Bareit Is Ready for His Close-Up

I dithered about posting a link to the video the King County Library System made about how people (being, specifically, Scarecrow and me) use their library. However illusory the veil of Internet anonymity might be, I still find myself clinging to it. KCLS will probably make the video available from their website at some point anyway, but that’s OK because, really, how many people will find it there? Then I figured, what the heck? How many people will find it here?

The whippets, who have never been to the library and can’t even read, pretty much stole the show anyway. As you can imagine, there’s no living with them now.

Edited 12 March 2013, to remove the link to the video on Scarecrow's Facebook page, which was apparently protected by Facebook's privacy controls. (Facebook has privacy controls? Who knew?) Anyway, I'll post a functional link if/when KCLS makes it available from their website. If you'd like a preview, it's here, in PC and Mac format:

http://cardinalmedia.com/cardshares/KCLS-Symphony/

Edited some more on 17 March 2013, because I noticed the above link wasn't actually a link. Duh. I know you know how to get there anyway, but I try to be considerate about things like that.

Hang Time

It's almost a straight shot from the kitchen, through the living room, and down the hall. At first you just hear the thunder of whippet feet as they rip through the kitchen, then the frantic skratchel of their nails (whippets are hell on hardwood floors) as they accelerate towards the bedroom and gather themselves to leap…
…
……
………

After an improbably long silence they fly from the middle of the hall, through the door, across the bedroom, and 70-some pounds of whippets thump onto the bed. (For whippets, gravity isn't really a law. It's more of a guideline.) If you happen to be in the bed when they do this, particularly if you're asleep, it can be very exciting.

Where was I going with this?

I last posted not quite a year ago. In some ways, it's been a very eventful time. My mom died last January, in June Tuffy graduated from University of Washington, in July she left for Japan, to teach English to high school students, and Scarecrow and I became empty-nesters. In other ways, it seems like nothing much has changed at all. We still have two whippets. They are still thieving, cowardly, and disrespectful (as much as I would like to take credit for this wonderful if painfully accurate description, I got it from Terry Darlington, from whom I also appropriated the term "narrow dog". I am not clever. I admit it. I just steal from clever people). I still have MS. I still have an unhealthy obsession with stalking dead people.

So why now? Tuffy started a blog to record her adventures in Japan. I thought that would be motivation for me to start Howling again (not that we're competitive or anything), but it wasn't. Why now? Beats heck out of me. Really. It does.

Maybe it was because I came across an interesting article, and the only way I could think of to share it was to resurrect my blog. Who knows? An awful lot of bloggers don't have a reason, or seem to need one. Why should I be any different?

Where was I going with this?

Oh Say Can You See…

Oh say can you see
By the dawn's early light…

A day late and a dollar short, as usual. I hope any blogger buddies in the US had a festive fourth of July weekend, and I hope your dogs have recovered from the fireworks.

Our narrow dogs seem pretty blasé about the whole fireworks thing, which is odd considering how they can be totally wigged out by much more commonplace occurrences. Like running the vacuum cleaner. Or the power washer.

The other day Scarecrow was using the power washer to blast the moss off the roof. We knew Bareit had issues with this device, but his last experience with it was a while ago, and we thought he might've settled in to where it wouldn't be a problem anymore.

It was still a problem.

After Scarecrow went to work with the power washer, he realized Bareit was nowhere to be found. Even after the latest round of repairs and improvements, it seems he can still get through the fence whenever he wants. So Scarecrow went off to look for him.

A few minutes later, Bareit wandered through the office. I figured Scarecrow found him, let him into the house, and went back out to find out how he was getting through the fence.

A few minutes later, Scarecrow came in. He came back from looking for Bareit to find the click front door standing open, and both Bareit and Jasmine running around in front of the neighbor's house. Apparently, Bareit came home, let himself in, and in doing so, let Jasmine out. Fortunately, they were both very relieved to see Scarecrow, and raced him to the door.

They're never boring. And at least they're not afraid of fireworks.

As Dragon NaturallySpeaking interprets our national anthem:

José can you see
By the dawn's early light…

The Physics of Whippets

Bareit – formally known as Summit Grin and Bare It – is four years old today.

