Authors: Steven Wolf
Freddie didn't hang up. She even chuckled. “You don't give up, do you? Thanks for the flowers. But I thought I told you I need some space.”
“You did? My short-term memory is still shaky.”
“No.”
“Yes. The doctor said I'm like a trauma victim. Regaining memory skills will take a while longer.”
“No. I meant no to a date.”
“No?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I'll pick you up at seven.”
Freddie laughed out, “I give up,” before she disconnected.
A series of “I'm not dating you” dates followed, all allowing Freddie to finally express her greatest fear about having any future relationship with me. It kept coming back to trust.
“How do I know that what you're saying will last? How do I know that the first time you find out that you can't meet your own expectations, you won't revert right back to Mr. Lone Cowboy? I can't go through that again. I know that your spine is better, but it won't always be about your back.”
“You don't know. And my promising that I won't go âLone Cowboy' has about as much value as a time-share in Guantánamo. I'm just now figuring out what happened. It's amazing how my mind fell apart as fast as my body.”
Freddie gave me a long look and nodded her head slightly. She allowed herself a small smile, which suddenly widened into a grin. “I've been waiting for you to start spinning your fantasies about the future. You haven't. Not once during all of our talks. You even tried to dance with me last week. You remind me of the good old days.
”
Freddie raised her wineglass.
“Santé.”
That cheer to my health didn't cure everything, but it did signal a new direction. The dates that followed weren't always placid, but neither of us ever left the table feeling guilty or cheated. The only time the past was discussed was in the context of trying to make things better. No blame, just a mutual agreement that it wasn't worth another visit. We also agreed to quit spending so much time worrying about tomorrow. We had seen firsthand how little control we had over it. By the time I prepared a Thanksgiving meal, complete with a champagne-basted turkey and all the trimmings, we were talking about how to get Freddie's belongings back into the house. “Just don't get used to me cooking,” I cautioned. “Neither of us wants that.”
MY RECOVERY WAS
long and complicated. The doctors had been right. My nerves had trouble communicating with muscles, I still struggled with depression, and I had to constantly adjust my medications. It truly was a full-time job. I spent any spare time returning favors to many deserving people by giving free legal advice whenever it was needed, and by lending a hand with fund-raising and promotion for the greyhound rescue group in Sedona. The days I was forced to spend in bed became an accepted part of my lifeâno longer did I rage against it.
Over the next two years, Freddie and I had our share of challenges. Sandoz, the girlish golden who revered Freddie's every step, had to be put down. Severe hip dysplasia had made it impossible for her to even go outside to relieve herself. Freddie went into an emotional, teary funk. Comet was so distraught that she would walk to the neighbor's house where Sandoz had stayed during our travels, waiting at the front door for her sister to come out. Kylie and Lindsey were still angry with Freddie, pretty much precluding family gatherings. Jackie was more certain that happy days had finally arrived because she visited us regularly from Flagstaff, but it wasn't until Lindsey's June wedding in 2008 that the four women passed the peace pipe.
During this time, I developed a deep interest in cliff dwellings and other artifacts from the prehistoric cultures of Northern Arizona. It started when friends convinced me to take Comet for walks in the nearby canyons. I had never thought I'd be able to walk among the red rocks of Sedona, not even for short distances, but now I could. Comet trotted out in front, constantly sniffing the rocks and scrubby bushes. Seeing her stand motionless while staring at a far-off pack of coyotes reassured me that she wasn't planning on leaving me anytime soon.
Freddie left the time-share operation and found a new job as a real estate sales representative for a vacation resort. She now had a functioning spouse for social activities with friends, and we both loved going to the local clubs to hear live music. We acted like we had just met through some kind of dating service, constantly relearning things about each other that we never should have forgotten.
One warm spring day Comet and I were hiking with some friends when my cell phone vibrated. I figured it was a worried Freddie, making sure my buddies were taking good care of me. Instead, it was my daughter Lindsey calling from Omaha to tell me she was pregnantâour first grandchild would arrive in September. Freddie was more than willing to look for work in the health care profession back in Nebraska if that meant our grandchild would get to know us. She had trained so many cardiology nurses, medical students, and interns that she would have no trouble finding a flextime position in a cardiac unit. Freddie no longer wanted to work full-time managing her own unit. We were having too much fun. Social Security Disability benefits added to proceeds from a private disability policy would be enough to fill in the income gap.
