Sunday, July 18, 2010
Celtic Borzois, inked rough
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Chapter 3- "Fire Escape Fun"
New to the story? To start from the beginning, click---> HERE!
Soon enough the time to move was at hand. Everything I owned except for a few pieces of furniture fit into my car and was able to go in one trip. That's the joy of being nineteen, I guess. Life is pretty simple.
I'd made arrangements to rent the efficiency apartment above a seven bedroom house, until the remodeling was done on the main floors. Then, I planned to share the house with some friends I'd met at college. The rent was dirt cheap, maybe because of the awful neighborhood: drugs and gunshots and break-ins. I didn't care, though. There were going to be enough of us, and with varied enough schedules that someone would almost always be there. Two of the guys had a lot of martial arts training, one was ex-military. All of us were fairly streetwise. It wasn't a good plan... but it was my plan. And I had no intention of giving up my dog again!
I settled in, and went to fetch Riff from the boarding kennel. Although the efficiency apartment was awfully tiny, it was just going to be for a few weeks, and then we'd have the whole big house. There was a huge park across the street for exercise, and my schedule was such I was guaranteed to be at home several times a day. Not an ideal situation, but workable.
Once I got him home, we went for a jaunt through the cold park and down to the gas station for some Dr. Pepper. When we were done, he followed me up the steep, narrow, metal fire escape with only the barest of hesitation. I showed him where to lie down, his bowls and toys, and started to make some lunch. After a few minutes of exploring the apartment (there wasn't much apartment to explore) he settled down in the kitchen doorway to watch me cook.
About a half hour later, "Big T" showed up. He was one of my friends that would be a roomie once the main floors of the house were ready. T. was a large, imposing guy a few years older than me. Ex-military, with a big voice and a crew cut. Kind of like a surrogate brother, gruff but kind- with a wicked sense of humor. He'd planned to check in and see how I was doing, and see the new dog I was raving about. Riff went on alert the second T. started up the fire escape- and barked thunderously at his knock on the door. But as soon as T was through the door and it was clear I knew him, Riff was all smiles and wagging tail.
T. voiced his approval of his watchdog abilities and marveled at his sheer height. "That bark'd scare off anyone looking for trouble... coked up or not!" he pronounced. He'd never seen a borzoi and asked a bunch of questions about thier training and how they were different from other dogs. He roughed up Riff's ears and shoved him around a bit to encourage him to play. Riff stomped and snorted and lashed his tail. They seemed to hit it off real well- but I'd expected they might. T. was as much of a dog person as I was, even down to preferring the larger breeds, like me.
We hung out a bit. Had a snack and some tea. Just like always, except for the new apartment and dog. I was so pleased to be finally out on my own!
Soon, Riff went to the door and stared purposefully at the doorknob. "Well," said T., "at least you know for sure he's housebroke!"
I agreed. Housebroke and willing to tell you about it is always a bonus!
I grabbed my sweater and leash. T. grabbed his smokes. Leash on, and Riff trailing behind, I stepped out the door onto the fire escape, three stories up. T. shut the door behind him.
I started to head down the steep, narrow steps, but on the fourth step down the leash went taut. Riff hadn't budged; he was still standing at the top of the stairs, legs locked. The poor dog had completely frozen in place and trembling. T. chuckled... "I think your big bad watch dog is scared of heights."
Calmly and gently, I encouraged Riff to follow me, while T. tried to supress his obvious amusement. The poor dog simply could not budge- and after about ten minutes we were still there. I could see why. When I looked down from his angle, I could see straight down the three story drop to the ground through the grating holes through the steps. That was truly unnerving!
"We're in big trouble here..." I muttered out loud. That got T. started laughing all over again.
I started thinking through my options. There weren't many. The landlord was planning to come over later that afternoon to do some work in the in the big kitchen on the main floor. If he were there he could just open up the interior door and let us through the main part of the house. I was sure that would work. Riff seemed much less concerned by the heights in general than he did by the open stairs. The only flaw with this plan was that the landlord wasn't expected for several more hours. Riff needed to go NOW. We'd have to figure something else out.
T. lit a cigarette and lounged against the railing. "Let's go in for a minute and give him time to calm down. I have an idea."
Any idea sounded good to me. I was so stumped I didn't even complain about his smoking in the kitchen. The three of us went back inside. Riff headed right to the water bowl and had a long drink. "Oh, that's gonna help," I muttered sarcastically as I watched the dog lap down lots of water. Envisioning what the big drink would do to Riff's bladder after a few more minutes, I pressed T. for his solution. "So what's your idea?" I urged.
"Let me finish my cigarette," he answered, as he puffed nonchalantly away, "and I'll carry him down."
With a frown, I tried to visualize this. Turned sideways, Riff was wider than the stairway. His head would be hanging out into space. And the steps were very steep and narrow. "I don't think that's gonna work," I glanced over at Riff, who'd gone back to standing by the door again. "He's awfully big."
"He'll be fine. We'll get the key from the landlord when he comes and you can just take him through the house next time."
I called Riff over to me, running my hands down the sides of his wedge shaped head, stroking his ears flat against his skull. He looked up at me as if trying to figure out what I was thinking. "T's gonna carry you down the stairs," I told him. "I'll go first in case he has trouble."
The dog looked gravely into my eyes, without a trace of his usual cheerful bravado. His eyebrows wiggled expressively as he glanced from T. to me, and back again. He seemed worried. "It'll be ok," I insisted. "Just hold still and let T. do the work."
"Enough pep talk." T. put out his cigarette an cracked his knuckles purposefully. "Let's do it."
We left Riff's leash on and I took the very end in my hand. With a grunt of exertion, T. picked him up, carrying the lanky seventy-pound dog like a newborn colt. They were situated with Riff's head facing outward so he wouldn't hit it on the building. I opened the door and slipped out ahead of T. onto the fire escape. I went three steps down the stairs, as far as the leash would let me go. T. followed, carrying his trembling burden.
"Let's hope he doesn't squirm," T. said, as he hesitated at the top. "If I lose my grip on him, he'll fall on you."
I looked up at them. Aside from the trembling, Riff was surprisingly calm. He flopped his cheeks, exhaling deeply, and held very, very still. "Him, I can catch!" I retorted. "But if you fall, we're ALL goners!"
T. laughed out loud, and Riff let out a low, anxious whine. "Here we come. Get ready."
The white-knuckle trip down the three stories of stairs seemed to take three years. The instant they reached the bottom and T. set him down, Riff celebrated by hiking his leg and marking the corner of the house. He was still whizzing as the landlord pulled up. T. and I took one look at the portly middle-aged man getting out of his car- four hours early, and still five minutes too late- and broke into gales of laughter. Riff just kept peeing.
The next story will be available Wed, July 14th, 2010!
The next story will be available Wed, July 14th, 2010!
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Chapter 2- "The Funniest Looking Bird Dog"
New to the story? To start from the beginning, click---> HERE!