When he came here, he was not yet two years old. He'd been in five different homes – all kind, loving homes, but that's still a lot of different places to live in two years.

He was a little anxious and clingy; understandably so. Ernie, our unflappable greyhound, was a steadying influence and helped him settle in.

When Ernie died about this time last year, we became a two whippet family. Jasmine is sweet, charming, submissive, insecure, a little neurotic, butterfly-brained, and in constant motion (we call her Brownie). Bareit became the older dog, the one showing the new kid how things are done. He has grown into the role. He's handsome, confident, secure, and not nearly as naughty as he used to be. He still likes to roughhouse, which Jasmine does not, and he likes to play Chase Me, which Scarecrow was never very good at but Jasmine enjoys very much. He still likes to take his toys, and the occasional odd item of clothing, outside to play with, and leave wherever he happens to lose interest.

Bareit is still teaching us about the whippet concept of space and time. I don't understand how a whippet can be on either side of a fence, seemingly at will. We're still working on that.

Whippets believe it is possible for two bodies to occupy the same space at the same time. It wasn't possible to demonstrate this concept until we had two whippets, because Ernie wasn't having any of it.

We don't understand it, but find it hugely entertaining.

Happy birthday, little buddy.

Mayday! Mayday!!

Hal an' tow, jolly rumble-o,
Leap an' caper all befor' the day-o!

Oh wait. That was yesterday.

Well, I really did imagine pulling out the old Morris kit, putting on the vest, tying on the bells, and dancing the sun up. I must've done a good job of it, too, because we had a beautiful spring day yesterday. Today, of course, it's back to being gloomy and gray and leaky. And I've got the Fools Jig tune stuck in my head. Appropriately and, apparently, permanently.

Scarecrow spent the weekend ridin' fence. I always thought that was a chore associated with containing livestock, but maybe the phrase 'little dogies' pertains to whippets, too. They had all day yesterday to test his repairs. Of course they didn't, because we were home. They were quite happy to hang out in a sunny spot in the yard with the rest of the pack. Today will be the test.

When Scarecrow came in, grubby and sweaty, from working in the yard, I realized how much I miss being able to do that. Not fixing fence – that's never a fun job – but generally grubbing around outside, getting dirty. Running or hiking or riding a bike, and coming in sweaty enough to have to quarantine my clothes. Pulling weeds! Death to blackberries! (If you're not from around here, Himalayan blackberry is an invasive species that is attempting to use the Pacific Northwest as a base from which to take over the planet.) Death to English ivy! (Ditto.) In addition to being cathartic, ripping out weeds is a great way to get dirty. Planting vegetables and herbs and flowers. Watering and weeding and sticking my fingers in the dirt for no reason at all. Having to leave muddy shoes at the door, and use a brush to scrub the dirt out from under fingernails. It's hard to come up with a way to get really dirty these days. I'll have to work on that.

Happy belated Bealtaine!

Return to Jurassic Park

When Tuffy got home from class yesterday, she found a note on the door saying that our dog had been running loose in the street, and had nearly been hit by a car. Bareit, clearly the subject of the note and clearly still loose, greeted Tuffy at the front door.

Crap.

If there's a way to keep this darned dog in when he wants to be out, we obviously haven't figured out how to do it. Although I admit our fence needs work, it was good enough to keep two greyhounds safely contained for three years. If Bareit wants out, he's out in about five minutes. He's been over it, under it, and, most recently, through it. Fortunately, he usually runs to the front door and waits to be let in. Sometimes he doesn't, and that's bad. It makes me queasy to think about him running in the street.

When I lived in Laingsburg, Michigan, on any crisp fall afternoon I could count on Maggie Blue to make a break for it. She was an English setter, and she lived for birds. If I wasn't going to take her out to look for them, she'd go by herself. We lived on 5 acres, surrounded by corn fields amply populated by ringnecked pheasants. There was a very entertaining pen full of quail behind house, and a bunch of fat, slow chickens. The road that went by our house got little traffic, and although there was little reason for her to go that way, I was still terrified that Maggie and a car would somehow wind up in the same place at the same time. (Never happened. She moved with me to Lansing, and later to Seattle, where she lived to a ripe old age.)

