Sandy Paws Wrap Up or "I told you I'd blog that!"

Screaming at the beach is gnome-much fun!
Photo Courtesy of K. Lazenby

In its own unique way, Sandy Paws time has come and gone again.  We spend weeks on Facebook and in text messages and emails planning and laughing and looking forward to seeing each other.  We despair that we only see each other once a year.  We arrive, and from that moment on there is hugging and laughing and screaming and cheering and spending money and all the exciting things we've looked forward to for the past 364 days.

And it is gone, it is over, in the blink of tearful eyes.  Even though this year my time at Sandy Paws was infinitely more challenging due to the addition of one big furry puppy who only has manners when she pleases, it was still gone and over too fast, and we were heading back up I-95 to our lives and jobs.  How does that happen?  Why can't the enjoyment last as long as the anticipation?  I find myself now back in those 364 days, waiting for Sandy Paws 2015 when I can see my FTH family again...hopefully with a much better behaved Bryn next year.

Now, on to the part of the weekend that made me put my "I'm Gonna Blog That" face on:

I will admit that in the past I have been one of those greyhound owners that I'm about to talk about...and I will extend my heartfelt apologies to anyone that owns a little dog or a big dog or any other kind of non-greyhound or non-sighthound dog that has come to a greyhound event and gotten the Hairy Eyeball from me.  I found out on this trip just how unpleasant even the most well-meaning people can be when they identify your dog as Other or NotAGreyhound and make a point of either looking at you like you've got four heads or telling you how to manage your dog in the sea of apparently ravenous high prey drive greyhounds ahead.  I mean really...I think if we did a survey of the dogs that attended Sandy Paws this year you would find that a great many of them live...are you ready? WITH OTHER BREEDS or even...gasp...CATS AND OTHER SPECIES.

Now, don't get me wrong, I have known, loved, and lived with some real Cat-Zappers.  I saw a foster dog catch my cat in his front paws in mid-air.  I know the possibilities.  But for crying out loud...the reception that Anne and I got when we entered the conference center with Millie (Boston terrier who lives with a greyhound and a bloodhound and was NOT on a flexi-lead, thankyouverymuch) and Bryn (wild-eyed Irish Wolfhound puppy of a mere 9 months who is still not sure about everyone and everything she meets) was less than welcoming.  Granted, not all of the almost 200 people that attended know me personally and/or know that I have a greyhound as well as the Big Hairy Beastie that came with me to Sandy Paws, but it's a good guess that I do IF I AM THERE.

Here are just a few things to chew on if you happened to be in the vicinity of the traveling circus that is me, Anne, and our Nons at the Jekyll Island conference center over the Sandy Paws weekend.

1. The fact that Bryn pulls me around is not funny, really.  It happens when you have a puppy brain in a 97lb body attached to an owner with the upper body strength of a Keebler Elf (to borrow from Sheldon Cooper).  It is a little embarrassing, to be honest, because I've never owned a dog like her before and am still learning the best way for both of us to be able to walk calmly and pleasantly.

2. My wolfhound is not going to eat your (fill in name of other breed here) as long as I am still attached to her and/or am conscious.  There is no need to glare at me or pull your greyhound around on the other side of you to protect your precious greyhound from Bryn.  In fact, you may be called out on your Death Glare if we happen to see you do it.

3. I understand that not everyone likes big dogs.  But for heaven's sake, y'all...this is a sighthound gathering and the hound in question is not an Italian Greyhound!  I'm assuming that most of the people there have at least a passing familiarity with sighthounds that are at least 50lbs and some much more than that (not always because they are big boys, either, but that's another blog for another day).

4. If I tell you that Bryn needs some space then she needs some space.  It doesn't matter how many whatevers you have raised/bred/raced/whatever in your day, I know my dog better than you do.  End of.  I appreciate all the offers for help over the weekend from everyone (including my friend Brian who asked me to let Bryn come running at him...which I did) and the compliments were fab for her and me.  It's hard to believe she has only been in my life for just under 5 months...feels like 5 years some days.

