Frankie is a greyhound. He’s also the reason I tend to spell grey G-R-E-Y instead of G-R-A-Y. I get used to “ey.” But that scintillating fact aside, Frankie came to live with me in 2009 or 2010. I had two greyhounds already, aged 13 and 15. I certainly had my hands full with them but my mom was fostering Frankie and decided pretty quickly that he had to come live with me.
“He’s blind in one eye so he needs you” Her logic here was because one of my old dogs only had one eye and I had worked with him on using his good eye when he first came to live with me. She was so emphatic, I agreed. What, how could I say no to this face?
She was worried about him because he was really traumatized by his change in environment. You would think moving from a kennel to a home is a no brainer but change is just hard for some of us. He was so terrified, he wouldn’t leave his crate to go outside and relieve himself. She worked and worked with him to help him get over his fears but she decided that she couldn’t let him go to a stranger. This is called flunking fostering.
The problem is, the dog she brought to me wasn’t anything like the dog she described. As soon as he walked in the door of my house, he decided he was home. I remember him jumping up on my couch and peering down into my face (about an inch away from it) and softly snuffling before he plonked his big ‘ole paw on my shoulder. He might as well have said “I choo choo choooose you!”
Fast forward to today. Frankie loves it when the rest of his pack is visiting but when we hand out treats, or even just feed everyone, he is overly concerned with what everyone else is getting. In fact, he often gets aced out of his own treat because he’ll put it down to go investigate what everyone else has. This leaves it unattended and fair game for whoever gobbled up their treat first. Usually Oscar.
While I was sick, I’d make a grilled cheese sandwich and usually couldn’t finish the whole thing. When this happened, I’d split the rest of the sandwich, call the dogs over and give them each a piece. The problem is, Frankie is still looking for his grilled cheese sandwich.
For three days now, I’ve put his kibble out like I always do. Frankie sniffs it, sniffs Oscar’s kibble (because it might be better), then he comes over to me and starts whining. He’s eaten very little kibble for two days because he wants it to be grilled cheese instead.
I’m holding strong though. I’m not making Frankie grilled cheese and he’ll get hungry enough for the kibble soon. Sorry Oscar, these golden days of two bowls of kibble will be over.