Hey, we didn't pick it. The ball-less schmucks at the tracks who own, race, then destroy these noble creatures did. And as much as I enjoy becoming a socially awkward recluse in my pursuit of publication, I love having Sam at my place. When he's not sleeping, he's looking at me with that big beautiful eye, as if to say, "Hey...tall person," --It's nice to be the tall one for a change... Even if it is compared to another species-- "I feel like walking. Then, whining at that cat again, while you hold me back. You know, the ugly one that spits. But, I think I'll sleep first. Is that cool?"
He's slept for most of the weekend. Though we did take a hike in between two writing sessions. If, in fact, him trailing along lazily behind me for a quarter of the trail that I wanted to do counts as a hike, then, yes. We hiked. There was natural swimming hole there too. I went in up to my knees, but Sammy wasn't having it.
Once, when AJ and I were petsitting, we went swimming, and Sammy, never having seen me so low in the ground, walked right into the top of the water.
Did I mention that Greyhounds are the only breed of dog that are not natural swimmers? Ever since Sammy avoids reflective surfaces like pools, shiny floors, my brothers-in-laws' foreheads, and patent leather shoes. Each of which have proven to be a big deterrant for the poochie. Hey, remember Poochie?
Yale time. More Later...
Love,
tdg