5. A Boston Terrier on a stationary leash that is being held by her owner is probably owned by someone savvy about the prey drives of greyhounds and other sighthounds and will NOT be putting her dog or anyone else's in a dangerous position, at least not consciously.  A person who brings a small breed into a sighthound event on a flexi lead is a different matter, but that, again, is a blog for another day.

Overall we had so much fun...Bryn slept most of the way home when she wasn't trying to chew on her Auntsie's ears or get in the front with Millie.  My FTH family is more precious to me than I can express and even now, as I sit here typing, the thought of THEM...the thought of US...it brings tears to my eyes at how important we all are to each other.

Metrognomes of the world, unite.  Onward and upward...to Mountain Hounds if not before!  (You can see pictures of Bryn at SP14 on her blog, Our Daily Bryn, beginning with the entry for 26 March.)

In which I rant, and then make a promise...and hope for some happy.

Jumbled desk, clear head.

This has been spring break week where I work, which means the students are off enjoying sun and fun and whatever else you do when you need some time off from hard work.  I will be doing that very thing NEXT week on Thursday and Friday as I will be at Sandy Paws again...where my heart lives and my friends gather, where I was introduced to my Mei Mei for the first time and where I will present her story, An American Greyhound in Yorkshire, to those who know and love her almost as much as I do.

As a result of the students being away, my workload has been different this week, and I was looking forward to it being time when I could do some professional development because I just don't have the money to go to all the workshops and conferences that I would like to attend.  A lot of my self improvement comes from watching recorded workshops and talks given by the leaders in my field and especially by the Deaf Community members that if nothing else give me a chance to see good, clear, beautiful ASL.  Also, I thought I'd have a chance to catch up on some reading for the classes I caption because, as we should know, you can't caption or interpret what you don't understand...at least not in a way that is beneficial to your students.

Well.  It seems that sort of thing has become Not A Good Use Of My Time and equates to "You're not doing anything important."  Direct quote.  I can shrug that off.  I know that the person who said that doesn't really get what I do...no one that isn't an interpreter or captionist really does, truth be told.  Those of you Lettuce Readers that have ever worked as a staff interpreter anywhere can relate, I'm sure, to the raised eyebrows and suspicious looks you get when you say something needs a team of interpreters or that you've just returned from a difficult interpretation and you need a little down time to get your head back on straight.  I expect that sort of lack of understanding and for the most part have come to accept it as part of working for someone else.

What I don't accept is hearing from multiple co-workers that the same person I mentioned before is discussing with THEM how I'm not doing anything constructive and that I need to be given busy work.  I can't just ignore it, when I've also been told that I can't have my office anywhere other than in the main office because employees can't be trusted to do their work if they can't been seen face to face.  What?

I hope it won't come as a surprise to anyone that reads the Lettuce that the job I'm in now isn't what I want to be doing until I retire.  If for no other reason, I have no plans to retire in the United States.  We are here now because we need to be, but when that need is no longer we will leave and go back to somewhere we both feel more comfortable.  But also there is this tiny little person, this continuous, nagging voice that asks me what I'm doing here when I really want to be a writer.  I love interpreting, I love the Deaf Community and I love the language, but I also love writing and storytelling.  I want to make my living sitting in front of a computer and getting all those stories out of my head and into the hands of others.

A very good friend of mine has taken her first steps toward creating a photography business.  Another friend already owns her own interpreting business.  Why not me?  So here, right now in this blog (because once you write it on the tinter'webs you can't take it back), I'm promising you, the handful that read the Lettuce, that I'm going to do what I have to do starting now to make that dream a reality.  All the reasons why I shouldn't, like I'm waiting for Hubs to get a full time job or I'm waiting to pay down that credit card or I'm waiting to make sure that X, Y, and Z are handled...all those things are killing my happy, and I'm not going to keep doing that.  I'm going to climb out from under the bus I've been thrown under and make a go of this. I've said it here before but not followed through...but this is the year I follow through.  This is the year.  This is my happy, and I think that I deserve it.

