Back to the dog days of summer at the Taylor house

When our beloved beagle mutt, Kipper, went to that big fire hydrant in the sky this past spring, The Lovely Mrs. Taylor vowed: “No more dogs, at least for a couple years!” The pain of a pet’s passing is just too hard on the family, she said.

At the time, I had my doubts as to Mrs. Taylor’s ability to follow through on this vow. My doubts, it turns out, were well founded.

We’ve been re-dogged. And just as the grass in the backyard was starting to come in nicely.

Mrs. Taylor was introduced to our new pooch at one of those greyhound rescue open houses, held a few weeks ago at a Grand Rapids pet store. I should never have asked her to stop there to pick up bird seed for my finches, but it’s too late now.

At any rate, she met Prince (that’s the dog’s name, and yes, I know it’s gayer than RuPaul’s summer wardrobe) at this show, and she fell in love with him.

Despite his sissified name (his full, AKC moniker is “Prince Lee III of Stratford on Avon Count Viscount de Shangri-la” or some such poofy nonsense) he’s a big hound. The biggest the woman from the greyhound adoption agency had ever seen, in fact, at least for his breed. He’s nearly as large as your average Great Dane, or slightly smaller than a Shetland pony.

At the moment, he’s sprawled out in the living room. And the dining room. And part of the kitchen.

He’s big.

He’s a great dog, though, and being a greyhound, spends most of his indoor time just lying around chewing his collection of squeaky toys into ragged oblivion. Prince (lordy, I hate that name) has only been with us a week or so, but already he feels like a member of the family.

It’s a good thing he’s working out so well, because getting him was an exercise in patience. With a normal dog, you just go to the humane society or pet store and say: “Gimme that one.” After paying for the dog, you take him home, tell him not to whiz on the carpet, and hope for the best.

Not so with a greyhound. These are former track animals, retired from racing, who—in the bad old days—would have been “put down” as young as age three. Now, thanks to the many greyhound rescue agencies nationwide, they are instead placed with families like ours.

The adoption process, however, is fairly stringent. Mrs. Taylor and I were required to provide several references and all our vet information. We had to fill out forms and supply emergency contact numbers. Inspectors from the adoption agency checked out our house, our yard, our fence.

I was waiting for them to ask for blood and urine samples, maybe fingerprints and a retina scan.

We could have adopted a Chinese baby with less hassle.

In truth, they only wanted to make sure the dog was getting a good, safe home, and I can respect that.

It’s good to have a dog in the house again. To me, a house doesn’t feel like a home without a mutt tracking mud through the kitchen on rainy days.

I just wish he had another name. Max. Buddy. Rover. Anything but Prince. But that was his name when we got him and Mrs. T—who is a big fan of the pop star of the same name—loves it. What can you do?

I’m thinking of calling him The Dog Formerly Known as Prince.

Or maybe just “Dog.”



More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.