Beauty
The Beginning
She arrived, late one Saturday night, after an eleven hour hauler ride, with a load of six other greyhounds. All rescued from death. All to be residents of Greyhound Gang until they were healthy and happy. All would then go to loving homes.
She had no name, no known history and scars coursed her filthy, tiny frame. She’d been found wandering the streets of Tucson, lost, abandoned, unwanted. 
But Greyhound Gang had an adopter wanting a small fawn female, so she was spayed one day, and sent to us the next. And she was ill. Burning up with a temperature of 105 degrees.
Sunday, she’d claimed a corner of the couch, and I sat next to her putting cold compresses on her feet to try and get the temperature down. I put baby food on my hand, and she’d feebly lick it off. I syringed water down her throat. The small town vet was out hunting. 
Best Friends Animal Sanctuary, with their seasoned staff, resided up the road. I took her there, and they put her on an intravenous IV immediately and antibiotics. No significant change. They took her blood and sent it off.
I spent all Sunday night on the couch with her, watching, waiting, worrying. Her ear tattoo told me she was five, her extended nipples told me she’d had a litter or two, her eyes told me she was in pain. I told her about the life waiting for her once she got well. The church lady with the toy poodle who wanted to adopt a greyhound. She’d probably want to name her Precious, or Binky or Tiffany. When I suggested Beauty, she looked deep into my eyes and put her paw on my arm. So Beauty it was.
We limped along, Beauty still running a high temp, barely eating and drinking, until Tuesday. The blood results arrived. Beauty had both immune affecting tick diseases – Erhliciosis with a titer of 10,000. Babesiosis with a titer of 640. She was immediately put on a course of Tetracycline, and within two days her temp was back to normal, and she was off the couch.
Within one week she was running and playing with the other dogs. Within three weeks, she’d replaced her coat with a new shinier, healthier one. And within a month, she’d adopted me. Beauty’s days are now spent riding shotgun with me on all adoption trips, sleeping curled up on my bed with her head just touching the edge of my pillow, and chasing lizards amid the red rocks of southern Utah. What a Beauty she is…
A thing of beauty is a joy forever; its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness. -John Keats
To me, fair friend, you never can be old
For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. -Shakespeare
The End
I took so much for granted.
She came into my life so quietly. Amidst ten other rambunctious rescued greyhounds, who were tearing apart down pillows in my 2 room apartment, flying over chairs, jumping on counters, shaking off ticks and fleas – she lay – curled in a corner of the couch. I reached for her, after four hours of dog washing and tick pulling, and she placed her soft paw on my arm, and claimed me.
In her first week with me, she would leap up into my black Isuzu Rodeo, and then hop that sweet little fawn body into the front passenger seat. Curled up, she would look at me as if to say, “this is my place”. And that was her seat for nine years. Through countless dog rescues and adoption runs. Through trips cross-country and to the grocery store and the post office. If she was in the car, with me, then it didn’t matter where we went. As long as we went.
In her last week with me, she couldn’t leap her fragile body into the Hondo van I’d bought to accomodate her older needs. She’d still react to my “do you want to go in the car”, with a wobbly trot towards it, and then she’d concentrate all her efforts to get her front legs up, wanting to do this herself. I would then boost her fading body into the entirely padded back area. She tottered on the foam, and then sank back into it, staying where she landed, happy to be in her car. Going somewhere, anywhere.
In those first evenings with me, she’d follow me into the bedroom, and choose her dog bed, and wait there until morning. I would wake up to her black button nose on level with my own. She didn’t touch me, just stared at me until I woke. And when I opened by eyes, she’d jump on the bed, and throw back her head, and encourage me to hurry up and get dressed and take her for her run.
These last evenings, with determination, she collapses into a dog bed in the living room, and stays there throughout the night. I lay with her, my arm draped over her disappearing body, and we commune, head touching head. In the morning, I clean her up, help her get up and we totter outside.
In those first mornings of our life together, as the sun was surrounding the world with its colors and warmth, we went for four mile runs. We hiked the red cliffs of Utah. Up and down the silky red sand, across vistas of sage and rabbit. There was always another place to explore. There’d be times that Beauty was walking right next to me, and before I knew it, she was up on a hill, looking down at me. Daring me to follow her up there. But never far from my side for long.
Now in the last mornings of her life, we still go for our runs. They are now about four minutes. Beauty is 14. We’ve been running together nine years. She moves now in a slow motion gate – hitching those back legs slowly up and placing them very gingerly down. You can feel and see the gears shifting to fall and interlock into place to move that back haunch forward, carefully. Without complete concentration on her part, the body sways, the legs start to cross, and her butt starts to lean backwards with the ignominious result of sitting on her ass. She grabs with the front paws to find purchase with the earth, and keep moving. Because movement is life.
And every early morning while the sun is opening up the horizon, and the air is wet and chilling, we prance to the car. She leaps and I catch her and deposit her on the dog beds. I drive to the softest, biggest patch of green grass I can find and open the car door. She bursts from the door, back legs pumping to leap onto the green blanket and run. Run will all her heart, and her might, up and down the field. Joy, joy and more joy emanating from this 50-pound body racked with arthritis and spondylosis and disk degenerative diseases. But she wants only to run, and toss her head, and run until she can’t run any more here on Earth.
And from those first days, eating was never an issue. Food was something that was there. That was needed, but that she often chose not to eat. It wasn’t what she hungered for. She didn’t need that kind of sustenance. Her life was with me.
And in these last days of her life her hunger is insatiable. She’s always looking at me with those saucer, doe eyes asking to be feed. Feed me. Feed me. My hope is that if I keep feeding her, if she keeps wanting to eat, then death can’t come. And she’s very clear about what she wants. Steak, I want steak. Newly cooked, not reheated. Not that steak, it’s too fatty. Ok, not steak anymore, chicken. No not chicken, Pedigree cans. No not turkey necks, chicken wings. Cottage cheese? Yes, Yes! Liver, always liver. Every day, all day. And I’m her slave, bringing her whatever she wants, whenever she wants it. This hunger for life. To stay.
In these last days in the house, once she’s up she often doesn’t know what to do with herself. She totters from room to room. Standing, gazing, thinking…of times gone by, or running up mountains and through green fields, of whirling and twirling and chasing toys flung into the air. And when she looks up she’s in a corner staring at a wall. And she backs out of the corner and comes to me, and looks straight into my soul.
It’s night, and she’s standing alone, staring north. It is dark out. It is dark in. She peers outward. Turning slowly and awkwardly in a circle. This goes on. Night after night. Peering. Turning. Turning. Peering. What does the darkness hold? Are the circles an ancient dance? Is she preparing to disappear, to fade into the night? As she stands staring, her back end sinks, and her heart soars. Soars out onto the stars and the moon and those waiting for her just over there.
And I bring her back in the house, and I lay with her. Her ghostlike face, with fingers of white caressing her eyes and nose. Her cleft of tufted hair from nose to eyes, that I run my finger over, again and again. Her eyes still dark and bright, more so for the white creeping around them. Her speckled belly, shiny butt and bald neck. My Beauty. I hear her breathing getting heavier. As if breathing here, on this Earth, hurts.
May your life be filled with Beauty…
Beauty Birthday Celebration – Story and Pictures
Sleeping with Hounds video – from 1999