Watch this space...

In which I rant...about money...or the lack thereof...

Me at Traitor's Gate, Tower of London, a photo by Nancy Dunne on Flickr.

Right, so last week, as everyone knows, the Southern United States was blanketed with the horror known as Winter Weather. I think at our house we had between 5-6 inches of snow plus a healthy dose of ice on top of that. Everything came to a screeching halt, as it should have done, because down here we get that kind of weather so infrequently it doesn't make financial sense for cities and towns to have the equipment to deal with it.

I will say that again, so that those of you sniggering at us for our panic over what you consider to be a daily event can digest it and move on and stop with the ridiculous comments.  It does not make financial sense for us to have the equipment to deal with snow because we get a large amount so very infrequently.  It has nothing to do with how well or poorly we can drive.  We good? Right.

Well, on those two days as might have been expected, the University where I work was closed. The roads were awful and I was thankful that my employer thought that my life was more important than forcing me to drive the 65 miles round trip to get to work because the buses weren't running.

I was thankful until we got word that the governor is not going to grant us leave with pay for those two days. Oh, sorry, that doesn't make sense, does it? In this state, if state offices are closed it is up to the governor to decide if we are given the time off with pay or if we have to use our accrued leave time (of which I have none, I'm not that sort of employee sadly) OR make up the time by the next pay period.

The last week of January saw the first of the Winter Weather and Clemson was closed for a full day (plus two hours the day prior). The governor "forgave" that time so that we didn't have to make it up or use our leave time. Really I could have made it into work that day, but other parts of the state were not so lucky and so it was a good call on her part to close the state offices and a nice thing that she didn't make us make up that time.

Last week it was IMPOSSIBLE for a great many of us to get into work and it was another good call to not only close state offices but declare a state of emergency. But not forgive the time? Really?

The third option is to take leave without pay. Now I'm sure that the governor and many state employees, even those that work in my office, could miss two days of pay out of one check and not even miss it. Me? Notsomuch. Two days means late bills and cutting out groceries and such. We are not destitute but we are not rich either.

I went to the governor's website to see if there was any statement about the leave time or even a place to lodge a complaint. What I found was a proud statement hailing her as the most fiscally conservative governor that South Carolina has had for a long time.

Nice. It's easy to be fiscally conservative when you have money. But does that also make it easy to send the message that you don't care overmuch about your citizen's lives during weather events...that you don't feel that it is important to reward them for doing the smart thing and staying home by giving them the days off?

Whatever. Here's hoping the next predicted polar vortex won't close the University because those of us down here at the bottom can't afford another day away from work.

In which the language nerd...and proud American...in me rejoices

This was the clear winner, in my mind, for best Superbowl commercial this year.  I'm distressed, but not surprised, at the vitriolic backlash that it has received on social media and in the press.  Let me tell you why I loved it...and the one fault I found in it...

In spite of what is apparently popular opinion, the United States of America does not have an official language.  I will give you a moment for that to sink in.  English, therefore, is NOT the official language of the United States of America.  In fact, recent statistics show that English is spoken by 80% of the population, not 95% as in the United Kingdom where they DO recognize English as the de facto official language (and make you pass an English Language test to live there).

What makes me so proud of my country is the ability for people to come here from other countries and love this nation as their own while still being able to keep their language and culture of origin fairly intact.  While I know that those outside of the USA may look at that statement and scoff, it is true in some parts of the USA.

There are voices, at times LOUD voices, that disagree and would like for the USA to be a bit more homogeneous...more English speaking...dare I say more white?  But I would like to say to anyone thinking of visiting or relocating to my country that those opinions are not shared by all of us.

The places shown in the commercial last night were clearly chosen due to the fact that in those areas, there are higher concentrations of immigrant populations who speak Spanish, Hindi, Tagalog, and even native languages that were here before the English speaking explorers arrived.  Why shouldn't they be able to express their love for their country in the language of their birth and heritage?  Seriously?  Am I the only one that got the point, that this commercial represents what America is at its very heart?

