After losing my greyhound Lucy to a fatal liver disease, I found myself repeating what mourning guardians usually swear after experiencing the trauma of a beloved pet's death: "Never again." Watching my sweet girl die in my arms was an excruciating experience. Besides, it's not like I'm lacking for canine companionship; my 12-year-old Elvis may be a little grayer and a lot slower, but he remains my ever-loving sidekick.
And I have to admit, life with one dog is easier. The house no longer smells like eau d' canine, but fresh lavender. Floors and tabletops sparkle without their white fur coat from Lucy's constant shedding, and I now vacuum once a week instead of once a day.
Guests can sit on my sofa without fear of the 55-pound Lucy trying to nestle onto their laps. And, without my former bed hog, I can stretch across my queen-size bed.
I'm spending half the time hosing down the backyard, half the money on vet and food bills, and half the time giving baths, brushing hair and taking walks. Today, there is no evidence of the many accommodations I made when Lucy joined me and Elvis in our tiny townhouse after my mother died. My home is once again orderly, clean and quiet.
I can't stand it.
I miss coming home and finding the stuffing from Lucy's massacred toys scattered around the room. I miss catching her trotting across the living room with my $125 jogging shoes dangling from her mouth. I miss walking Lucy and watching her peek underneath cars, searching for cats.
I miss hearing her bouncing around upstairs, playing with her toys. Without Lucy, there's an energy missing, a mischievous life force that kept me on my toes and Elvis bemused.
He misses her, too. An only dog for several years, Elvis was slow to warm up to his new sister, but he came to accept her company. On walks, Lucy and Elvis would walk side by side, bellies touching. When we'd stop, one would rest their head across the other's back, a common greyhound characteristic.
Since losing Lucy, Elvis has been quiet and lethargic. I could attribute his behavior to old age - after all, my boy is in his golden years - except at greyhound play dates, he comes alive at the sight of other hounds. There's a renewed spring in his step and a spark in his eyes that fade once we're home.
This is why I've told Stu Homer of Golden State Greyhound Adoption ( www.goldengreyhounds.com) that I'm ready for another dog. I'm leaving it in his hands. After all, nine years ago, he selected Elvis for me, plus he knows what personality type will be a good match for my mellow boy.
I can't wait. I keep thinking that at this very moment, somewhere in Colorado is an underweight greyhound living in a stacked crate, in a shed, on a farm. Most likely this dog is kept muzzled, sleeps on newspaper, and has never known a brushed velvet pillow bed, stuffed teddy bear or gourmet chew stick. When she retires from racing, the group will truck her to her forever home with me and Elvis.
It'll be back to double the work, double the mess, double the costs.
And double the love. Because an orderly household ain't all it's cracked up to be. Not if it's enjoyed alone.
E-mail pet tales to home@sfchronicle.com.
This article appeared on page E - 5 of the San Francisco Chronicle
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