Woobie.

Meeting Drive was my mom's first experience with a greyhound. I packed him into the car and drove to her house. He had only been with me a week or two, but my mother loved dogs so much and I wanted to show off my big new baby. There were two things about him that surprised her.

One, his fur is soft as bunnies. Bunnies who use conditioner, even. He is precious to touch. (When he's clean.)

And two, well.. Trailing his leash through her house, he managed to step on it with one back paw. We watched as he stopped short with a confused little yelp. If he moved his foot, his neck got pulled on, and if he tried to move forward his foot got yanked! He was incredibly distressed by the whole thing, and began crying in earnest after several minutes of being trapped, unable to figure out he just needed to lift his foot. I had to help him.

Not an intellectual.

Paleface

Helper Monkey

Drive honestly doesn't have many bad habits. I mean, he cries piteously to tell us he needs to go out. He cries piteously if he runs out of water, kibble, attention, space on the couch. He cries extra-piteously if the temperature dips too low in the house. But crying isn't a bad habit! It's how babies communicate, and it's how Drive conveys his every need or thought. If I look at him, tilt my head and say his name, he will sometimes get concerned and start whining. I'll have to get video of that.

But maybe digging through the recycling in the middle of the night to find the cardboard egg cartons he so dearly loves to shred and spit everywhere could be considered a bad habit.

What? I'm sitting!

Whoops.

Drive's Mumma wishes to apologize for any blog posts she may have made that suggested greyhounds are anything less than intelligent and handsome beasts, graceful and elegant and certainly magnanimous enough to stop licking the couch in a depressed funk about a funny picture or two.

Stay classy, Drive.

He thought Friday would never come.