Be sure to click on the link above to watch the commercial and then watch the interviews with each of the language representatives heard in the commercial.  This speaks to the language nerd in me as well as the interpreter...the meaning is the point, not the language or culture.

The fault I found?  No ASL.  American Sign Language is the fifth most used non-English language in the United States.  And yet, it is left off, again.  My second language and, by association, my adopted culture is often left out...did anyone that was only watching the Superbowl on television see the ASL translation of the national anthem? Three or four signs maybe.  But I'm growing accustomed to that being the norm.  Doesn't mean I think it is right and I hope that it will change.

If you're one of the ones "disgusted" or "outraged" by the Coca-Cola commercial (literally, people are saying those specific words and worse...have a look at Coke's Facebook page and Twitter feed) or you are thinking of boycotting the product, take a moment and look at your own family tree.  I bet you'll find branches that came to this country, eager to live in and experience and love "America the Beautiful" even though they may have had to express that sentiment in a different way.  Was their love for this country any less because they spoke a different language?  No.  Absolutely not.

Let auld...what was it again?

Here's my quickie recap of the year, now that the ball has dropped and there are fireworks waking up my Daisy Mei Mei...

This was the first year since 2005 that saw me remaining in the US all year. This was the year that Clowny died.  This was the year that Bryn arrived, only just. Throughout this year Daisy remained and remains now, happy and healthy and still the most perfect greyhound girly ever.

I attended three greyhound events and sold my books at all three. I finished three 50k+ word manuscripts at three separate Nanowrimo events. I'm staring down the beginning of my third year at Clemson. In a way, I've settled into my life here.

But at the same time the wanderlust that is such an integral part of who I am screams from that deep and dark place in the back of my mind, next to Algebra and the conjugation of Spanish verbs, urging me to leave what is comfortable and move on to the next adventure.  That part of me is at war with the shy and awkward part that occupies the prime real estate in the forefront and begs me to retreat further, spend more time pounding out useless manuscripts and hold up where I am. Draw the curtains is met with unfurl the sail, and the battle wages on.

I won't make plans for this year.  I will take what comes and hope for trips to the UK, more furry babies to join our family (and maybe a human one?), and upward motion in my career and Simon's.

Happy New Year to all of you. Make it a good one.  As for the Dunnes, we are off to bed.

Give us, oh, tinterwebs, our Daily Bryn...

All Bryn, all the time...over on Our Daily Bryn.

In other news...she has an "official" name now so that we can start doing stuff like ILP for competitive obedience, maybe Rally, and possibly coursing.

T'Bryndled Beastie

(photo courtesy Joanne Johnson)

Meet Bryn...

Her ILP name will be something with beansidhe (banshee) in it, but I don't know what that will be yet.

On Saturday, Anne and I drove up to Tennessee to pick up a five month old wolfie pup that was in need of rehoming.  Simon and I have always wanted a big fuzzy, wolfhound or deerhound, and so we jumped at this chance.

Daisy probably would have preferred that we hadn't, but since she doesn't have thumbs she doesn't get a vote.  She does, however, get loads and loads of extra attention and has resumed sleeping in the middle of our bed, pushing us to the very edges and taking all the duvet for herself.  Fair play.

On Sunday, Bryn made her first appearance with the Hounds of East Fairhaven, giving the crowds something to ooh and ahh over and HOEF a full time wolfie member for the first time in almost a decade.  She was a star, braving the cold, trolling for turkey tendons, and posing for loads of pictures.  There is something about a giant breed that captures the attention, even when she's only just a baby.

So far we haven't lost any thing to her voracious chewing except for a tiny bit of sanity when she chooses a toy that squeaks.  But even that is tempered by the fact that she makes sounds that resemble Lucas's Chewbacca as she chews...she is just hilarious.