The street we live on now isn't the autobahn, but it carries a lot more traffic than a road in rural Michigan. And really, it only takes one car, coming along at the right time, to make a dog seriously flat.

Scarecrow erected a temporary barricade last night, confining the wandering whippet to the least permeable part of the yard. Seriously, if he can get out of this, I really don't know what else we can do. He won't get as much exercise, but at least he'll be alive to get fat.

The little s#!t.

Squirrel!

I sound the alarm!
Sneaky squirrel on our fence,
Come to kill us all!

EeerrrrwwrrowrrRRRrrwroooowrr...

It's quite a sound. I can't really describe it. The first time I heard it, I thought one of the dogs was in great physical distress; perhaps being disemboweled. Now I know that's not it. It's more like, "I need to be someplace and I'm going as fast as I can, but it's not fast enough."

EeerrrrwwrrowrrRRRrrwroooowrr...

A moment before, the ever-vigilant whippets might've been perched on the couch, ceaselessly scanning the horizon for intruders. From this vantage point, they can maintain surveillance through both the dining room and living room windows. Although these dogs typically have the attention span of a gnat on crack, they will carry out this visual patrol for hours at a stretch, on the alert for the least glimpse of a tiny paw, or nose, or the flash of a tail.

EeerrrrwwrrowrrRRRrrwroooowrr...

When one of them spots their quarry, or thinks they do, their legs are scrambling at maximum speed before they even touch the ground. It takes a moment before their flailing limbs gain purchase on the hardwood floor. Imagine Wile E. Coyote, taking off across the desert in a cloud of dust. It's like that. They're here, then they're both heading for the door at maximum whippet speed, which is really very fast. It's like watching a flock of birds, or a school of fish. How do they all turn at the same time like that, without running into each other? It's like two dogs with one brain. Pretty impressive in one way, but in another way, maybe not so much. I mean, two dogs, with half a brain each?

EeerrrrwwrrowrrRRRrrwroooowrr...

They drift sideways as they take the turn from the dining room into the kitchen, scrabbling for traction on the much-abused hardwood. Imagine the Doppler effect on their doggy siren as they negotiate the chicane through the kitchen and laundry room, and jostle for position as they approach the (narrow) dog door. Not being able to keep up with a whippet I never actually see this part of the pursuit, but Jasmine, being at a significant weight disadvantage, probably gets bumped out of the way. The slap of the door flap, and they take off across the deck.

Thunderthunderthunderthunderthunderthunder…

By the time the whippets race the length of the house, yowling the whole way, the squirrel is long gone. I haven't actually heard the squirrels snicker and chortle from their place safely beyond whippet reach, but I'm sure they do.

A couple of minutes later our tireless guardians trot back inside, hop back up on their perch, and the whole thing starts again.

And there's the male robin who, impelled by his annual case of testosterone poisoning, is determined to drive his reflection in our kitchen window away from the territory he has claimed. Every time the dogs hear him bonk against the window, they go streaking outside to keep us safe from robins. Since the robin starts bonking against the window as soon as it's light enough for him to see the evil interloper, the ever-vigilant whippets begin the day by tearing outside, taking the sheets and blankets from the bed with them.

Ah, spring.

*Apologies for the riff on Doggy haiku

Dog Years

In response to the folks who read my last post and tried to convert my age in dog years to people years, there really isn't a simple linear equivalence. Dogs are sexually mature at six months to a year, which might correspond to human of about 13. They're physically mature at two or three years, comparable to a human in their late teens or early 20s. They're mentally mature at, well, don't hold your breath. For either species. A dog might start to show its age at 7 to 9 years, like a human who can start taking advantage of the senior discount at the movies.

But it's not that simple. While small dogs tend to mature faster and live longer than large dogs, the relationship between size or weight and longevity isn't linear, either. Some breeds typically live longer than others of similar size. It all depends. If you're really interested, and not just trying to guess how old I am, here is a pretty good summary.

My conversion algorithm is proprietary, based on an imaginary giant breed with a mature weight in the neighborhood of 150 pounds. Among other inherited tendencies, the breed is prone to skeletal problems due to its bizarre tendency to walk on its hind legs. Which is to say, I just made it up. Truly, I don't feel a day over 435.