The boarding kennel I had found was in in a small town about a half hour outside city limits. Although the facility looked a bit run-down and they only raised German shorthair pointers, I didn't care one bit. I'd hadn't even considered that it might be a challenge to find a boarding kennel that could even accommodate a dog of his sheer size, much less find one that was safe and affordable. By the time I called them I'd been just short of desperate, and when they'd asked for his shot records I was impressed. Done deal! Also, it was only about ten minutes away from where I was attending school! She'd insisted that I'd be welcome to visit Riff anytime I was in the area. I could visit my dog nearly every day until I was moved us both into our new place.
When Riff and I arrived at the kennel, the owner met us in the driveway, grinning broadly as Riff leaped out of the car. I'd enjoyed "talking dog" with her on the phone, and I was glad to meet her in person. “He’s a big ‘un!” she exclaimed, watching him stretch and look around. “Could stand some feeding, though.”
She was right. At ten months or so, Riff had just gone through his last big growth spurt for height. Although still very puppyish, he was already thirty inches at the shoulder, and had that gangly, juvenile appearance of a junior high school basketball player. Before he was done growing he'd gain another couple of inches and 10-20 pounds, but for the moment the show was over.
The kennel owner and I turned him loose into a spacious indoor/outdoor run, so he could race the fence line, strut his stuff, and bark at the pointers. The pointers barked back, en masse. It was complete and total bedlam, but I watched it with my hands on my hips and a big grin of satisfaction plastered all over my face.
Money and vet records changed hands, probably all without the stupid, dog-owning grin ever leaving my face, but I couldn't stay. I was on a tight schedule and I'd be late for work if I didn’t hustle, but I had to pet him one more time. I called to him, but he didn’t come, as he was all too distracted by all the pointers. But when I actually entered the pen, he came right to me. Looked up. Grinned a big, toothy borzoi grin, rubbed hard around my legs like a giant cat- then bounded off with a flourish of tail and silly, flopping ears. I was charmed.
One of my friends had insisted I bring a favorite t-shirt of mine to lay on his bedding until I could bring him home for good. He'd insisted it would help with the “bonding process,” so I was all for it. I'd chosen a good one- well worn and soft but expendable, and I'd worn it to sleep in for several days beforehand. Right before I left, I arranged it carefully over the loose straw bedding, then hurried off to work.
I spent the rest of the day floating in a happy cloud of dog ownership. I had a recent picture of Riff I’d gotten from his previous owner, and it’d have to tide me over till I could visit him the next day. I think I showed that photo to everyone on my shift!
The next morning was Sunday- my day off! I packed a bit for my move, then headed out to the kennel to see my dog. I'd been looking forward to the trip with great anticipation, as I had nothing pressing all day. I was hoping that spending some good time with him would help me get to know him.
When I arrived, Riff was standing majestically in the outdoor part of his run. He stood a full head taller than the bird dog convention scattered throughout the other pens. Riff barked thunderously at my approach, then seemed to recognize me as I got close. He quit barking and bounced along the fence line, inviting me to play. I was happy.
After announcing my presence to the owner, I went into kennel building and entered his pen from the there. It was January, after all, and the winter wind could knock the breath right out of your lungs. Speaking of which, Riff did his "winter wind" impression by launching himself through the dog door and leaping for my chest, again and again. The repeated impacts rendered me breathless and coughing. His old owner had warned me- Riff had a bad habit of jumping on people. She hadn't exaggerated! No biggie, though. I was confident we could work through it with time.
After a few minutes of hugs and petting and roughhousing, I decided it was time to get to work.
I let Riff out of his dog run, into the main area of the cavernous barn with me. There was junk everywhere: car parts, straw bales stacked for bedding, buckets, baling twine. Plenty of distractions for a dog to investigate. I left him alone to explore so I could watch and see just what he'd do.
Riff was a bold, confident fellow, and explored every corner of the space available, sniffing and looking at everything. He knocked over a pile of empty water buckets, and although he jumped at the noise, he didn't cower or come unglued. He even tried to dig some mice out from under the straw bales. I laughed long and hard at his silly grin and flopping ears, as he dug, pounced, and dug some more. After a few minutes, I called him to come to me. Riff ignored my first call- as I expected. Riff was a borzoi, he'd been used to being allowed to have his own way and not have to mind anyone, I was a new person in his life, and there were mice to be dug out! Few borzois in that situation would have responded on the first call.
I called again, with a more commanding, insistent tone, and that time Riff looked up, locking his brown eyes on mine. Tags jingled on his collar as he trotted his loose-jointed jog over to me, his expression jovial. When he got to my side, I handed him a little dog biscuit and asked him to sit. He did, his furry haunches hitting the straw without hesitation.
"At least they taught you something." I muttered.
While I was digging out a second biscuit, Riff suddenly exploded into action- a whirling, silly display of spinning and tail lashing, ending with a huge, inviting play bow.
I called him back over knowing there'd be time to play later. I patted one of the knee-high bales of straw. "Up," I said.
With barely a hesitation, the borzoi jumped onto the bale of hay, just as I'd asked and stood there looking proud of himself. This put him at almost eye level with me standing- a reminder of how "vertically challenged" I was. Curious to see how far he'd go, I checked the next level of bales to be sure they were stable, then patted the next highest bale. "Up." I repeated.
Riff nonchalantly hopped onto the second level, and was grinning down at me from the third bale up before I'd even decided if I wanted him to try it! I let him know I was pleased- even though anticipation is sometimes a bad thing in dog training, it gave me a good idea of what kind of a personality I was working with. "You're very smart," I told him, as I handed a biscuit up to him. When I beckoned him back down, he bounded down the bales, as agile as a mountain goat kid and radiating confidence and satisfaction.
We tried a few more commands. Although he was whip-smart and his eagerness to perform seemed out of place on a borzoi, it was soon obvious that Riff had never been taught anything but "sit" and "come." No "lie down", no "stay", and certainly no "heel". No "speak". Just "sit", and "come". Smart he was- but Riff definitely had a lot of catching up to do.
After a few minutes, I'd seen all I needed to see for the moment. Riff had tried hard, kept his focus, and had done his level best to do everything I'd asked of him, even if he didn't always understand what I'd wanted. He'd done well. It was time to play!
I opened the door to the big outdoor exercise area, and made him wait for my ok before letting him run through the door into the inviting wide open space beyond. We stood, bathed in a square of warm sunlight as I watched Riff's intent expression- waiting for my signal to move. After two false starts, I was satisfied with his "stay" and let him go. When I gave the signal, he was off like a spotted bolt of lighting! I chuckled at his antics as he strutted the yard, lifting his leg on everything and barking manfully at all the pointers whose pens lined the exercise run.
The noise was deafening- the dogs were definitely stirred up! To my mind, it seemed that all the locals somehow recognized that Riff was more than a just a stranger to their kennel- he was something else that wasn't a pointer. He ran from pen to pen, tail high in the air... swaggering as only an adolescent male (of any species) can.
Although he barked a lot, Riff didn't growl or show teeth- no matter what the other dogs were doing. Another good sign. I was very pleased by his intelligence, his willingness to please, and his lack of aggression toward other dogs.
I let him tire himself, and the other dogs too. They ran and barked and barked and ran until they had barked themselves out. The January wind was sharp but it was sunny out, and an hour passed pleasantly like ten minutes.
After the novelty of other dogs had lost its charm, I called Riff to me, and was pleased that this time, he came running.
