The Eighth Vertebrae

The dog owner sits down on the floor of her kitchen. She dips her hand into the dog bowl, still steaming from the hot water she’s poured in to warm up the half-pound of processed meat that is, literally, a dog’s breakfast. She pulls out a raw chicken neck, shakes off the excess water, and offers it to the greyhound looming over her.

The dog sniffs, and nudges the raw meat with her nose. She snarls and growls, bares her fangs menacingly, but takes the offered treat. The owner dips her hand into the dog-stew again to fish out another neck.

“And that,” she says to me, “Is how Eddy likes to eat in the morning.”

“Sure, sounds good,” I say. Not going to happen, I think.

It’s our first house-sit in what we are hoping to be our new lifestyle. Travel the world, take care of people’s pets, and in exchange stay in their homes for free.  Great in theory, but the reality is now setting in.

We have two greyhounds to take care of for the next three weeks, as the owner holidays in Australia. We’re in Wellington, capital of New Zealand, in an upscale part of town.  And if I have to do that every morning, poor Eddy is not going to make it.

It’s not like the greyhound has a lot of reserve fat to live on. Though it eats close to a pound of meat and kibble a day, the animals are thin as rakes. Eddy especially, the 12-year old alpha female of the pair, is anorexic, even by greyhound standards. A thin film of skin is all that covers her back leg- you can wrap her skin around her Achilles’ tendon.  And her vertebrae poke up supermodel-like through the fur on her back.

“Keep an eye on those bumps,” the owner cautions. “If you can see eight vertebrae, you have to take her to the vet.”

The author, with dogs. Ed is on the right.

I count six vertebrae visible, and one starting to poke through. Eddy’s back becomes the barometer of my anxiety over the next few weeks.

But they are dogs, I figure, and won’t starve themselves to death. 

I hope.

The owner leaves, and we begin the routine.  A walk in the morning, set out their beds on the back deck for the day, head out to the city to sightsee, return for an evening walk. It’s actually pretty simple: greyhounds have massively huge appetites, but require little exercise; a 20-minute walk wears them out, and then they settle in for six hours’ sleep.

Then Eddy decides to go on a hunger strike. For three days she sniffs at her bowl, looks at me, and walks away.  Her seventh vertebra starts to loom. I am constantly on the search for the eighth to appear.

I pull out the secret weapon, and buy a cooked chicken at the local supermarket. And some ham.  Eddy sniffs, and starts to gulp the food down. Koplah, I think. That’s ‘success’ in Klingon, for you non-Trekkies.

The walks begin to be the highlight of the day, if not for the picking-up-dog-crap part. We explore the forested hill above the house, spotting exotic trees and birds. The dogs begin to understand my commands and we tangle up less often. And while Eddy can’t afford it, I think I’m starting to lose a few pounds.

 Greyhounds are sleek, beautiful, gentle creatures. Their beauty belies a sad reality- that they are fodder for the gambling industry, that grinds through them for sport and money (the other hound we’re caring for, Robbie, is a rescue dog, a three-time winner that faced death after breaking her foot in a race).  They are designed to race. They can’t climb down stairs easily, can’t sit down on their haunches, and suffer aches and pains constantly from their body design.

They are finicky, like their routines, but are playful and easy-going. It’s a shame we have to keep them on leashes- every once and a while, spotting a cat or a rabbit, they lunge, and you feel their power. You long to just let them loose, see them as they are meant to live. But as the owner pointed out to me, you don’t want to be trying to catch a dog that can run 40km/hr.

The weeks pass quickly, and the owner returns.  (“They killed my dog!” I imagine will be our first house-sit review will say). But when she walks in the door, the dogs are healthy, wagging their tails and looking well-fed.

“They’ve never looked this good after someone’s taken care of them,” our owner exclaims.

Job done, mission accomplished.

On to our next house-sit.