Aside from the birthday thing I wouldn't usually give my age that much thought, had I not picked up a webcam to use to try out a hands-free mouse. Those things are brutal! (The webcam, I mean, not the hands-free mouse. The mouse is kind of remarkable, about which more another time.) Seriously, I have never been under the impression that I look like Charlize Theron and I'm totally OK with that, but one of the advantages of rarely confronting oneself in the mirror was being able to imagine that I was aging gracefully, you know, along the lines of a Jessica Tandy or Jane Goodall. According to my new webcam, this is not the case.

But for 443, I look pretty darn good.

Two Dog Night

It's starting to get cold here at night. Cold for Seattle, that is. It's not the same as Michigan-cold, of course, but cold enough for narrow dogs that don't carry much adipose tissue or fur for insulation. Although we provide them with dog beds, they prefer to sleep in a pile with the rest of their pack. On our bed.

Or more accurately, in our bed. They bring their wet fur and gritty little feet and cold pointy noses in from outside and hover expectantly until Scarecrow lifts the covers, letting in a rush of cold air, and they burrow to the foot of the bed, jostling for the best spot, between the humans. It can be very bracing.

If Scarecrow doesn't lift the covers, either because he's asleep or because he doesn't want the bed to be infested with cold wet whippets, one of them will insert a pointy little nose under the edge of the blankets and, in an attempt to get under the covers without assistance, will bulldoze them into a pile at the bottom of the bed with its head and possibly its shoulders under the pile. Alternatively, one of them will tromp around on top of the bed until the covers are in a small heap, and will then lay down on the heap.

Best to let them in. They warm up before too long.

After a while, the mattress starts to vibrate. They're panting. It's only a matter of time before one of them stands up and jumps off the bed, taking the covers with them.

I've read speculation that one of the benefits that canine domestication offered to both species was that sleeping together would conserve heat.

I'm not buying it.

On an unrelated note, I had another birthday yesterday. It kind of snuck up on me. You lose track, once you get to my age. That would be... let me think... 443. In dog years. But I really don't feel a day over 435.

Bareit's Busy Day

Jasmine is not really all that fond of squeaky toys. Nylabones are OK. Dental chewies are nice. Scarecrow's knitting bag, however, is irresistible.

This is what we found when we came home the other day:

Bareit was obviously involved in this escapade. He likes to take his toys outside. Through the dining room...

 

Into the kitchen...

 

Through the kitchen to the utility room...

 

Through the utility room...

Out the (narrow) dog door...

Around the corner...

And out into the yard.

Note to whippets: if you want Scarecrow to finish your new sweaters before the weather gets cold, you'll want to stop doing this, even if he forgets to put his knitting bag were you can't reach it. Assuming there is such a place.

Weenie Whippet

The other morning I was lying in bed, trying to pretend it wasn't morning yet. Scarecrow, having fed the dogs and started the coffee, had progressed to the bathroom phase of his morning routine.

Suddenly, from the other end of the house I heard a prolonged, agonized SCREEEEAMM!! followed by chesty, I Am a Very Big Dog!!-sounding barking.

WTF?

Scarecrow obviously didn't hear it, couldn't hear me, and there wasn't a darn thing I could do about it besides imagine a rat... or a squirrel... no, an opossum... no, maybe a raccoon! coming through the dog door. I have a very active imagination, but none of the things I was imagining would be good. Scarecrow was still in the bathroom.

Presently, everything was quiet. Jasmine trotted down the hall and jumped on the bed. No sign of copious blood loss. I know Bareit was in his crate, so unless our local vermin are very determined and exceptionally talented, he was OK.

WTF?

I never realized how long Scarecrow spends in the bathroom in the morning.

Anyway, when he finally came out, I told him what I had heard and suggested he might want to go down and check it out.

He found a mouse in the kitchen sink. Munched.

Apparently Jaz encountered the mouse in the course of her usual morning inspection of the kitchen counter. The mouse, being outweighed some 300 to 1, got the worst of it, but didn't go down without a fight. I'm pretty sure it wasn't the mouse I heard screaming. It was our weenie whippet.