It was a sign of our growing good luck that we had sold our home three months before the nationwide housing meltdown. In Sedona, prices had been especially inflated, and we made an extremely nice profit on the sale. After the bubble burst, we bought a small condo on a nearby golf course, which enabled us to live in two places again if we wanted to. And we weren't leaving Sedona permanently, only for the summers. That is, if Freddie could drag me away from Nebraska after we learned the baby would be a grand
daughter.
Freddie had her doubts about that.
FOUR YEARS AFTER
Comet opened that hotel door in Albuquerque, making sure I had another chance at life, I sat gazing out of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the frozen lake that lay below our new Nebraska home. For the first time in years, the entire family was together for the Christmas holidays. My three girls exploded in laughter after a particularly raunchy joke from my mom. Lindsey's husband and Kylie's fiancé made sure the wine was flowing, eager to impress me with their fondness for my daughters. Freddie grinned at me from across the kitchen island and raised her glass in a brief, private toast.
Next to me on the living room floor, a months-long drama was reaching its conclusion. Since our return to Nebraska in May, Lindsey's little girl, Natalie, had been both curious about and fearful of Comet, who must have looked as big as a mastodon to her. Not in the least bit offended, Comet had bided her time, following Natalie at a safe distance all over the house. Now fifteen months old, Nat was almost as tall as Comet's legs, a stature that seemed to give the toddler confidence. For the past week I had watched as Natalie repeatedly approached Comet's bed, always turning back just before her hand touched the dog's head. Comet never moved or lifted her head, waiting as always with closed eyes and perked ears.
Finally Natalie plunked down onto the dog bed. Comet lifted her head in slow motion until her eyes were level with the little girl's face. As the seconds passed, Natalie visibly relaxed. She stretched her index finger forward, touching Comet's nose. The giggle that followed was clearly Natalie's way of saying, “Comet wants me to be her buddy!”
Because my recovery had been so rocky, Comet didn't surrender her service dog duties for some time. She still occasionally gave me a boost out of a chair or bed, especially when I was tired. After she made friends with Natalie, however, she was much more willing to consider retiring. Comet was now a public ambassador for the greyhound breed. Whenever we went out, people would gather to admire her. When I gave permission, she would slowly approach the nearest stranger, head high and doe eyes staring, to give them her special hug. For some reason, Comet comforted people and put them at ease. Within moments, strangers would start telling me about a childhood pet they often dreamed about, a son who was stationed in Afghanistan, or a wife who had passed away and was still missed. Otherwise unruly kids at the grocery store would quietly approach and politely ask to pet the exotic animal, invariably asking their mother, “Can we get one?”
Comet had apparently become a local celebrity, because in April of 2010 the Nebraska Humane Society honored her as “Service Dog of the Year.” The Humane Society representative told me, “I met you and Comet when we were both at the doctor's office. When I brought her name up to the committee members, half of them already knew her.”
I've never been able to find words that could adequately describe Comet's contented acceptance of the roller-coaster life she lived with me. I always had the feeling that she was trying to tell me something important, some piece of ancient wisdom that would make my struggles easier. The thought that Comet had lived several past lives was never far from the surface. I had been reading a modern translation of Cicero's
De senectute
when I found a passage that comes close to what I feel Comet's lesson might be:
The best Armour of Old Age is a well spent Life preceding it; a Life employed in the Pursuit of useful Knowledge, in honourable Actions and the Practice of Virtue; . . . because a Conscience bearing Witness that our Life was well spent, together with the Remembrance of past good Actions, yields an unspeakable Comfort to the Soul.
Now fourteen years old, Comet is feeling her age. Arthritis is visibly slowing her down. Her kidney functions are shaky. But it's pretty clear to me that my greyhound has an unspeakable comfort of the soul from her well-spent life. She pulls the bedcovers off me in the morning not to help me but to announce that it's time for her walkâthe walks are for her now, not for me. She actually demands some attention from me, rubbing her head against me until I pet her and tell her she's pretty. Our routines are centered more around her schedule than mine, whether it's eating or exploring the neighborhood. Comet has spent enough time waiting for me. I now take her to the doctor rather than the reverse. She's earned every bit of my attention and more treats than I can provide in a lifetime. Comet is going to have the pampered retirement she so richly deserves.
