On the Ninth Day of Christmas... Seamus and Patrick

Believe me when I tell you that rescuing Greyhounds wasn’t always so popular. And I’ve been at this for more than four decades, so take my word for it. It wasn’t really that long ago that rescuing Greyhounds was even a thing. For me, and others like me who were pioneers all those years ago, the adoption of Greyhounds as pets arose from the dire need to rescue these wonderful dogs from being euthanized when their racing days were over.

But thanks to the efforts of the Greyhound lovers who ensure that these incredible dogs are placed in wonderful homes, and thanks to the many Greyhound lovers who provide those wonderful homes, the characterization of Greyhound adoption as “rescuing” has changed since those days when it was first coming into existence. Don’t believe me? Take a look at the home pages of each of the Connecticut Greyhound groups (including my own REGAPCT) and you’ll notice that the word “rescue” is not used once to describe the mission of the groups. In a way that’s a good thing. That means that the existence of groups that rescue Greyhounds and place them in “forever homes” has been successful in changing the culture.

But even if our own efforts have altered the way people think of Greyhound adoption, it is important for us to never lose sight of the reasons we do what we do. And though the term “rescue” may be slowly disappearing from the vernacular, believe me when I say that every retired Greyhound’s story contains some element of rescue. And some Greys need more rescuing than others.

It was about eight and a half years ago when I received a call from someone asking if I had been responsible for placing a Greyhound named Jimbo Value. He was not one of my placements, but of course I was always available to help a Greyhound in need. As the story goes, Jimbo Value, another Greyhound named Dodge Boy and another small dog, had been abandoned by their owners. They either could no longer take care of the dogs, or they no longer wanted them. All I knew was that they had just turned them loose. The dogs were lost for days during the coldest time of the year and the police were tasked with trying to catch them. The police would shine their lights on the dogs, but could never corral them. As you could imagine, the Greys refused to make it easy. The speedy dogs dodged and darted to stay away from the police.

After days of being on the lam, a couple found Jimbo Value, were able to corner him, and called me to come to his rescue (which for a retired Grey was technically being rescued for a second time). Being just one town away, I immediately jumped into my car and raced over to get him. That’s when I first met the tall Fawn Brindle. I would later come to learn that he projected a rather stately air, but I wouldn’t have known it from our first meeting. He was emaciated; his feet were bleeding from all the running; he could hardly walk; and yet somehow he managed to jump into my Jeep.

When we got home I carefully guided him into the house. For the next three days he stayed in the bathroom. He was scared, hungry and sore. Before I rescued him, I had a houseful of Greys and didn’t have room for another. Or so I thought. Once he had been with me a few days, I knew he was meant to stay. I named him Seamus and adopted him as a part of my own pack of Greys.  

A few guys who were working on my home at the time immediately took a shine to Seamus. They saw he was in pretty rough shape and they wanted to help. Seamus knew he had found friends and would eat the worker’s sandwiches as they helped him walk.

It took lots of tender love and care to nurse Seamus back to health, and he was soon back to being a happy Greyhound. He lived with me for eight and a half years and I felt blessed to have gotten the call that day to come to his rescue. He was such a joy to have around and he loved to go for walks. Even as his legs began to fail him in his older age, he hated being left behind and wanted to walk. And on hot days he loved to relax and cool off in a kiddie pool filled with water (see the photo above). He lived to be fourteen years and three months old, which amazed me considering all the hardship he had experienced, and for all the time he was with me, I believe he was grateful to have been rescued from his time on the loose.

But that’s not where this story ends. Seamus’ companion, Dodge Boy, who was lost out there with Seamus on all those cold nights, was rescued as well. A local farmer found Dodge Boy eating corn from his fields and took him into his home. Several years later, I received a call from that farmer who told me he could no longer provide the kind of life Dodge Boy needed. I immediately stepped in and brought the Greyhound home with me.

With Seamus already a part of my houseful of Greys, I knew Dodge Boy was meant to join that pack. I named him Patrick and, after all the time apart, he and his good buddy Seamus were reunited. When I brought Patrick home, he and Seamus immediately acknowledged each other. In all the time they were together with me, they seemed to have a closer bond with each other than they had with any of my other Greys. Together they had shared so many experiences of being abandoned, being lost and then ultimatley being rescued. Perhaps they shared knowledge that many other Greyhounds fortunatley do not have: that a Greyhound once rescued is a lucky dog, but a Greyhound twice rescued is a blessed dog.