Thursday, March 25, 2010
Also, he eats crayons.
This is Bullie. I'm watching him right now as I type this. He's just getting a drink, not doing anything spectacular. In a moment, he'll finish and wander around until he remembers his bed. As I'm watching him, he's swaying, shifting his find around, losing and regaining his balance, wobbling. And there he goes, down the hall. His bed isn't there; he'll remember that in a minute.
He loves to nest, to kick the stuffing out of the pile of blankets he sleeps on. He prefers to arrange things so that his head is elevated. He can watch us moving without needing to do more than open his eyes.
About three years ago, I saw a post on a greyhound forum about an emergency foster situation nearby. The only information I have is this: Bullie had his own apartment. His owner of six years was first hospitalized and then, after surviving, placed in rehabilitation. It's my understanding a kind landlady spent a couple of weeks walking him once or twice a day and making sure he had food and water. When she could no longer assume that responsibility, she called a rescue.
The idea of a shy old boy of eight years, already lonely and uncertain, having to spend time in an adoption kennel just broke my heart. He's not one of those young playful showy dogs that has a chance at getting homed immediately. No one wanted him to end there, alone. The rescue folks were so compassionate. He was close, so I shrugged and said we'd foster him.
Ha ha ha. Right. Dummy. We decided pretty quickly he was better off staying with us than getting shuffled around again. And he just has not been any trouble.
He's a little senile, we think. He growls anxiously at Lanie and Drive, for no reason we can discern. He stumbles. His hind end sinks like the Lusitania. He's constantly high on Tramadol these days, and we know we're witnessing his sunset. I am so glad he'll see even just a little of the summer. Nothing has ever made him happier than lying in the sunshine. He has that greyhound quirk of lying down wherever the hell he feels like it, regardless of what I am trying to do.
Like walk him, for example.
His affection for us is an honor.