We did a bit of puppy proofing before she came home, but for the most part we just keep an eye on her and keep her busy with appropriate things rather than wait until she's chosen something inappropriate to dissect and investigate.  While it has only been just over 36 hours, she has responded well to correction when needed and is just a big old growly rumbly furry lovebug that tried to climb onto Simon's lap for snuggles last night when she got sleepy.

We adore her and hope that Daisy will too in time...keep an eye out on the Lettuce for more stories of Bringing Up Bryn!

Flashback Post: Eyes Wide Shut

I was trying to come up with a new blog post today and couldn't...so here is me at my most philosophical.

Eyes Wide Shut

PS- I still do this...

Flashback Post: Xie-xie, Mei-Mei.

After the sadness of the post about Clowny, I found this one, and remembered that I have a safety net...my Mei Mei.  I know!  I talk about her all the time, but y'all, if you lived with her, you'd know.  She is an angel.

Xie-xie, Mei-Mei

Maybe this will be her lucky year at Sandy Paws and she'll be queen...but if not, their loss. :)

Regall Azkaban, "Clowny," 11/2002-9/2013

He's been gone for a week and a half and I still can't really get my head around it.  There are times when I feel it and it is so raw and fresh that I'm taken back to sitting in my car like the coward I am as Simon stayed with him in the vet's office right to the end.  There are other times when it is as though he was one of my many fosters that has passed in and out of my heart, making only the smallest of dents.  There are times when I feel as though he is waiting at the vet for me to pick him up.

And then there are the times, the gut-wrenching awful sobbing painfully horrific times when I know he is gone, when I can feel the jagged edges of what I suppose used to be my heart like a broken wine glass lodged in my chest and when I swear that I will never, EVER let myself be hurt by any being, human, canine or otherwise, like that again.  I'm actually having one of those times right now, as I sit at my desk and write this post.  Finding a picture of him drove me to distraction and I took a good half hour to just study the steady progression of white fur down his face over the course of the two years he was mine.

Well, really, I was his.  In a way I thought would never happen after my precious boys Profee and Hunky died, Clowny owned me in that way only boy greyhounds of a certain silliness who have hearts far bigger than their chests can contain can do.  I think that's why I'm so wracked with guilt over being relieved that the pee pads are folded and waiting to be returned to Angel-On-Earth Nancy Bowden rather than still waiting in a heap in front of the constantly churning dish washer.  How can I be relieved that he isn't on his bed in the sitting room, barking out a chorus to remind us that he needs something?  Is my heart that hard?  Have I succeeded in closing off the part of me that relishes every tilted head, each raised ear, all those wags of that whip-like tail?

No.  I'm just tired, bone and soul, and it will take time for me to recover.  That's what people tell me, and I guess I'm still in the recovery part because I'm still convinced that there was something we could have done; or that the vet on that last awful day was just being kind to us when he said he suspected that Clowny had a form of cancer that could have caused the entire downward spiral that was our summer.

All I can do is hope that the two years with us were good ones for him.  I know he enjoyed traveling, he loved Sandy Paws and Beach Bound Hounds, and he was always happy to go to the festival.  One of my best memories is sleeping in the back of my tiny Fit with Clowny during a rainstorm at the Georgia Renaissance Festival...me in full hoop/corset and Clowny getting as close as he could for a cuddle.

I love love love you, Clowny-Boo, and I will never ever forget our short time together.  You run now, with Hunky, Jeany, Bo, Profee, and Lizzard and spin just as much as you want.  I'm just sorry we couldn't do more to fix that stupid old body so that it could support your beautiful spirit for a little while longer.

Quédate conmigo,
Si no estás no sale el sol.

Flashback Post: On Her Birthday...

I still find myself wondering what she would make of things that come up in my life and missing her gentle strength and guidance.  Much love, Carla.  Happy Birthday.

For My Friend Carla, With All My Love

I'm so glad she was born. SO glad.

At first, she looked like this...