With twenty sets of jealous pointer eyes watching us, I beckoned Riff to the center of the pen. He followed, a dance in his step and flourishing his tail like the plume on a Musketeer's hat. I asked him to sit, and with a flourish I pulled a tennis ball out of my pocket that I'd brought along just for the occasion. I'd expected joyous enthusiasm from my new dog- but he just watched me with a slightly bewildered expression. However, every pointer on the place was instantly on it's feet and vibrating in place with anticipation!
I thought Riff would probably be more interested in the ball when it moved, so with a cheerful "Go get it, boy!" I hurled the ball toward the barn as hard as I could. Riff only yawned and looked around- but the effect on the retrievers was almost magical!
As if they were all part of one gigantic beast, or some type of collective mind, they all heaved forward in perfect unison, plunging like a force of nature to the ends of their separate runs! I erupted into gales of uncontrollable laughter, laughing so hard Riff tilted his head so his ears flopped quizzically before standing on three legs to scratch behind his ear.
I didn't try the tennis ball thing again for quite a while.
To go on to the next story, click ---> HERE!
All content (c) C.T. Griffith, 2010. All rights reserved.
Got a borzoi story to tell? Shoot me an email or check out ZoiStory today!
The boarding kennel I had found was in in a small town about a half hour outside city limits. Although the facility looked a bit run-down and they only raised German shorthair pointers, I didn't care one bit. I'd hadn't even considered that it might be a challenge to find a boarding kennel that could even accommodate a dog of his sheer size, much less find one that was safe and affordable. By the time I called them I'd been just short of desperate, and when they'd asked for his shot records I was impressed. Done deal! Also, it was only about ten minutes away from where I was attending school! She'd insisted that I'd be welcome to visit Riff anytime I was in the area. I could visit my dog nearly every day until I was moved us both into our new place.
When Riff and I arrived at the kennel, the owner met us in the driveway, grinning broadly as Riff leaped out of the car. I'd enjoyed "talking dog" with her on the phone, and I was glad to meet her in person. “He’s a big ‘un!” she exclaimed, watching him stretch and look around. “Could stand some feeding, though.”
She was right. At ten months or so, Riff had just gone through his last big growth spurt for height. Although still very puppyish, he was already thirty inches at the shoulder, and had that gangly, juvenile appearance of a junior high school basketball player. Before he was done growing he'd gain another couple of inches and 10-20 pounds, but for the moment the show was over.
The kennel owner and I turned him loose into a spacious indoor/outdoor run, so he could race the fence line, strut his stuff, and bark at the pointers. The pointers barked back, en masse. It was complete and total bedlam, but I watched it with my hands on my hips and a big grin of satisfaction plastered all over my face.
Money and vet records changed hands, probably all without the stupid, dog-owning grin ever leaving my face, but I couldn't stay. I was on a tight schedule and I'd be late for work if I didn’t hustle, but I had to pet him one more time. I called to him, but he didn’t come, as he was all too distracted by all the pointers. But when I actually entered the pen, he came right to me. Looked up. Grinned a big, toothy borzoi grin, rubbed hard around my legs like a giant cat- then bounded off with a flourish of tail and silly, flopping ears. I was charmed.
One of my friends had insisted I bring a favorite t-shirt of mine to lay on his bedding until I could bring him home for good. He'd insisted it would help with the “bonding process,” so I was all for it. I'd chosen a good one- well worn and soft but expendable, and I'd worn it to sleep in for several days beforehand. Right before I left, I arranged it carefully over the loose straw bedding, then hurried off to work.
I spent the rest of the day floating in a happy cloud of dog ownership. I had a recent picture of Riff I’d gotten from his previous owner, and it’d have to tide me over till I could visit him the next day. I think I showed that photo to everyone on my shift!
The next morning was Sunday- my day off! I packed a bit for my move, then headed out to the kennel to see my dog. I'd been looking forward to the trip with great anticipation, as I had nothing pressing all day. I was hoping that spending some good time with him would help me get to know him.
When I arrived, Riff was standing majestically in the outdoor part of his run. He stood a full head taller than the bird dog convention scattered throughout the other pens. Riff barked thunderously at my approach, then seemed to recognize me as I got close. He quit barking and bounced along the fence line, inviting me to play. I was happy.
After announcing my presence to the owner, I went into kennel building and entered his pen from the there. It was January, after all, and the winter wind could knock the breath right out of your lungs. Speaking of which, Riff did his "winter wind" impression by launching himself through the dog door and leaping for my chest, again and again. The repeated impacts rendered me breathless and coughing. His old owner had warned me- Riff had a bad habit of jumping on people. She hadn't exaggerated! No biggie, though. I was confident we could work through it with time.
After a few minutes of hugs and petting and roughhousing, I decided it was time to get to work.
I let Riff out of his dog run, into the main area of the cavernous barn with me. There was junk everywhere: car parts, straw bales stacked for bedding, buckets, baling twine. Plenty of distractions for a dog to investigate. I left him alone to explore so I could watch and see just what he'd do.
Riff was a bold, confident fellow, and explored every corner of the space available, sniffing and looking at everything. He knocked over a pile of empty water buckets, and although he jumped at the noise, he didn't cower or come unglued. He even tried to dig some mice out from under the straw bales. I laughed long and hard at his silly grin and flopping ears, as he dug, pounced, and dug some more. After a few minutes, I called him to come to me. Riff ignored my first call- as I expected. Riff was a borzoi, he'd been used to being allowed to have his own way and not have to mind anyone, I was a new person in his life, and there were mice to be dug out! Few borzois in that situation would have responded on the first call.
I called again, with a more commanding, insistent tone, and that time Riff looked up, locking his brown eyes on mine. Tags jingled on his collar as he trotted his loose-jointed jog over to me, his expression jovial. When he got to my side, I handed him a little dog biscuit and asked him to sit. He did, his furry haunches hitting the straw without hesitation.
"At least they taught you something." I muttered.
While I was digging out a second biscuit, Riff suddenly exploded into action- a whirling, silly display of spinning and tail lashing, ending with a huge, inviting play bow.
I called him back over knowing there'd be time to play later. I patted one of the knee-high bales of straw. "Up," I said.
With barely a hesitation, the borzoi jumped onto the bale of hay, just as I'd asked and stood there looking proud of himself. This put him at almost eye level with me standing- a reminder of how "vertically challenged" I was. Curious to see how far he'd go, I checked the next level of bales to be sure they were stable, then patted the next highest bale. "Up." I repeated.
Riff nonchalantly hopped onto the second level, and was grinning down at me from the third bale up before I'd even decided if I wanted him to try it! I let him know I was pleased- even though anticipation is sometimes a bad thing in dog training, it gave me a good idea of what kind of a personality I was working with. "You're very smart," I told him, as I handed a biscuit up to him. When I beckoned him back down, he bounded down the bales, as agile as a mountain goat kid and radiating confidence and satisfaction.
We tried a few more commands. Although he was whip-smart and his eagerness to perform seemed out of place on a borzoi, it was soon obvious that Riff had never been taught anything but "sit" and "come." No "lie down", no "stay", and certainly no "heel". No "speak". Just "sit", and "come". Smart he was- but Riff definitely had a lot of catching up to do.