So far, the effectiveness of various mouse eradication systems we have implemented stack up as follows:

• kitchen trash can     4 (that I know of)
• mousetrap              1
• whippet                 1

If we were to award a score for drama, however, the whippet would definitely win. it's a good thing she's cute.

Gotta Want It

There have been times in my life when I knew that pursuing a particular course of action would invite ridicule, and test my capacity to endure public humiliation. Sometimes I did it anyway. If I wanted it bad enough.

An example that comes painfully to mind was competing in obedience trials with a Gordon setter. Although Gordons are lovely dogs, people looking for an obedience prospect don't typically choose one, for good reason. It's not that they're stupid. They've just been bred to have, how shall we say?, an independent turn of mind. In consequence, commands are likely to be perceived as suggestions. Instant and unquestioning obedience will never be at the top of their list of priorities. That's just the way they are. I knew that.

On top of this, the individual at the center of this story was a born clown. She was never happier than when she was the center of attention. She loved to make people laugh. You can imagine where this is going, and that's pretty much the way it went. Her interpretation of commands issued when she had the show ring all to herself were amazingly creative and, I admit, pretty darned funny, although it took me a while to appreciate the humor. She collected a devoted gallery of spectators who could be counted on to show up at ringside to see what she would come up with this time. She eventually earned an obedience title, even ranking among the top 10 Gordons in obedience in the nation that year, although it might only have been the top seven or eight, since I'm not sure there were 10 Gordons competing in obedience that year because most people know better than to try this. In the pursuit of this goal, I learned that my capacity for public humiliation is greater than I ever imagined. Gotta want it.

I don't remember when I last could pick up a cup and drink out of it like a normal person. It was that long ago. I'm almost getting used to drinking everything with a straw. Coffee, hot as well as iced. Wine. Beer. Scotch. But a straw only solves part of the problem. A drink with a straw is still no use to me unless it's sitting on a table where I can reach it by bending over (a maneuver of which I suspect Emily Post would never approve), or there's somebody to hold it for me. What I wanted was a way to drink wherever I happened to be, without having to pester anybody for help. Preferably without creating a spectacle, although I can do spectacle, if need be.

I didn't expect it to be that hard. I am not, after all, the first quadriplegic on the planet. I wasn't surprised that the bountiful array of cupholders available for walkers or wheelchairs generally assume the user can extract the cup from the holder and convey it to the user's mouth. Most people can, but that's not what I need. We could rig something with a mic stand and boom, but I was hoping to find something a little more portable. I eventually located only two commercially-available devices that would attach to my chair or a table and hold a drink where I could get to it. Only one looked like it might work for me.

This particular example of assistive technology was intended to clamp onto a stroller or crib and hold a baby bottle, hence the Fisher-Price color scheme. So much for being inconspicuous. There was no choice of color. The plastic clamp is about as sturdy as it appears in the picture, which is to say, not very. It can support maybe 12 ounces of liquid in a lightweight cup. My 16-oz double-wall stainless steel insulated coffee cup with a full load of coffee is definitely not happenin'. It's huge and bright yellow and looks like, well, like a baby bottle holder. But it works. Scarecrow can load it up and go about his business, and I can drink whenever I want. I had forgotten how cool that was. If it makes my ginormous black Robo-monster power chair look even more ridiculous than it did before, Ch. MacTyke's Heartbreaker CD showed me I can deal with worse than that. Way worse than that.

In Patrick's immortal words, "Freedom is always fashionable." You've just gotta want it.

Mighty Hunters

Note to local squirrels: whippets are really fast.

Note to whippets: squirrels bite.



PS to note to whippets: if you get past the bitey part, squirrels make a noise kind of like a squeaky toy.

PPS to note to whippets: the squeaker doesn't last very long.

Greyhound Gig

One of the things on my list of Things to Do After I Retire was to volunteer for something. It seemed like a good idea. Isn't that what everybody says they're going to do after they retire? One ought to make a contribution somehow, oughtn't one, even if one isn't paid for it? The trick would be finding something I can actually do.

The obvious victim was Greyhound Pets, Inc. Scarecrow and I have volunteered with this group since we adopted our first retired racer in 1997, but haven't been as active lately as we used to be. We used to host regular meet-and-greets at local pet supply stores and a nearby shopping center, and I can't do that very well anymore. We played music for their annual adoption fair, and I can't do that anymore at all. Their current webmaster has everything under control, thankyouverymuch. I wouldn't be much help at the kennel. It was not entirely clear to me what I could do, volunteer-wise.