I've recounted the story of how FTH Oopsie Daisy/Daisy/Daisy Duke/Daisy Mae/Mae/Mei Mei/Princess came into our lives.  You have undoubtedly heard me brag about how she was named by the community of greyhound freaks over at GreyTalk, how she lived on her Mama Caffie's kitchen floor until she was old enough to go outside in the puppy runs, and how my entire family on my mother's side once gathered around the computer to watch her come in spectacularly, amazingly, and fabulously dead last in one of her attempts to break maiden at JAX.

(For those not versed in Racing Vocab, that means she has to win a maiden race to get to run with the big dogs.  She didn't do that at JAX but did at Sanford Orlando, where she got up to Grade A.  I'm sure you've heard THAT story before as well, so I'll move on.)

Then, this happened...

What you haven't heard from me lately is that Daisy is nine years old this week (there is a running debate about the Leelo Babies Birthdate so I celebrate 12-14 August to cover all my bases...and because I love her too much for only one day).  Nine.Years.Old.  It has been almost a decade since I watched via text on GreyTalk that she had been born, almost a decade of knowing about her and waiting for her and loving her.

I know, everyone moons over their dogs like they are the only ones that have that sort of relationship.  I know that I am not the only one that loves my dog.  But y'all, my Mei Mei is special.

She came home to me and Simon at the tender age of 2.75, in March of 2007.  Me and Simon weren't even a Me and Simon at that point, not officially, but he was Daisy's Dah-dee from the start.  She never had trouble understanding him like the other dogs did, and would look up at him with the most adoring expression as he talked to her, as though trying to understand every syllable that came out of his mouth.  She still does that.  With him.  With me if I prattle on too long she licks me to shut me up.

She came into a family of old dogs.  Hunky was 10 when Daisy came home, going on 11, and Jeany would turn 10 the next month.  They were still reeling from the loss of Profile, who was the clear pack leader, and were none too thrilled to have this young and bouncy dog around.  So she adapted to them, not the other way around.  She would defer to them in all things, and became a comfort to both of them as they got older.  She also took their Mommy's focus for awhile, so that they could sit around and love each other and not be bothered by my constant fussing and attention seeking.

After Jeany fell down the stairs in Keighley, Simon kept finding Daisy curled up next to her.  She could have been out exploring her new home, terrorizing the cat, or doing a host of other doggie things, but instead she decided to make sure Jeany was comforted.  I think Jeany actually liked it.  After we lost Jeany, Daisy was forever snuggling up to Hunky, even when he wet his bed, and I'm not sure if it was to comfort him over the loss of Jeany or herownself.  Daisy falls hard in love, and when she loves you, you know it.  She loved her big brother and sister with a fierceness that I wish more people could possess.

And now, all she has to do is this and I'm a goner. 

Now she's back in that position again, after two years in the UK of being the only dog, getting all the attention, and generally living like the Princess she is.  With Clowny's injury and subsequent paralysis, Daisy has to navigate a world where her people are either ignoring her or telling her to be careful, don't stand on Clowny, let him finish eating before you dive into his bowl, etc.  She could turn into a spoiled brat, acting out because she isn't getting the attention she's used to, taking her frustration out on Clowny who is, to be fair, the easiest of targets right now.

But she doesn't.  My precious baby girl, my Daisy Mei Mei backs up when we ask, she waits to be allowed to clean up the food Clowny leaves behind, she snuggles on the bed with him at night until he grouses at her to move.  She takes her toys elsewhere and plays on her own, tossing George, her stuffed monkey, up in the air over and over until someone notices.  She follows me down the hall when I just need to go cry about Clowny a little without letting him see me do it and licks my tears off my face.

Today (and the two days prior) are more than a celebration of her birthday.  Today is a reminder that through some twist of fate, I was given the gift of Daisy.  Love you to absolute bits, my babygirl, to the moon and back.   I don't know what your Daddy and I would have done this summer without you.  Thanks is not enough, not by a longshot.

"You're my back bone.
You're my cornerstone.
You're my crutch when my legs stop moving.
You're my head start.
You're my rugged heart.
You're the pulse that I've always needed.
Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating.
Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating.
Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating.
Like a drum my heart never stops beating...
For you, for you."