After a few minutes, I'd seen all I needed to see for the moment. Riff had tried hard, kept his focus, and had done his level best to do everything I'd asked of him, even if he didn't always understand what I'd wanted. He'd done well. It was time to play!
I opened the door to the big outdoor exercise area, and made him wait for my ok before letting him run through the door into the inviting wide open space beyond. We stood, bathed in a square of warm sunlight as I watched Riff's intent expression- waiting for my signal to move. After two false starts, I was satisfied with his "stay" and let him go. When I gave the signal, he was off like a spotted bolt of lighting! I chuckled at his antics as he strutted the yard, lifting his leg on everything and barking manfully at all the pointers whose pens lined the exercise run.
The noise was deafening- the dogs were definitely stirred up! To my mind, it seemed that all the locals somehow recognized that Riff was more than a just a stranger to their kennel- he was something else that wasn't a pointer. He ran from pen to pen, tail high in the air... swaggering as only an adolescent male (of any species) can.
Although he barked a lot, Riff didn't growl or show teeth- no matter what the other dogs were doing. Another good sign. I was very pleased by his intelligence, his willingness to please, and his lack of aggression toward other dogs.
I let him tire himself, and the other dogs too. They ran and barked and barked and ran until they had barked themselves out. The January wind was sharp but it was sunny out, and an hour passed pleasantly like ten minutes.
After the novelty of other dogs had lost its charm, I called Riff to me, and was pleased that this time, he came running.
With twenty sets of jealous pointer eyes watching us, I beckoned Riff to the center of the pen. He followed, a dance in his step and flourishing his tail like the plume on a Musketeer's hat. I asked him to sit, and with a flourish I pulled a tennis ball out of my pocket that I'd brought along just for the occasion. I'd expected joyous enthusiasm from my new dog- but he just watched me with a slightly bewildered expression. However, every pointer on the place was instantly on it's feet and vibrating in place with anticipation!
I thought Riff would probably be more interested in the ball when it moved, so with a cheerful "Go get it, boy!" I hurled the ball toward the barn as hard as I could. Riff only yawned and looked around- but the effect on the retrievers was almost magical!
As if they were all part of one gigantic beast, or some type of collective mind, they all heaved forward in perfect unison, plunging like a force of nature to the ends of their separate runs! I erupted into gales of uncontrollable laughter, laughing so hard Riff tilted his head so his ears flopped quizzically before standing on three legs to scratch behind his ear.
I didn't try the tennis ball thing again for quite a while.
To go on to the next story, click ---> HERE!
All content (c) C.T. Griffith, 2010. All rights reserved.
Got a borzoi story to tell? Shoot me an email or check out ZoiStory today!
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Chapter 1- "Isn't Your Dog Supposed To Look Like You?"
It’s sort of an accepted myth that people and their dogs look alike. I mean, you see it all the time. The perfectly groomed lady and her equally prissy poodle. The tough guy and his big bad boxer with the studded collar. It’s a tradition, right?
Well, if similar appearance were the only criteria for happy human and canine relationships, the money should never have changed hands! I’d have ended up with a Corgi or a Dachshund or some other nice plump little dog that was more than a little short in the looks (and legs!) department. Riff would have gotten a himself a supermodel. Not that he would have minded, I'm sure. He always had a way with the ladies!
But the money did change hands that soggy day in January of 1991. Five crumpled and slightly damp twenty's, derailed from their original destiny as a utility deposit on my new apartment. In exchange, I was handed a leash, with a tall, narrow-chested yearling borzoi puppy attached.
“Bye, Raffie!” screamed the tidal wave of crying children, from the doorway.
He didn’t look back. That should have struck me as unusual, but I was so jazzed about finally getting my own dog… this dog, the one I was supposed to have had as tottering twelve week old puppy. It bordered on a miracle.
“Feed him bananas!” howled the littlest girl. “They’re his favorite!”
He didn’t look back, but I did. “Bananas, huh?” I raised my eyebrow at the woman.
She shrugged, looking harried and more than a little defensive. “He liked to take food away from the kids. He’s bigger than most of them, you know.”
I knew. It was hard to miss them. There were just so many. I could see why the dog was staring eagerly at my car, and I didn't miss the past tense in her statement. I followed his lead. “I’ll let you know how it goes,” I told her, over my shoulder as we walked away.
We exchanged a few pleasantries. I was as glad to go as the dog. Although the house was in one of the nicer neighborhoods in the suburbs West of the big city, there was an air of gloom surrounding the place- something quite tangible.
I proudly installed my new charge in the back seat of my ’74 Plymouth Satellite and climbed in behind the steering wheel I could barely see over. As I angled the rear view mirror to be able to watch him, our eyes locked. His were brown, with lots of black eyeliner, like mine- only his was natural and mine came from the discount cosmetics bin at the drugstore. We looked at each other for several seconds before I started the car. He was confident and charismatic- but a little guarded. After all, he wasn’t too sure of me. He hadn't had anything much to be sure of yet, in his life.
“It’ll be ok, buddy.” I smiled first. Although he looked away, he kept looking back when he thought I wasn’t looking. It was like being in Junior High, and flirting with a cute boy in study hall. I was so happy I felt I could burst.
I was nineteen, and just two weeks away from being out on my own for the first time ever. The apartment was picked out. The deposit, (including the one for the dog) was paid. I was attending the local community college as a graphic arts major and mostly paying my own way between a crappy telemarketing job, an itty-bitty scholarship, and my Grandparent's generous help with books and supplies. The future was so bright, I had to wear shades.
And, by some stroke of luck… or perhaps fate, I’d found my dog.
Again.
I didn’t put much faith in fate back then. Didn’t put faith in much of anything, really.
I’d first met Riff in early summer of the year before. A friend told me about a litter of borzoi pups across the river in the other town. I had to go see- it was a moral imperative. I loved borzois! As a kid, I’d worked at a kennel and scooped a lot of poop just for the privilege of hanging around the borzois. The first time I laid eyes on one, I had the strangest feeling. I’d always wanted a dog of my own, but until I was eye to eye with a borzoi, my “dog wanting” never had any focus. My instant devotion to the breed went beyond their classic beauty. It was something about their personality, their sensitivity. From the first moment I rested a hand on a narrow borzoi skull and ruffled those velvety ears, I made up my mind that I was going to have one, someday.
When I'd looked at the litter playing on the lady’s lawn, I'd thought that someday just might be right then. There had been fourteen pups- all had survived, but about half had gone on to their new homes already. They were about twelve weeks old. Like all borzois that age, they were all nothing but feet, legs, elbows, tail and nose. And so cute I could barely stand it! I waded in, like someone who had died and gone to heaven.
I’d kind of held a picture in my minds eye of a white dog… my favorite at the kennel had been a big majestic white male, and I had mourned him long and hard when he died unexpectedly of torsion just after his fourth birthday. He had been an exceptionally handsome dog, with soft eyes and a regal bearing. But he’d been kind, too, with a beauty that went far deeper than his pretty face and sleek lines.
