Foster hound Bailey invaded Beacon’s bed the night of her arrival circa June 2012. Beacon, in case you couldn’t tell, was unamused.
Race name = Midwife Crisis. To those who loved her = Mimi or the Meems.
Mimi was a retired racer and brood bitch who birthed 21 puppies before her temporary layover with me. I picked her up straight from the farm, and she spent the entire car ride standing between the bucket seats watching out the front window.
Because she *smelled* like the farm, the first order of business was a shower, which she tolerated quite well, all things considered.
According to her whelping collar, her last litter had just been weened, indicating Christmas Eve as her final foray into forced motherhood.
Mimi was a plush and loving dog who quickly took up residence in my chair and on my lap. For the weeks she lived with us, I learned to balance my laptop on the arm of the chair while working because there was no way I was about to disturb her peaceful naps.
We had decent weather that spring so we spent significant time at the dog park. While Dragon sniffed butts and implored strangers for scratches (which they most often willingly gave), Mimi looked out for humans of young Labradors or other hunting type dogs. Once the unsuspecting human let loose with a tennis ball for their eager but equally unsuspecting pup, Mimi would bolt from her random position in the park, blow past her canine competition (whose legs paddled furiously while Mimi’s gait appeared effortless and digitally manipulated) and make that projectile fear for its life.
On many an occasion, the human in question would send me a look of quizzical awe to which I would shrug, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. There is nothing more impressive than watching a greyhound run for pleasure and not profit. And frankly, I did get a perverse amusement from watching her dominate the snot out of dogs half her age.
Like all my foster hounds, Mimi eventually went on to her forever home, though I often wished I’d adopted her myself. I found out she died a couple of days ago after reaching 13 years of age and without the bone cancer that so often plagues the breed. My heart ached, feeling the world’s loss even it was unaware of it, but I comforted too. Because as much I don’ t know about her early life, I’ve no doubt that Mimi spent the latter 1/3 loved beyond all measure. And when you’re rescuing animals, that’s the happiest ending possible.