As it turns out, GPI needs a newsletter editor.

Hey, I can do that!

Ironically, since we lost our last greyhound a couple of months ago, I'm editing The Bark. I don't think I'm overcommitted. Due to budgetary constraints, it only comes out twice a year and it's only 16 pages long. There are three people working on it. The next issue doesn't come out until November. It's not a high-stress job. I can do this.

It's kind of nice to have a deadline again.

The Lung Vac

Seems like I've had a flurry of doctor appointments lately. Two weeks ago, I checked in with the rehab medicine guy. Since I was whining about being short of breath, he referred me to a guy in the pulmonary clinic. I expected it would be a total waste of everybody's time; they would listen to my chest, decide I didn't have pneumonia or asthma, and send me on my way. The rehab guy allowed as how that might be the case, but said he was referring me to somebody with a particular interest in neuromuscular disorders. I was pretty sure they wouldn't find anything wrong, and if they did, there wouldn't be anything they could do about it. But I went.

So last week I show up at the pulmonary clinic. After some puffing and blowing, they tell me my lung capacity is about 50% of normal, and ask if I have any trouble coughing. Well, yeah, as it happens, I do. Giving in to my penchant for overstatement (hyperbole is the best thing ever!), I tell them I'm afraid if I ever get a respiratory infection, I'm toast. So they make me an appointment with a respiratory therapist.

So on Monday I see the respiratory therapist. After some more puffing and blowing, he tells me if I ever get a respiratory infection, I'm toast. Somehow it's more disquieting, coming from him. He gives me a thing that looks like a purple balloon with a hose, and takes Scarecrow and me through some exercises that he describes as range of motion for the lungs. Then he pulls up a machine that is basically a vacuum cleaner with a mask attached. It blows air into your lungs, then sucks it out. It feels... weird. It sounds like, well, like a vacuum cleaner.

The dogs are going to hate this.

Mighty Hunters

The wolves are on the prowl. Narrow wolves, but wolves all the same.

Tuffy is off at the gym. Scarecrow just left to run some errands. The front door clicks shut. No sooner does the sound of the van fade into the distance than I hear narrow little feet trot down the hall towards the kitchen, circle through the utility room, past the dog food bin, back to the kitchen and dining room, down the hall to see if Tuffy left her door open, back up the hall, a quick sweep through the living room, and back to the kitchen. The sharp click of narrow feet on tile means they were scoping out the kitchen counter. A resonant thump on hardwood indicates that anything toothsome that might have been on the dining room table is there no longer. If any of these are followed by the sound of gnawing, I can only hope their hunt came up empty, and they had to settle for a Nylabone. I can usually tell. Paper towels or napkins shred into little tiny bits without much sound. The rustle of a plastic bag or the rending of fabric is probably bad.

At this stage, the slap of the dog door most likely means they found something interesting enough to haul out into the yard. I really hope they didn't find any toilet paper. If it's Tuffy's underwear again, she's really going to be pissed, but maybe she'll stop leaving her laundry on top of the washing machine.



I suppose I should follow them around, telling them "No!" or "Off!" or "Leave it!", as appropriate, even if I know they'll be back into it as soon as my chair is turned. But by the time I catch up with them the hunt is over, the mighty hunters asleep on the couch, or in a patch of sun in the yard, awaiting the return of the rest of our pack. If they ate something, it's been eaten. If they chewed something up, it's already chewed. If they TPd the yard again, at least it's not raining.

Still in the Middle

There is progress, however slow, on several fronts:

We met with the wheelchair guy on Tuesday. He made a list of the bits we will need...

Whoa, wait... there's a bald eagle soaring outside my window...

OK, where was I?

... the bits we will need to drive my chair using a head array control. The next step is to figure out how much they will cost, and how much of that my insurance will cover. This ball is not in my court.

We met with the rehab medicine guy yesterday. I could (and did) report that we were working on a different method of self propulsion (Yesss!), we were in the process of setting up home/respite care (Yesss!), and the referral to the pulmonologist hadn't happened yet, but it's not my fault. The clinic is supposed to call to set up an appointment. This ball is not in my court.