There was only one white male in the litter frolicking around on the lawn in front of me. He was a sturdy little guy. Broad chest and big feet that promised size later. But I couldn’t get my hands on him. Two little bitch pups were wrestling for control of my lap. Also, a smaller tri-color male with sable spots and a high wild tail had my sleeve in his mouth and wouldn’t let go. Every time I reached for the all white male, the other one clamped down and shook.
“Dang it… let go, little guy!”
The puppy didn't growl, so much as sound like a person saying "Grrr!" It completely cracked me up!
I gently deposited the bitch pups on the ground, and pried the other male off my arm. He was cute, and I liked his outgoing, “in your face” personality. He looked me in the eyes and began to yap. I stood up and ignored him, heading for the one I was there to see. He followed, clamping onto the hem of my skirt with glee. I did my best to ignore the little pest that was ravaging my garment, with his playful snorts, tugs and stomps, but as I got near enough to introduce myself to the white pup, the little pest let me go and chased his brother away.
Defeated, I sat back down- only to be swarmed in an avalanche of puppies that weren't the ones I wanted to see!
I have always thought that lots of times the puppies pick their owners, but I'd held a picture of a white borzoi in my mind's eye for so long it was hard to mentally look away. And I had to admit that, despite the random antics of the rest of the litter, the sable spotted male kept returning with a persistance that was kind of alarming, for a borzoi.
I'd been around enough border collies to know "willful" when I saw it. The little guy wanted his chance, and he was going to have it! Although he wasn’t what I was looking for, he wasn’t going to let it rest until he got what he wanted. I reached out and snagged him, pulling him into my lap. He looked unabashedly into my eyes while I looked him over, wondering if I could overlook his color. He was mostly white, to be sure, but he had black spots covering both ears and going down the sides of his face, stopping above his eyes like eyebrows. He was spotted on his back, too, but the spots were black, with golden tan hairs underneath. It was an interesting color combination, and one I'd seen before but never paid close attention to. I think technically he'd be called a tri-color black and tan sable on white.
The pup had a positively lovely head- very classic with dark eyes and so much eye pigment he looked like Cleopatra had done his makeup. Nice ear carriage, too. A little big, but nicely folded. The picture went straight down hill from there. Although his rear end was adequate, his shoulder was very upright, which promised choppy front end movement. Also, he had a kink in the end of his tail, which he carried way too high to be correct and he had a chest so narrow it looked like both his front legs were coming out of the same hole. You could see his heart beat in his armpit behind his front legs.
“Definitely not show quality.” I muttered. But when I released him from my exam he stood still, looking me in the eye for a second before climbing back into my lap. Then he sat down, snuggled in, and stayed still. Facing out with his back to me, he watched his litter-mates with a tangible air of superiority. When the two bitch pups came near, he yapped at them. I had officially become "his property."
I found myself considering the future. His conformation was less than promising- it spoke of possible problems later with arthritis. But by the time he was old enough to need extra attention from the vet, I’d be established enough to afford it. Besides, being narrow and shoulder upright wasn’t the end of the world. His hocks and stifles looked good, to my untrained eye. Front narrow sometimes got better with exercise. Plus he was smart... and funny!
“So, I thought you wanted a white one?” the breeder said. She’d been standing behind me quietly.
“Don’t think it was up to me today.” I answered. I was glad she couldn’t see my face… I was grinning like an idiot.
“Not planning to show, are you?”
“Nope.”
And that was that. I carried him inside, mostly ‘cause I couldn’t bear to set him down. I met his parents- it had been an accidental breeding of two unrelated bloodlines, which explained the inconsistency in the quality of puppies. The male was a stunning dog, all white. A quick scan of his papers revealed he had names on this papers I recognized. My heart sang!
The dam of the pups was rather unimpressive. A scrawny, poor quality rescue bitch that had accidentally gotten bred before she could be spayed. A big “oops” to be sure. But I didn’t care. That puppy was the One.
I left a $20 deposit and a promise to return as quickly as possible. The apartment I was staying in with my aunt had a liberal pet policy the last time I had checked. I was staying in the unfinished basement, so there was nothing to destroy during the housebreaking process, and it was likely we’d be relocating before management suspected how large he was going to get. I left, narrowing down my list of puppy names. “Vlad” -‘cause it sounded Russian. I liked "Ivan" too- that had been the call name of my favorite at the kennel years before. Or “Riff,” from a really sad childrens book about a borzoi, by Lynn Hall.
I headed right away for the apartment office, but I had been in for a surprise- and not a nice one, either. The apartment complex had changed the pet rules since I'd last checked. No dogs were allowed at all anymore, unless you had a grandfather clause.
I was absolutely crushed, but I couldn't think of any way around the problem. So, I called the breeder back and told her what had happened. She was sympathetic and even offered to give my deposit back. I remember being torn- I wanted to see him again, but to see him and know I’d have to let him go?
Ouch.
I ended up going anyway. Cried onto the top of his spotted little head. Got my $20 back, and a load of heartbreak that never quite went away. A couple weeks later the breeder called to tell me that I shouldn’t worry. He’d been placed with a nice family with a big yard. I tried to be happy for him, but I couldn’t quite muster it.
And time passed. That could very well have been the end of the story. Stuff like that happens all the time. But not that time…
About 6 months later I had stayed up way too late, playing Dungeons and Dragons with my friends. Too much Dr. Pepper, I guess, or maybe I was just due for some big cosmic break, ‘cause the timing was good. I dreamed that I bought a Sunday paper, and there was a borzoi in the pets section for sale. Borzoi are very rare- usually only one or so a year show up in the local paper. But, when I woke I remembered the dream and picked up a paper when I was in the store getting some more Dr. Pepper that morning. As the dream foretold, there was a borzoi. And I think I still have the clipping.
At first, I didn’t put two and two together. The puppy I had fallen for a few months ago was a “hold in your arms” size fellow. He couldn’t be a 32” at the shoulder, 10 month tri-color male. It didn't even register in my brain as a possibility! I made an appointment to go see- mostly because I figured I had to. You don’t get handed a dream that good and just walk away without seeing it through.
I knocked on the door a couple days later. There was no barking, only the screaming of kids from somewhere within the depths of the McMansion. I felt uncomfortable, and sad, and I didn't know why. But the door opened, and the lady beckoned me in.
The borzoi stood like a statue across the room. Ears alert, eyes intense. Almost vibrating with energy. He was breathtaking… young and still puppyish, but handsome. And he watched me like he expected me to evaporate.
“Come on, boy.” his owner coaxed. “Come and meet…”
The dog exploded into action. He covered the living room in three large bounds, leaping into my arms with this strange, keening cry. He hit me so hard I bounced off the wall in the entry way, hit me so hard I could barely breathe. Or, maybe I couldn’t breathe ‘cause I was laughing so hard. It was my puppy, and he remembered me even before I remembered him! Laugh, cry, slobber. It was great!
His poor owner! She kept trying to drag him off me, but she didn’t have the strength- besides, I was encouraging him. She kept apologizing for him, saying he was terrible about jumping on people. Finally, I took the course of least resistance and sat down on the floor with him. He grinned, wiggled and made “talking” noises at me.