(from Gone, Gone, Gone by Phillip Phillips)

Lost...but not in translation...

Hey Anne?  This is the purple sofa I wanted to
marry and bear children....

This is going to be a fairly personal episode of the Lettuce, so if that sort of thing makes you twitchy you might want to hit the back button on your browser.

Ever since I moved back to the US on 19 May, 2011, I have been lost.  At first I was lost because I was back in my foreign home.  Let me give you an example.  One of the first things I did was go to Walmart with my parents to pick up some things I needed.  After about ten minutes in the store, I had to go outside and ring My Mister (who was still in the UK and, sadly, didn't get it) and take some deep breaths because it was just too much.  Too much choice.  Too much colour.  Too much light.  Too much.

I had come back here to stop being lost in the UK.  But what I've found is that I wasn't lost when I was there at all.  I was me, the me that doesn't have to be the best greyhound parent or the competent seamstress or the flawless interpreter.  I didn't have a lot of the distractions or responsibilities there that I have here. There weren't as many people there for me to disappoint.  My Mister and I spent a lot of time together because basically we had...each other.

Don't get me wrong, he had friends and family there, but because I was not as outgoing as I could have been, I only had a few friends and my inlaws.  But My Mister and I are different in that way...he doesn't depend on his friends to define him like I do.

I thought that the things that kept me from being lost were in the USA:  Greyhound Crossroads.  The Hounds of East Fairhaven.  Follow That Hound.  My Deaf and Interpreter friends.  Wrong.  Since I've been back, I've had to take a job that isn't really what I wanted to do so that I could afford to bring My Mister and Daisy over from the UK and adopt Clowny.  I'm still in that job because there isn't anything in my field that would offer a comparable salary.  I see things every day that make me regret the cowardice that led me back here two years ago.

I wish I could wind up this post with a happy and confident "but now I'm no longer lost" sentiment, but I can't.  Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe Christmas if we make it over to visit my inlaws and my adopted home.  Maybe not.  I try to remember that "not all who wander are lost" and see myself as wandering instead...but that refrain is getting old.  Very, very old.  Is this the curse of the repatriate?

One of my expat/repat friends has a statement on one of her signature graphics that says something about coming home to find what has changed is you...maybe that is what's going on after all.

Changes in Attitudes...

Well, the last time I was posting, Clowny was walking.  About a month later, he stopped walking.  That change went hand in hand with Clown stopping prednisone.  He walked around, slowly, at Mountain Hounds in Gatlinburg but for the most part he stayed in our room and was miserable.

He has changed medicine twice and has been to see a holistic vet for acupuncture and laser therapy, but is still not walking.  His back legs work and are responsive to pain, but there is some sort of disconnect in his spine so he can't make them stay under him.

Our lives now are consumed with picking him up to go outside, washing pee pads, washing blankets, pleading with him to eat, and watching him struggle when he slips out of our hands and onto the floor with a crash.

There hasn't been much to blog about, really.  Two weeks after his...accident?  Onslaught of symptoms?  Two weeks after that I finished for the summer at Clemson and have been taking all the interpreting work I can get in order to pay for his treatments and keep all four of us fed.  I want to get out of the house, but with limited funds and his limited mobility, I feel guilty if I'm gone more than a few hours.  And poor Clowny smells like a bad day at the assisted living facility...but being a greyhound we can't bathe him every day.  His fur would likely fall out!

I don't think I've slept more than 2 hours at a go since Memorial Day.  He cries when he needs his pee pad changed.  He cries when he poos.  He cries when he wants water, or when he just needs to roll over.  And thanks to my supersonic hearing that I'm positive I inherited from my mother, every time he cries I wake up.  To be fair, I also wake him when he licks...which he does a lot, probably just to alleviate his own boredom.

I'm also participating in another Camp NaNoWriMo this month, so I'm already feeling a bit guilty about using my writing time here rather than on the Work In Progress.

