A Little Black Face

This is the story of how my mom and dad found me. Apparently it had something to do with the above photo, and love at first sight.

I want to tell this story partly in my words (now that I’ve had some time to adjust and reflect and gather enough perspective to understand humans a little more, and in particular, my mom and dad), and partly in the words of the one who eventually became my mom.

The story starts at the beginning of 2018.

During the first week of January 2018, mom and dad lost their greyhound girl Emma, pictured above.

Emma was a brave, strong, vivacious spirit who fought cancer no less than three times in her last two years.

When Emma left, mom and dad’s hearts were shattered.

Never before had they been without a dog. Never before had their home been so quiet, so devoid of the sound of soft paw steps, happy food snorts, messy water dish slurps, sudden ear flap staccatos, and toy squeaks.

For weeks they did their best to navigate grief, holding Emma’s “live in the moment” spirit as a beacon in their hearts.

If Emma had managed to find the time to do a fly-by during those first few weeks (she was MUCH too busy racing around the heavens teasing every dog into a game of chase), she would have told them “Life is short. Life is amazing. Mom! Dad! Don’t waste time grieving. Find happiness every day. Don’t wait. Be happy now.”

Dad was always better at this than mom. Even though he thought they should take a break from dogs for a while (Emma’s last years took a lot out of them both), that very first weekend, he insisted they both go pet some greyhounds.

Knowing mom as I do now, I can only imagine her reaction.

And yet somehow she managed to accompany dad at greyhound rescue “meet and greet” events. Even though mom didn’t really understand why dad had to do this, she assumed it was part of dad’s grieving process, and wanted to support his heart, even if it made her weep.

So she kept reminding herself of Emma… “More joy, mom!” and focused on embracing the love, even if it hurt to do so.

As mom tells the story (I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard it), dad kept messing up the dates. They’d show up to a pet store, only to hear the greyhounds had already come and gone–earlier that day, or the day before, or the previous week. After one success and two failed attempts, dad insisted that mom be in charge of finding the events.

Which meant mom had to visit the websites of several different greyhound rescue groups in the area, to track down their event schedules.

Naturally, mom saw all sorts of greyhound photos—including adopted hounds and hounds waiting for adoption—in the course of looking up event dates.

And each one she saw, she whispered a little blessing… “you’re so beautiful,” “oh lucky you, you’re going to be adopted soon,” “just you wait little one, that fearful look is going to melt away and you’ll know more joy than you can imagine…”

All the while, feeling no connection, but remembering Emma’s words: “Find joy every day.” And so she was able to celebrate each one.

Until one night, when she stumbled upon a little black face.

That just happened to be mine.

And now I’ll let mom finish this story…

“I don’t know why, but I kept going back to look at that little black face.

A couple weeks later, I even right-clicked-saved a copy of that little black face onto my phone. Why? I asked myself. So I could look at it from time to time, for comfort. Knowing she had been spared. Knowing she was going to be loved.

One Saturday, after Dave and I walked out of our local Mud Bay, having once again just missed another meet and greet event, he told me to look at my phone and find another one. Apparently he really needed to pet a greyhound that weekend.

The only place that was having an event that day was Greyhound Pets, Inc.  “Oh honey, it’s wayyyy up in Woodinville, no need to drive that far, we can see greyhounds another weekend.” But no, he insisted…

Which made my heart flinch. Because Woodinville just happened to be where that little black face was kenneled.

The whole drive up there, I said nothing. Dave had no idea I’d been staring at the photo of a greyhound who… well… hey! Maybe I’d get lucky, and she’d already be in a foster home…

When we finally turned into GPI’s parking lot, their large turn-out areas were empty… no wait… the middle one was in use. By two greyhounds. One of which was black.

Even though I had only ever seen her face, even though GPI had a LOT of black dogs in their last load, even though we were still too far away to see, I knew… somehow I knew… that black greyhound was THE black greyhound.

And we were going to have to walk right by that turn-out area in order to get to the front door.

Life. Gotta love it.

As we approached, that little black dog turned, spotted me, and came racing over to the fence. I knelt down to say hello, and she started trying to kiss me—through her muzzle, through the fence.

My eyes filled with tears, but not enough to miss the great big letters on her collar: NANCY. Yup. This was THAT little black face.

So I did what anyone would do when the dog they’ve been stalking was kissing them… asked if we could meet her. Dave and I hung out with her for about 45 minutes. She was very sweet, wagged her tail a lot, and very curious. She spent most of the time exploring and distracted, but every now and then, she’d come back and kiss me and pause… looking deep into my eyes.

“Are you the one?”

In the two weeks since we met her, I’ve spent it flogging myself mentally.

What in the hell am I imagining???

Am I wishful-imagining something to fill up the hole in my heart?

Am I forgetting my Emma? Or am I remembering my Emma’s words?

Dave wanted a break… I want to respect and honor that… I too like the idea of a break (hard as it has been).

But I feel like I might already love that little black face.

(WHAT???!!!)

Ok here’s what I know for sure: I don’t love the idea of her sitting in a holding kennel, or worse, getting adopted by someone (other than me).

But… my beloved Emma has only been gone FIVE WEEKS.

I’m baffled and ashamed and confused.

How can I trust myself, or my feelings, when I’m still in grief?

Or is it possible that Emma’s “seize the day!” message has somehow managed to cut through the grief, so much so, that I’m throwing common sense and caution away?

Isn’t there at least a modicum of grief timeframe that should be respected and trusted? Is this a reflection of a shallow heart?

I keep going back and looking at her photo…