“He sure likes you.” said his owner. She kept commenting over and over how she hadn't ever seen him carry on over anyone like this before. I personally think she was anticipating the sale. “He usually doesn’t warm up to strangers right away…”
I laughed out loud, still in shock at my incredible luck. “I’m not a stranger.” I told her. Just to be sure, I checked for the kink in his tail tip. Yup. It was definitely my pup.
Well, the question from then on was not whether or not I wanted him- I think I might have even stolen him from that point on, if I had to! However, as I was in the process of moving to an apartment by myself, I had a lot of things to arrange before I could take him. Boarding, for one. Double confirming the pet policy at my new place, for another. I decided immediately I'd dump that apartment if I had to. There was absolutely NO way I was going to let my dog go again.
And so, a week later, I was driving to a boarding kennel on the far fringes of the big city, with an enormous grin on my face. The world sure looked brighter with a borzoi in my back seat!
To read the next story, click ---> HERE!
All content (c) C.T. Griffith, 2010. All rights reserved.
Well, if similar appearance were the only criteria for happy human and canine relationships, the money should never have changed hands! I’d have ended up with a Corgi or a Dachshund or some other nice plump little dog that was more than a little short in the looks (and legs!) department. Riff would have gotten a himself a supermodel. Not that he would have minded, I'm sure. He always had a way with the ladies!
But the money did change hands that soggy day in January of 1991. Five crumpled and slightly damp twenty's, derailed from their original destiny as a utility deposit on my new apartment. In exchange, I was handed a leash, with a tall, narrow-chested yearling borzoi puppy attached.
“Bye, Raffie!” screamed the tidal wave of crying children, from the doorway.
He didn’t look back. That should have struck me as unusual, but I was so jazzed about finally getting my own dog… this dog, the one I was supposed to have had as tottering twelve week old puppy. It bordered on a miracle.
“Feed him bananas!” howled the littlest girl. “They’re his favorite!”
He didn’t look back, but I did. “Bananas, huh?” I raised my eyebrow at the woman.
She shrugged, looking harried and more than a little defensive. “He liked to take food away from the kids. He’s bigger than most of them, you know.”
I knew. It was hard to miss them. There were just so many. I could see why the dog was staring eagerly at my car, and I didn't miss the past tense in her statement. I followed his lead. “I’ll let you know how it goes,” I told her, over my shoulder as we walked away.
We exchanged a few pleasantries. I was as glad to go as the dog. Although the house was in one of the nicer neighborhoods in the suburbs West of the big city, there was an air of gloom surrounding the place- something quite tangible.
I proudly installed my new charge in the back seat of my ’74 Plymouth Satellite and climbed in behind the steering wheel I could barely see over. As I angled the rear view mirror to be able to watch him, our eyes locked. His were brown, with lots of black eyeliner, like mine- only his was natural and mine came from the discount cosmetics bin at the drugstore. We looked at each other for several seconds before I started the car. He was confident and charismatic- but a little guarded. After all, he wasn’t too sure of me. He hadn't had anything much to be sure of yet, in his life.
“It’ll be ok, buddy.” I smiled first. Although he looked away, he kept looking back when he thought I wasn’t looking. It was like being in Junior High, and flirting with a cute boy in study hall. I was so happy I felt I could burst.
I was nineteen, and just two weeks away from being out on my own for the first time ever. The apartment was picked out. The deposit, (including the one for the dog) was paid. I was attending the local community college as a graphic arts major and mostly paying my own way between a crappy telemarketing job, an itty-bitty scholarship, and my Grandparent's generous help with books and supplies. The future was so bright, I had to wear shades.
And, by some stroke of luck… or perhaps fate, I’d found my dog.
Again.
I didn’t put much faith in fate back then. Didn’t put faith in much of anything, really.
I’d first met Riff in early summer of the year before. A friend told me about a litter of borzoi pups across the river in the other town. I had to go see- it was a moral imperative. I loved borzois! As a kid, I’d worked at a kennel and scooped a lot of poop just for the privilege of hanging around the borzois. The first time I laid eyes on one, I had the strangest feeling. I’d always wanted a dog of my own, but until I was eye to eye with a borzoi, my “dog wanting” never had any focus. My instant devotion to the breed went beyond their classic beauty. It was something about their personality, their sensitivity. From the first moment I rested a hand on a narrow borzoi skull and ruffled those velvety ears, I made up my mind that I was going to have one, someday.
When I'd looked at the litter playing on the lady’s lawn, I'd thought that someday just might be right then. There had been fourteen pups- all had survived, but about half had gone on to their new homes already. They were about twelve weeks old. Like all borzois that age, they were all nothing but feet, legs, elbows, tail and nose. And so cute I could barely stand it! I waded in, like someone who had died and gone to heaven.
I’d kind of held a picture in my minds eye of a white dog… my favorite at the kennel had been a big majestic white male, and I had mourned him long and hard when he died unexpectedly of torsion just after his fourth birthday. He had been an exceptionally handsome dog, with soft eyes and a regal bearing. But he’d been kind, too, with a beauty that went far deeper than his pretty face and sleek lines.
There was only one white male in the litter frolicking around on the lawn in front of me. He was a sturdy little guy. Broad chest and big feet that promised size later. But I couldn’t get my hands on him. Two little bitch pups were wrestling for control of my lap. Also, a smaller tri-color male with sable spots and a high wild tail had my sleeve in his mouth and wouldn’t let go. Every time I reached for the all white male, the other one clamped down and shook.
“Dang it… let go, little guy!”
The puppy didn't growl, so much as sound like a person saying "Grrr!" It completely cracked me up!
I gently deposited the bitch pups on the ground, and pried the other male off my arm. He was cute, and I liked his outgoing, “in your face” personality. He looked me in the eyes and began to yap. I stood up and ignored him, heading for the one I was there to see. He followed, clamping onto the hem of my skirt with glee. I did my best to ignore the little pest that was ravaging my garment, with his playful snorts, tugs and stomps, but as I got near enough to introduce myself to the white pup, the little pest let me go and chased his brother away.
Defeated, I sat back down- only to be swarmed in an avalanche of puppies that weren't the ones I wanted to see!
I have always thought that lots of times the puppies pick their owners, but I'd held a picture of a white borzoi in my mind's eye for so long it was hard to mentally look away. And I had to admit that, despite the random antics of the rest of the litter, the sable spotted male kept returning with a persistance that was kind of alarming, for a borzoi.
I'd been around enough border collies to know "willful" when I saw it. The little guy wanted his chance, and he was going to have it! Although he wasn’t what I was looking for, he wasn’t going to let it rest until he got what he wanted. I reached out and snagged him, pulling him into my lap. He looked unabashedly into my eyes while I looked him over, wondering if I could overlook his color. He was mostly white, to be sure, but he had black spots covering both ears and going down the sides of his face, stopping above his eyes like eyebrows. He was spotted on his back, too, but the spots were black, with golden tan hairs underneath. It was an interesting color combination, and one I'd seen before but never paid close attention to. I think technically he'd be called a tri-color black and tan sable on white.
The pup had a positively lovely head- very classic with dark eyes and so much eye pigment he looked like Cleopatra had done his makeup. Nice ear carriage, too. A little big, but nicely folded. The picture went straight down hill from there. Although his rear end was adequate, his shoulder was very upright, which promised choppy front end movement. Also, he had a kink in the end of his tail, which he carried way too high to be correct and he had a chest so narrow it looked like both his front legs were coming out of the same hole. You could see his heart beat in his armpit behind his front legs.
