty. No, I don’t want your kisses. Okay, so yes I do. Good girl.

Zoe’s story has a happy ending. Our daughter and granddaughter met Zoe one day while volunteering as dog walkers at the shelter. Our son was looking for a cattle dog and if Zoe, known then as Brianna…tilted her head a certain way, she could do a pretty darn good impression of one. Zoe was brought home that afternoon, and even with all the little ups and downs of her behavior, she has been such a joy. We love her dearly, and each day see her become more and more trusting.  It would be sad to think of all the affection and joy we would have missed out on if we’d given up on Zoe - if we’d considered her too much of a challenge or too much trouble. But the name “Zoe” means life, and our Zoe found a home for life.

 

                             *************************************************************** 

 

 

 

 “Albert”

                                             By Audra Myers

 

“Two dogs are enough, two large hairy dogs are more than enough,” is all my ex-husband Chris would say when I talked about getting a third dog. As if he actually did any housecleaning, what was he complaining about? But I must admit our Labs had a unique ability, especially my Miller, to shed a mountain of hair twenty-four hours a day and I could see his point.

We brought Miller home in February of 2000. He is a beautiful Yellow Lab weighing about 80 lbs, assuming he hasn’t gotten into our garbage can recently. We quickly discovered that Miller is the kind of dog that everyone wants, wonderfully tempered, sweet as can be, and able to let my then 6 year-old stepdaughter Sydney ride him like a horse and pull on his ears without so much as a groan. Any time I have been truly sad and upset, Miller has sat beside me with his head hung low, as if to say, “ I’m sad too, I don’t know why you’re sad, but I’ll be sad with you.” Miller has always been there for me. As my mom says, Miller’s an old soul and therefore very wise and observant. 

We adopted Hunter, our 70 lb. Black Lab two years later. A friend of ours, who was going through a tough time, lived with us for about a year along with his dog named Hunter.  Miller, although living the good life always being the center of attention, instantly became best friends with Hunter and shared the limelight. When the time came for our friend to move on, we all knew the two dogs could not be separated, and with his moving back to the city, our country setting was to be Hunter’s permanent home. Hunter is opposite to Miller in so many ways, more athletic, inquisitive and the leader on any hike, while Miller lags behind bouncing off my leg by walking so close he ends up tripping me half the time. The two dogs bring out the best in each other and we have enjoyed them immensely. 
 As I mentioned before my ex-husband Chris, having never had house dogs before our marriage, was happy with two dogs and wouldn‘t agree to a third. I on the other hand would have three or ten or more, but instead of bringing home every dog I saw, I had settled for volunteering at our local shelter, walking dogs. I am more than willing to help any dog I can, find a loving adoptive home. And of course, who better to adopt dogs but your own family. My parents and brother have both adopted dogs through our local shelter, two of which I recommended and their lives have been better for it.

 
It was just last September, while picking up my brother Brent‘s adopted Australian Cattle Dog from his neutering that I met who would later become our third dog. An adorable 12 lb. black bundle who had been left in the shelter’s 24 hour drop cage was pulling on the leash held by his volunteer walker, crying out for my attention. The puppy was an Italian Greyhound mix, about 4 months old, full of energy and great effort, despite an obvious extreme disability with his hind leg and paw. After only a brief visit, I dreamt of the adorable puppy that night and was back at the shelter the next day upon opening. I had to see him. My skeptical husband, never wanting a third dog, cried along with me when we heard the results of x-rays that confirmed that this sweet puppy had been injured and neglected. He no longer had proper function of muscles and tendons, and his little paw had healed backwards. We immediately adopted the puppy and named him Massey.

   Massey, as with our other dogs, quickly found his place, and became Hunter‘s little playmate. Although an absolute stinker, our bull-headed Massey was sweet and loving and my little buddy. Together, we battled the effects of his neglect like kennel cough, upset stomachs and worms and cuddled through bad nights when his bad dreams left him short of breath and exhausted. I took Massey everywhere and he soon became the best dressed at any function, Massey was my baby. We visited several vets searching for a way to better his mobility and finally gave in to the recommendations from all four vets that surgery was Massey’s only option. Just two short months after adoption, Massey had an operation to remove his hind leg, but sadly suffered complications in surgery and died. Almost as quickly as we had found him, he was gone and I was devastated.

I am amazed at how much one can learn from pets. Massey touched everyone who had met him. Grown men, with typical macho attitudes, expressed great concern and worry while saying they would pray for him when surgery became our only option. These men weren’t overly religious, yet they would pray for him! Massey was an inspiration and a blessing and he taught my husband and me that not only were we capable, but that we had to adopt another dog in his honor.      

My brother, God love him, and a good friend of his suggested looking for another Italian Greyhound on petfinder.com. For many days I half-heartedly searched the site, thinking I would never find another dog that pulled at my heart strings in the same way Massey did, and then I saw AL.      

Alberto, or as we now call him Albert, is a beautifully marked fawn and white Italian Greyhound weighing 15 lbs. When we found his listing, Al was in an IGRF foster home and had just days before been listed for adoption. Alberto‘s background was sad. He had been in an accident with his previous owners and had shattered both front legs. After two agonizing weeks, his owners, still unable to afford adequate veterinarian care relinquished him to the IGRF.  Initially, Albert was presumed as too far gone without treatment. Having only been splinted and with possible infections his prognosis was uncertain. But Albert had a wonderful foster mom who wouldn’t give up on him and by the hands of talented vets, his surgeries; titanium plates in both front legs, were a success. During recovery, Albert’s foster mom nursed him back to health and for months carried him around her house in a sling just so he wouldn‘t feel left out while her other nine foster IG‘s played. Albert’s amazing abilities today are a direct result of her love and devotion and we are forever grateful.

After learning of Alberto’s tragic background combined with his adorable online photo I knew not to look any further. An application was submitted and after a month of phone interviews and formalities, we were given the OK. My husband and step-daughter Sydney, now 13 years old, and I made the four-hour drive and after choosing a meeting place easy to find, waited anxiously in a store window to get our first glimpses of Alberto. Before he had made it across the parking lot we knew he was “Our AL.” The drive home was exciting as we began learning all of Albert’s cute personality traits, like unexpected random kisses and cuddling. That same night, Albert jumped up from the ground into my arms for the first time and he hasn’t stopped since. Many people have suggested discouraging this behavior but I absolutely love it and will gladly catch him every time. It’s Albert’s way of saying he wants to be near me, and he means up by my face not down by my feet. Albert quickly learned that he rules the roost and even antagonizes and puts our Labs in their place. Hunter and Miller, although much, much bigger, let him get away with it every time.

Albert’s daily life now consists of napping, playing, napping, snacks, cuddling with us and more napping. He has it made. We all bicker over who gets to cuddle with him next. A lover of covers, we check every afghan and blanket in the house now since you never know, he may be hidden underneath. But most days you’ll find him curled up in our bed, chewing on his rawhide or sitting behind me in my office chair. Albert is truly special and greatly loved and I thank Massey everyday for him, for I believe Massey opened our hearts and led us down the path that brought us to our Albert.  

 
Massey 2006