In a few minutes we'll be leaving to meet one of the home care folks. I'm sure they'll be very nice.

Constant vigilance has prevented Jasmine from causing extensive property damage or incurring large vet bills, but on a couple of occasions Tuffy turned her back on partially-constructed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Jaz took them apart and was caught licking off the jelly. But she's very sweet...

In the Middle of Everything

I suppose being in the middle of something, while not as emotionally satisfying and morally laudable as having finished, is better than not having started it yet.

Project: Come up with a different way to control my power chair before I'm trampled flat (again) by the Red Queen.

Status: Given that these projects always take longer than you expect, probably not as far along as I'd like to think. I spent the weekend trying out a loaner chair outfitted with a head array control. I decided it will eventually work better for me than a joystick, which is unfortunately not saying a great deal. The next step is to find out how much it might cost to outfit my current chair with such a thing. The first step in the next step is to meet with Mike the wheelchair guy again. We're doing that tonight.

Project: Arrange for backup/respite home care.

Status: I called up a couple of the places on the list of referrals we got from the MS society. We'll meet with one later this week, another early next week. I'm playing phone tag with a third place. I admit the thing that finally got me moving on this was that the last time I saw the Rehab Medicine guy, two months ago, I assured him I would take care of it. I've got an appointment with him on Wednesday. I find shame and humiliation to be very effective motivators. But hey, it's better than not having started it yet.

Project: Acquaint new pack member with the rudiments of civilized behavior.

Status: We're not there yet. For such a narrow dog, she's kind of a mooch at meal times. Her taste in literature, while enviably broad, apparently prompted her to devour a couple of Tuffy's books. Scarecrow found little doggy footprints in the kitchen sink this morning. But she's very sweet...

Why Do We Have So Many Dog Beds?

Whippets have no concept of personal space.

Ernie was not a particularly standoffish greyhound; he just preferred to have a bed to himself. All of our other greyhounds, of either gender, always felt the same way. One dog, one bed. In training and on the track, greyhounds are accustomed to having their own kennel space. When they first come off the track, some retired racers can be pretty testy about being approached where they sleep. Although Ernie was never crabby when Bareit invaded his personal space, he always resignedly got up and went off to sleep someplace else.

It was a thing Bareit could never understand. It's just not part of the whippet mindset. The boys got along fine in every other respect, but their preferences in this regard were irreconcilable.

With two whippets, it's different.

Giada (her registered name is Apex Everyday Italian -- her breeder is a Food Network fan) is now Jasmine, or Jaz. She seems to be settling in fine, thanks for asking. Like Bareit, she's a washout from the show ring. Bareit didn't have the temperament to be a show dog; Jaz didn't have the body. When they're playing in the yard, she doesn't understand why Bareit's always chasing her. Bareit doesn't understand why she's always running away. They'll figure it out. The two of them are well on their way to becoming a dog unit. Jaz is very fond of Tuffy, who is flattered by her attention. Although she's still on her best behavior, she has the potential to be a world-class counter surfer and Bareit's capable partner in creative mischief.

From years of habit we still set out one bed for each dog, but I'm thinking we can reclaim some of our floor space. One greyhound-sized dog bed can probably accommodate 6-8 whippets. Maybe more.

One full-size human bed can accommodate two adult humans and two whippets, although the sharing of covers is a matter of perpetual negotiation. And whippets never have enough pillows.

Bareit's New Buddy

Timing is everything.

Although Bareit was doing surprisingly well as an only dog, we really wanted him to have some company during the day. Greyhound Pets recently brought in 22 dogs from Oklahoma. They'll be available for adoption in a couple of weeks, after they've been vetted, neutered, etc. We expected that one of them would become Bareit's new buddy. Really, what's the chance that we'd come across a whippet looking for new digs sooner than that?

Like Bareit, Giada is a refugee from the show ring. She's a sweet little thing, petite and fine-boned. Next to her, Bareit looks like a tank and sounds like he's stomping his feet when he trots down the hall. They got along fine.

What are the chances?

Scarecrow now has two little red and white shadows.