“Definitely not show quality.” I muttered. But when I released him from my exam he stood still, looking me in the eye for a second before climbing back into my lap. Then he sat down, snuggled in, and stayed still. Facing out with his back to me, he watched his litter-mates with a tangible air of superiority. When the two bitch pups came near, he yapped at them. I had officially become "his property."
I found myself considering the future. His conformation was less than promising- it spoke of possible problems later with arthritis. But by the time he was old enough to need extra attention from the vet, I’d be established enough to afford it. Besides, being narrow and shoulder upright wasn’t the end of the world. His hocks and stifles looked good, to my untrained eye. Front narrow sometimes got better with exercise. Plus he was smart... and funny!
“So, I thought you wanted a white one?” the breeder said. She’d been standing behind me quietly.
“Don’t think it was up to me today.” I answered. I was glad she couldn’t see my face… I was grinning like an idiot.
“Not planning to show, are you?”
“Nope.”
And that was that. I carried him inside, mostly ‘cause I couldn’t bear to set him down. I met his parents- it had been an accidental breeding of two unrelated bloodlines, which explained the inconsistency in the quality of puppies. The male was a stunning dog, all white. A quick scan of his papers revealed he had names on this papers I recognized. My heart sang!
The dam of the pups was rather unimpressive. A scrawny, poor quality rescue bitch that had accidentally gotten bred before she could be spayed. A big “oops” to be sure. But I didn’t care. That puppy was the One.
I left a $20 deposit and a promise to return as quickly as possible. The apartment I was staying in with my aunt had a liberal pet policy the last time I had checked. I was staying in the unfinished basement, so there was nothing to destroy during the housebreaking process, and it was likely we’d be relocating before management suspected how large he was going to get. I left, narrowing down my list of puppy names. “Vlad” -‘cause it sounded Russian. I liked "Ivan" too- that had been the call name of my favorite at the kennel years before. Or “Riff,” from a really sad childrens book about a borzoi, by Lynn Hall.
I headed right away for the apartment office, but I had been in for a surprise- and not a nice one, either. The apartment complex had changed the pet rules since I'd last checked. No dogs were allowed at all anymore, unless you had a grandfather clause.
I was absolutely crushed, but I couldn't think of any way around the problem. So, I called the breeder back and told her what had happened. She was sympathetic and even offered to give my deposit back. I remember being torn- I wanted to see him again, but to see him and know I’d have to let him go?
Ouch.
I ended up going anyway. Cried onto the top of his spotted little head. Got my $20 back, and a load of heartbreak that never quite went away. A couple weeks later the breeder called to tell me that I shouldn’t worry. He’d been placed with a nice family with a big yard. I tried to be happy for him, but I couldn’t quite muster it.
And time passed. That could very well have been the end of the story. Stuff like that happens all the time. But not that time…
About 6 months later I had stayed up way too late, playing Dungeons and Dragons with my friends. Too much Dr. Pepper, I guess, or maybe I was just due for some big cosmic break, ‘cause the timing was good. I dreamed that I bought a Sunday paper, and there was a borzoi in the pets section for sale. Borzoi are very rare- usually only one or so a year show up in the local paper. But, when I woke I remembered the dream and picked up a paper when I was in the store getting some more Dr. Pepper that morning. As the dream foretold, there was a borzoi. And I think I still have the clipping.
At first, I didn’t put two and two together. The puppy I had fallen for a few months ago was a “hold in your arms” size fellow. He couldn’t be a 32” at the shoulder, 10 month tri-color male. It didn't even register in my brain as a possibility! I made an appointment to go see- mostly because I figured I had to. You don’t get handed a dream that good and just walk away without seeing it through.
I knocked on the door a couple days later. There was no barking, only the screaming of kids from somewhere within the depths of the McMansion. I felt uncomfortable, and sad, and I didn't know why. But the door opened, and the lady beckoned me in.
The borzoi stood like a statue across the room. Ears alert, eyes intense. Almost vibrating with energy. He was breathtaking… young and still puppyish, but handsome. And he watched me like he expected me to evaporate.
“Come on, boy.” his owner coaxed. “Come and meet…”
The dog exploded into action. He covered the living room in three large bounds, leaping into my arms with this strange, keening cry. He hit me so hard I bounced off the wall in the entry way, hit me so hard I could barely breathe. Or, maybe I couldn’t breathe ‘cause I was laughing so hard. It was my puppy, and he remembered me even before I remembered him! Laugh, cry, slobber. It was great!
His poor owner! She kept trying to drag him off me, but she didn’t have the strength- besides, I was encouraging him. She kept apologizing for him, saying he was terrible about jumping on people. Finally, I took the course of least resistance and sat down on the floor with him. He grinned, wiggled and made “talking” noises at me.
“He sure likes you.” said his owner. She kept commenting over and over how she hadn't ever seen him carry on over anyone like this before. I personally think she was anticipating the sale. “He usually doesn’t warm up to strangers right away…”
I laughed out loud, still in shock at my incredible luck. “I’m not a stranger.” I told her. Just to be sure, I checked for the kink in his tail tip. Yup. It was definitely my pup.
Well, the question from then on was not whether or not I wanted him- I think I might have even stolen him from that point on, if I had to! However, as I was in the process of moving to an apartment by myself, I had a lot of things to arrange before I could take him. Boarding, for one. Double confirming the pet policy at my new place, for another. I decided immediately I'd dump that apartment if I had to. There was absolutely NO way I was going to let my dog go again.
And so, a week later, I was driving to a boarding kennel on the far fringes of the big city, with an enormous grin on my face. The world sure looked brighter with a borzoi in my back seat!
To read the next story, click ---> HERE!
All content (c) C.T. Griffith, 2010. All rights reserved.
Introduction to "Remembering Riff- Tales of an Urban Borzoi"
Blame it on early imprinting.
Family legend has it I spent a lot of my first few years on the floor, with the family dog.
Boots was an excellent dog, a classy, whip-smart mix of black Lab and Border Collie. Unfailingly obedient and people-savvy, she helped Grandma raise my two youngest aunts. I grew up hearing stories about how Boots refused to move from next to the car when the family would pack to move, how she'd back my aunt Judy into a corner and lean on her when she was acting like a typical toddler, and the time she broke the household rules to warn my grandparents of an incoming tornado. Later on, when Boots was an old dog, I arrived on the scene. The family album has it's share of photos of me on the floor with Boots, on my hands and knees. Apparently there's a photo somewhere of me trying to eat the kibble out of her dish, too... (but I can neither confirm or deny those rumors!)
Most of my memories of Boots have long sense faded away, replaced by more recent memories of other dogs that have been a big part of my life and our family over the years. Ginger was our family dog when I was a kid- a little black "cockapoo" with a big bark and a mischievous personality. She was a stray that followed me home when I was in fourth grade, and lived with Mom until I was well grown and out of the house. Although she played with my sister and I, she was Mom's dog at heart. Ginger hid paper money in the couch, opened her own Christmas presents, and stood in line to use the slide just like all the other kids at the playground. She howled along when my sister and I sang loud, rude campfire songs and had a sixth sense about when mom was coming home. I appreciated her, but she made me want my own dog!