There are those in my professional life that have been insensitive at best and downright insulting at worst about my dedication to my dog and what it means for my life.  To be fair, the one person I'm thinking of now has also made insulting comments about my choice to put my husband and our life above my duty to my work or how ridiculous is it that I want to have children, so I'm not sure that I should be bothered too much by comments about how much I love my dog.

Anyway, all of this is not a cry for attention or pity, far from it.  We have a wheelchair for Clowny now that we are trying to make work, and the next step after that will be a ramp for him to be able to go in and out the front door.  This post is meant more as a catch up...so that those who do understand why we do what we do for this amazing creature that shares our home and hearts will know what's going on.  Hug your hounds and take every chance you can to see them run, play, and even walk across the room to beg for a treat or just gaze at you.  Trite as it may sound, you just never know when those things will be taken away.

Mommy loves you, Clowny.  To the moon and back.

On wobbles and stumbles and leaps of faith...

My magic boy, Regall Azkaban ("Clowny")

On Wednesday night, I got home from work and let the dogs out of the bedroom, scolding Clowny as per usual when he bounded out past the baby gate, spinning around like a top and careening into Daisy.  That sort of behavior made putting a muzzle on him impossible and Daisy mad, so it was not winning him any points.  I think I might have even popped him on the noggin to get his attention.

I let them out, I let our foster dog Mannie out, I fed the dogs...all went as it normally did. That evening Clowny had one of his more vacant episodes, but with him being almost 11 and that night there was a thunderstorm on the way, I didn't worry too much.

The next morning, last Thursday, I got up and went to work as normal.  Hubs rang me on my way in to say that Clown had lost complete use of his back legs and it looked like he had experienced a stroke.  I nearly crashed my car.  Of course, I turned around and headed back home, trying to find an open vet practice as I went.  The one we normally use, whom I will call Vet #1, had a voice mail message telling me to call the E-Vet.  I did that, and the nice girl that answered told me that they don't take emergency clients after 0730 because the overnight vets had left.  Sorry?

I then called Vet #2, whom I think will become Vet #1 in the future, and they were not only in the office but said to bring Clowny in right away.  I got back home, assessed damage, cried some more, and Hubs and I rushed him off to the vet.  Massive Steroid Jab number One happened and we took him back home.

That was Thursday.  I worked from home that day, afraid to leave Clowny for too long.  He was dead weight that day, passed out cold for most of it, probably from the massive steroid jab the vet gave him.  I tried to help him move around because I can't lift him like Hubs can, and only resulted in both of us being frustrated and him almost biting me in my face.  Thursday was a crappy day to say the least.

Then Friday happened.  We took Clowny back to the vet for Massive Steroid Jab number Two, and by the time we got ready to leave the vet he was moving his back legs.  He couldn't keep them under himself or stand, really, but he could move them.

I got them settled at home and headed off to work with my head ANYWHERE but in my office at Clemson.  Hubs rang me around lunchtime to tell me that Clowny had RUN ACROSS THE YARD to investigate the men dumping the topsoil that Hubs had ordered.  Run.Across.The.Yard.  He said it wasn't pretty in the least but Clowny was MOVING ON HIS OWN.

Friday night was uneventful other than doing massive loads of laundry.  Greyhounds, it seems, are like small children who have waited too long to tell someone they need to pee.  When you pick either of them up and squeeze the bladder, you are going to get wet.

Saturday morning we checked in with the vet who said to keep him on 25mg of prednisone a day until Monday when we would re-assess.  By Saturday evening, this happened:

That is Clowny, wobbly and stumbling and absolutely certain that he can make it across the yard WITHOUT YOUR HELP, THANK YOU VERY MUCH MOMMY.  And me, in a squeaky voice, proud of his progress and terrified that he will hurt himself and in complete and utter AWE that the paralysed greyhound I'd seen on Thursday was now running, sort of, in the yard.

More leaps of faith to come.  More progress to report.  I have never been prouder to be Clowny's Mommy.  Not ever.  Watch this space.