Today is Phoebe’s 7th birthday. We got her a little over five years ago. When we met her, they said she was almost three and that her birthday was in January. I looked in her ear since racers have their birth dates tattooed in their ears and found an extra 1 buried under a tuft of black fur. She wasn’t born in January 2003, but in November. This dog we were getting wasn’t even two yet!
One-going-on-two is young for a racer to come off the track, but since her owner was apparently a true monster (as anyone who would involve themselves in the exploitation of greyhounds must be) she was lucky to be getting out alive at any age, and we fell in love with her immediately. Having a 65 pound puppy does have its challenges, though. On day one, she tore down the blinds, ate the corners off the coffee table, and shredded all the paper she could find.
It wasn’t long before she was eating windowsills and a giant hole in the middle of the wall. She even tried to eat Daphne once, though it’s clear they were just playing. Phoebe has always been a rough and tumble dog: she’s well known at animal emergency and even owns her own cone of shame.
She was afraid of me for a long time, but we went to school and while she didn’t learn much, she did learn to trust me. Over the years, she’s mellowed into a great dog. She’s spirited and full of energy and no matter how down one of us might feel, it’s almost impossible not to smile at Phoebe.
Living with dogs is one of the most natural things in the world. I couldn’t imagine life without these guys, and so today, happy birthday, Phoebe, and many happy returns of the day.