I saw my first borzoi sometime in the mid-eighties, when I was in Junior High and Mom dated a guy that cleaned kennels for a lady with a lot of show dogs. He brought me along, and when I first saw the lithe, ghostly shapes, I froze in my tracks. They seemed lighter than air! Backlighted from the warm glow of the indoor lights, they were first just silhouettes dancing and racing in the lazily falling snow. Then, they came closer and turned into dogs.
I was enchanted.
They weren't just dogs, I discovered. They were the epitome of Dog. I looked into their expressive eyes and felt as though I'd found long lost kin.
My first dog wasn't a borzoi, sadly enough. He was a sweet, high strung whippet who was too nervous for the show ring. I didn't have him long, but I learned a lot from him. Important lessons like patience, loyalty, and accepting someone as they were- even if that someone was deeply flawed. An unexpected move out of state right before my senior year of high school forced me to give him up, and although I made sure he was placed in an excellent home with "whippet knowledgeable" people, I swore then I'd never be in a position to give up my dog ever again. And over the last year I've had the heartbreak of reliving that experience. Due to unexpected life experiences, I had to place my beloved older bitch, Miriah, into a permanent home in Canada. I hated having to break that promise to myself, but putting her in a permanent home that was experienced in caring for senior borzois was a far better choice for her, than dragging her along on my uncertain journey of the moment. Painful lesson learned.
The events of our lives shape us and make us who we are. It’s likely that every dog I've known has contributed something to this story, even if it's just been their bit part in influencing the person I've become through their friendship, dedication, and even those hard lessons about loss and sorrow. Through them, we learn about life and all it's seasons.
One of the best lessons I ever learned from my friend Riff, my first borzoi and the dog this project is dedicated to. Through his adventures and misadventures, he showed me that sometimes it’s worth sacrificing your dignity to get your point across. Anyone who was ever met him in person is probably chuckling and nodding at this point, remembering some of his mischief. Other folks might be thinking this is kind of ridiculous. I'm writing a biography for a dog?
Why, yes… I am. With pride!
Another of the valuable things Riff taught me was to take my friends where I find them, and he’d been one of the best that I could have ever hoped for. All the remarkable people in the world don't always come on only two legs! Don’t worry- my aim here isn't to make this one of those sappy, sentimental animal lover books. It’s a biography. It’s part adventure, part drama- and a whole lot of comedy. His life was a comedy! He made me laugh daily for the almost ten years he was in my life, and still almost ten years after he's gone. The memories of some of his antics still make me chuckle, ponder, and even contemplate deeply on occasion. Riff was a very unusual dog, and this is the best way I can think of to share him with everyone that didn't get to meet him in person.
I dedicate these stories to all our canine friends- past, present and future.
To go on to the first chapter of the story, click---> HERE!
All content (c) C.T. Griffith, 2010. All rights reserved.
Family legend has it I spent a lot of my first few years on the floor, with the family dog.
Boots was an excellent dog, a classy, whip-smart mix of black Lab and Border Collie. Unfailingly obedient and people-savvy, she helped Grandma raise my two youngest aunts. I grew up hearing stories about how Boots refused to move from next to the car when the family would pack to move, how she'd back my aunt Judy into a corner and lean on her when she was acting like a typical toddler, and the time she broke the household rules to warn my grandparents of an incoming tornado. Later on, when Boots was an old dog, I arrived on the scene. The family album has it's share of photos of me on the floor with Boots, on my hands and knees. Apparently there's a photo somewhere of me trying to eat the kibble out of her dish, too... (but I can neither confirm or deny those rumors!)
Most of my memories of Boots have long sense faded away, replaced by more recent memories of other dogs that have been a big part of my life and our family over the years. Ginger was our family dog when I was a kid- a little black "cockapoo" with a big bark and a mischievous personality. She was a stray that followed me home when I was in fourth grade, and lived with Mom until I was well grown and out of the house. Although she played with my sister and I, she was Mom's dog at heart. Ginger hid paper money in the couch, opened her own Christmas presents, and stood in line to use the slide just like all the other kids at the playground. She howled along when my sister and I sang loud, rude campfire songs and had a sixth sense about when mom was coming home. I appreciated her, but she made me want my own dog!
I saw my first borzoi sometime in the mid-eighties, when I was in Junior High and Mom dated a guy that cleaned kennels for a lady with a lot of show dogs. He brought me along, and when I first saw the lithe, ghostly shapes, I froze in my tracks. They seemed lighter than air! Backlighted from the warm glow of the indoor lights, they were first just silhouettes dancing and racing in the lazily falling snow. Then, they came closer and turned into dogs.
I was enchanted.
They weren't just dogs, I discovered. They were the epitome of Dog. I looked into their expressive eyes and felt as though I'd found long lost kin.
My first dog wasn't a borzoi, sadly enough. He was a sweet, high strung whippet who was too nervous for the show ring. I didn't have him long, but I learned a lot from him. Important lessons like patience, loyalty, and accepting someone as they were- even if that someone was deeply flawed. An unexpected move out of state right before my senior year of high school forced me to give him up, and although I made sure he was placed in an excellent home with "whippet knowledgeable" people, I swore then I'd never be in a position to give up my dog ever again. And over the last year I've had the heartbreak of reliving that experience. Due to unexpected life experiences, I had to place my beloved older bitch, Miriah, into a permanent home in Canada. I hated having to break that promise to myself, but putting her in a permanent home that was experienced in caring for senior borzois was a far better choice for her, than dragging her along on my uncertain journey of the moment. Painful lesson learned.
The events of our lives shape us and make us who we are. It’s likely that every dog I've known has contributed something to this story, even if it's just been their bit part in influencing the person I've become through their friendship, dedication, and even those hard lessons about loss and sorrow. Through them, we learn about life and all it's seasons.
One of the best lessons I ever learned from my friend Riff, my first borzoi and the dog this project is dedicated to. Through his adventures and misadventures, he showed me that sometimes it’s worth sacrificing your dignity to get your point across. Anyone who was ever met him in person is probably chuckling and nodding at this point, remembering some of his mischief. Other folks might be thinking this is kind of ridiculous. I'm writing a biography for a dog?
Why, yes… I am. With pride!
Another of the valuable things Riff taught me was to take my friends where I find them, and he’d been one of the best that I could have ever hoped for. All the remarkable people in the world don't always come on only two legs! Don’t worry- my aim here isn't to make this one of those sappy, sentimental animal lover books. It’s a biography. It’s part adventure, part drama- and a whole lot of comedy. His life was a comedy! He made me laugh daily for the almost ten years he was in my life, and still almost ten years after he's gone. The memories of some of his antics still make me chuckle, ponder, and even contemplate deeply on occasion. Riff was a very unusual dog, and this is the best way I can think of to share him with everyone that didn't get to meet him in person.
I dedicate these stories to all our canine friends- past, present and future.
To go on to the first chapter of the story, click---> HERE!
All content (c) C.T. Griffith, 2010. All rights reserved.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)