Just when I think I have learned all I can from this remarkable animal, Comet lets me know there is no limit to love. My hips were shot after all the years of bearing the weight and stress that should have been absorbed by my spine, so I visited a new series of doctors to discuss a hip replacement. Comet deduced that something was up. Nervous, she began her former habit of stalking me through every room in the house, always at the ready. After successful hip-replacement surgery, Freddie and I returned home with crutches and a walker. That was all Comet needed to see. She trotted downstairs to the basement, and the sound of falling boxes told us she was in the storage area. Soon she came back up, carrying her old worn-out service harness. I didn't need it. She dropped it at my feet.
I'll never understand why this wonderful dog chose me. I'll never be able to fully comprehend the depth of forgiveness Comet displayed after the suffering she endured at the racetrack. I'll never know why a dog tried so hard for so long to remind me of the eternal values of love, loyalty, and the infinite expectation of dawn. But I'm long past wrestling with those enigmas. Instead, as Comet ages, I find myself replaying that day so long ago when she left sorrow and melancholy behind, suddenly intent on adopting a lonely and discouraged man. I remember how surprised I was and that I said out loud, “I think Comet likes me.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There's an old Plains saying about risk taking:
Just make sure you know what fleas come with the dog.
Wise advice.
Thankfully, Betsy Amster fell in love with a flealess greyhound, ignoring the problems loitering at the other end of the leash. Whew! Lynette Padwa trusted her skills, confident she could stamp out dangerous infestations. You did. Amy Gash, your upbeat editorial disposition was the treatment that fleabag needed. At least I quit itching after you first, and then Jude Grant, worked your magic.
Some ignored wisdom, leaping without knowing. Louis Bayard, without your encouragement and the unwillingness to trash my initial draft, all of this would still be in my head. Sandi Ault, I'll find a way to repay your introduction of me to your agent, but thank you. Craig Johnson, your support was inspiring. As was Judy's. Anne Hillerman, thank you for befriending me during the incubation of this project. Thank you, Algonquin Books, for your tremendously supportive staff.
Some really had no choice. Mom, you're the toughest person I know. With your support and love, how could I not have made it to this point? Kylie, Lindsey, and Jackieânothing has the potential to have more fleas than a father you didn't choose. I hope this book soothes some hurt, but my love for youâbeautiful daughters allâhas never wavered.
Some accepted the fleas. Like Comet, who risked infection simply because of her mind-blowing desire to save me. This book celebrates you.
Finally, a woman who looked at me and concluded, “What's the big deal with a few fleas anyway?” My life has been delightfully electrified ever since.
Je t'aime, Frederique.
An Interview with the Author
How has the greyhound racing industry reacted to
Comet's Tale
?
There has been a lot of pushback about the book from people in the industry, especially trainers. Some of them deny the abuses I wrote about and claim that I'm just repeating urban myths, but the abuses are real and documented, and they continue. Within the past few years, trainers in Florida have been caught shooting dogs up with cocaine to make them run faster, and dogs have died of exhaustion.
Has the industry changed much since the book was published?
The racing industry is dying out and everyone knows it. When I adopted Comet in 2000, there were forty-nine tracks in fifteen states, and now there are only twenty-two tracks in seven states. I've discovered that these states don't want to close the tracks, because they are legally tied to the states' gambling licenses. Years ago the licenses were granted to accommodate greyhound racing, and casinos were opened later on the same property as the tracks. Now dog racing is very poorly attended and the tracks lose millions of dollars a year. One man told me that at a recent race there were only ten people in the stands. However, the casinos make loads of money, and the states don't want to jeopardize their gambling licenses by closing
the tracks.
The good news is that some of the racetrack/casino owners themselves have come out against racing. They're tired of subsidizing a doomed and inhumane “sport.” Owners in Arizona, Iowa, and Florida have been lobbying to change the laws so they can close the tracks.
Have the people who breed greyhounds been affected by the negative publicity about abuses at the tracks?
Breeders have definitely become more enlightened, although since the greys they breed still end up racing, it's not all a rosy picture. It has improved, however. A lot of the breeders will voluntarily take their retired racers into shelters instead of sending them “back to the farm” to be destroyed, or to some university to be used in medical testing. Instead of culling litters (keeping the strongest puppies and destroying the weaker ones), more breeders are taking the unwanted puppies to shelters. Some breeders are doing more to socialize the dogs while they are young, so that socialization is easier when the greys are later adopted by families.
What about the general public? Have you seen greater awareness about greyhounds?
Absolutely. In 2000 there were only a few rescue groups. Greyhounds weren't in the public eye, and not many people knew about the conditions at racetracks. Now there are more than three hundred rescue groups in the United States and between fifteen thousand and twenty thousand retired racers are adopted each year.
The more that people are around greyhounds, the more they realize that greys are loving pets just like any other breed of dog, and more so than a lot of them. Because of greater education and exposure, people are starting to understand that greyhounds have value way over and above their ability to race. One greyhound owner put it this way: What if everyone had decided that Labrador retrievers were only good for hunting?
Are any greyhounds now being trained as service dogs?
I've been contacted by people in two different states who are training greyhounds as service dogs. I think what's happening is that the trainers have seen that greyhounds make excellent therapy dogs because of their calm and gentle demeanor. They're especially good with children. After watching greys interact with folks in hospital settings, trainers have begun to realize that the dogs can do more than just make people feel better emotionally.
Personally, I've been interested in talking to veterans groups about training greyhounds as service dogs for soldiers with physical disabilities or post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The greys' calmness and strength would make them ideal companions for vets. The VA had started a program to train service dogs for veterans with PTSD but the funding has been cut off for the time being. We'll keep trying.
I have to ask: Is Comet still around?
I get asked about that all the time. Comet died after the book was published. She was fourteen. As much as it hurts me, and as much as I still miss Cometâshe was such an important part of my lifeâthe beauty of how she passed away really sticks with me.
Comet had been having trouble with her back legs, which were achy and sore. She could no longer climb into the back of the SUV, so I made a ramp for her. She didn't like to use it. It was another one of those situations where I got the feeling that she was embarrassed. She had a hard time getting up from her bed, and she hadn't runânot even trottedâfor three or four months. We would just go out for slow walks and enjoy ourselves. She was never actually in a great deal of pain. I know her legs bothered her, but as long as she was warm and on a nice soft bed, she seemed pretty comfortable.
One morning, Comet actually jumped up onto the bed. She hadn't done that in a long time, but she jumped up and did her old routine of tamping on the bedcovers and waking me up. She was all sparkly-eyed, and I even said to Freddie, “Gosh, I think she's feeling better.” We went out for our walk, and about halfway home she started tugging at the leash, which was her way of telling me she wanted to run free. So I unhooked the leash and she took off. She ran all the way to the house. When she was really feeling good, Comet liked to race around the property, so she did thatâshe ran two or three laps around the house and I was thinking,
This is amazing!
I let her cool down, and then we went inside.
Comet walked over to her bed and lifted up the corner, because she had a stuffed animal she used to keep under there. It had been Sandoz's, and after Sandoz died Comet picked it up and carried it around the house. She never played with it; she just took it with her. When she went to bed, she'd pick up the bed and put the stuffed animal underneath. She would always check on it; she had to make sure it was there. This time she got the stuffed animal from under the bed, lay down with it, and never got back up.
It was so Comet. She was the most independent dog I have ever been around, and that was so her: “I'm going to celebrate and enjoy myself, because I know this is probably the end.”
How did you handle losing Comet?
I was in a bad funk for a long time. Unbeknownst to me, Joanne, who is in charge of greyhound rescues at the Nebraska Humane Society, started looking for another dog for me. About six months after Comet passed away, I got a call from Joanne. “Could you stop by?”
“Why? What's up?”
“I want you to look at this dog I have for you.”
I told her I wasn't ready.
“Look,” she said, “I've had two thousand greyhounds come through here, and this dog is one of the top two in intelligence. You get your butt down here.”
So I went and met Piper.
What made you realize that you and Piper were a good match?
When Joanna told me the dog's story, I immediately knew I would keep her. Piper had been racing and doing pretty well, but she hurt her leg so she was returned to the man who raised her. She was a beautiful dog and very fast, and he wanted to breed her. Well, on her second day at the farm, Piper figured out how to get her kennel door open. And she not only got her door open but opened up the other twenty kennels! The breeder brought her to the Humane Society because he said it took him a week to get all the other dogs back. At the top of Piper's intake papers someone had written, “Dog is too smartâmust go to a strong owner.”
She's been with me and Freddie ever since. Piper is a totally different character from Comet. Whereas Comet was queenly, Piper is more like the neighborhood ringleader. Whenever she's outside, a canine gang rushes out from various back doors and races after her along the lakeâto no avail. Within minutes they return to their respective homes and plop down, content and exhausted, for the rest of the day. The Canada geese along the shore, though, aren't nearly as happyâPiper can keep them flapping and honking for hours!