Bo-Bo Knows He's Not an Original

Some well-meaning loved-ones expressed concerns recently that my decision to launch a dog blog might be a sign of my impending psychological collapse. That way madness lies and blah, blah, blah.

Pah! At least "Bo-Bo Knows" isn't a cat blog.

Look. I know I’m not the first girl to get swept away by the charms of a jock with a sweet temper and buns of steel—a quick Google search nets* several forums devoted to lovers of retired racers (these are just three):

• Everything Greyhound
• Grey Talk
• Greyhound Gap

Not to mention the hundreds (maybe thousands) of dog blogs out there including greyhound-specific blogs. So to those who say I'm tipping toward touched, I challenge them to google "greyhounds," greyhound blogs," and "greyhound forums." Consider that exhibit one through about 2,000,000 that I'm in good greyhound-gaga company.

In fact, while I was researching the company my blog keeps, I noticed something. Bo's two-timing me by using aliases and playing doggy house with a number of other families. Here's a photo of Bo masquerading as "Clifford" with mama Jen from Jen & The Greyhounds (my favorite hound blog because of Jen's greyhound-art connection).

Et tu Bo-Bo?

According to The American Greyhound Track Operators, greyhounds sport** 18 coat colors. Officially, Bo's a red fawn. Though I'd argue that his white belly and the white-cape-like mark on his neck make him a candidate for a new, 19th color. I'll call it "wonderdog."

The point is, not only am I not the first person to discover the joys of adopting a greyhound, Bo isn't the first greyhound to steal the hearts of man. He's not even the first red fawn to do so. And though I'd like to think he might be the first wonderdog with that honor, I'm sure somewhere in this great, wide canine world of ours, there's a Bo-Bo-impostor with a similar cape wiggling his furry butt into the heart of some family who thinks they're the first to feel that way, too.

If it's true "there's nothing new under the sun,"*** why do we bother? Well if you're talking about adopting dogs or getting married or striving toward goals, that's easy: it's new to us.

But when you're talking about art, it's trickier. Why is it that we reach for the same stories again and again? Why is it that people gravitate toward the same ideas? I'm not talking about a network television channel pumping out reality knock-offs to capitalize on an unfortunate trend. I'm talking about watching your ideas start to blossom from other minds.

I have a phobia of repeating myself. I see a program like Eli Stone hit prime time (a show about a lawyer whose inoperable brain aneurysm is turning him into a visionary) and I'm sure everyone's gonna assume I ripped off the idea; one of my characters suffers from musical ear syndrome as a result of—everyone now—a brain aneurysm. Or a writer friend sends me a glowing review of Beautiful Children (a novel about the Vegas underbelly) and I start to wonder if I should rethink the backstory of the kid from Vegas in my novel. My fiancé is kind enough to lovingly point out that such thinking is, in fact, insane. These two details are small potatoes in the grander scheme of my novel. Besides, boiled down, doesn't every story sound like every other story?

I wouldn't give up on Bo just because somewhere someone else is cooing over a Bo-Bo clone, so I'm sure as hell not gonna let a couple of similar details make me give up on my book before it's finished. Loving a down-on-his-luck retired racer is about the richness the rascal helps me reap. Writing is kinda, sorta about the same thing. Because though it may be true there's nothing new under the sun, there's plenty new under my sun. My book and Bo-Bo for starters.

* Bonus points to anyone who noticed that using the verb "nets" here is a humdinger of an unintentional pun. I like unintentional puns. What I hate is when narrators on food network shows precede a pun with a pause and then say the word as though it's in italics and all caps. A good pun should be quiet as a well-behaved greyhound. The enjoyment reserved only for those who notice them. Bo-Bo completely agrees.

** Oh, I'm just full of them today.

*** No pun, here. Just a note to say I think that's from Ecclesiastes.

Bo-Bo Knows the Joys of Exercise

The smile you see above—yes, dogs smile—is the expression that bubbles up when Bo’s anticipating the company of adoring fans, enjoying an extended walk, or running. This particular smile was the result of an off-leash, crazy-eight dash Bo-Bo enjoyed in a fenced-in playground down the street from where we live.

A quick disclaimer about the photo—This isn’t the best picture I’ve ever taken, but you try capturing a perfect photo when the dog you’re trying to shoot is running like a drunk at 40 miles an hour. Whatever National Geographic pays its photographers to capture endangered squirrels-in-flight is not enough. Even with a beast as stupidly submissive as Bo, capturing the photo I want is really a game of patience (waiting while he mopes about), cunning (figuring out the exact moment he’s gonna snap his head down, fold his body in two, and take off), and skill (I got nine pictures of blurry Bo butt for every one picture of the smile I was after).

So anyway, when Bo-Bo runs, he smiles the tongue-lolling smile of a goofy bastard who's focused on nothing but the happy-go-lucky perfection of the present moment. Clearly, he's a nut. Running’s that thing I did once in a mad panic to flee the eerily moonlit woods that my 10-year-old brain—freshly warped by a marathon reading of “Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark”— convinced me was haunted. Running’s that hurdle my volleyball coaches forced my teams to clear before we could get to the business of practicing with an actual ball. Running’s the supposedly good-for-me exercise that makes my lungs burn in a way that feels about as healthy as breathing next to a chain smoker. Running has made me feel a lot of things, but joy is certainly not one of them.

Not, so for Bo-Bo.

But then again, Bo’s built for this, right? Greyhounds have lungs giant enough to accommodate all the extra air they need to run, hearts strong enough to slam that air to their giant, oxygen-hogging muscles, and spines so flexible that they can fold up when they run only to leap in mid air and fold up again just in time to land (the one time Bo-Bo ran in sand, the tracks he left behind looked like the trail of a giant kid hopping on a pogo stick). My body, on the other hand, is best suited to curl up with a book and lose myself in an imaginary world. Or better yet, camp out in front of a computer and create those imaginary worlds myself.

And while I’m sure that Bo-Bo loses no sleep over the fact that I have a richer imagination than he does, I can’t help but envy him his exercise-induced ecstasy. Bo loves running, so when given the chance, he’s happy to make his drunken dash under the slide, around the sandbox, and back again and again and again. Bo loves walking, so when I take him out, he struts at the end of a leash, his smile wider than the tracks he raced on before we rescued him. In fact, Bo loves walking so much that on days I’m taking my sweet time getting him out the door, he’ll remind me by quietly poking his nose into my breakfast; he only graduates to a tentative bark when it's clear I've moved on from reading while I finish my breakfast to just plain reading. And you should hear the alarm that boy sounds when I have the audacity to sit down at my computer to answer an email or two (though to be fair Bo generally sits at my feet while I write, so he knows all that click-click-clicking means he’s gonna get ignored for a while—barking’s the only sure-fire way to make sure his walk comes before the keyboard claims another morning).

Maybe it’s not the joy of exercise that I envy. I’ll never be much of a runner, but I have come to love walking Bo daily; I’ve even been known to laugh as I try chasing him during his sprints. In the 14 months we’ve had him, Bo’s helped me realize that walking brightens my day as much as it brightens his—so that’s a big something he’s already transferred. But I do envy his focus:

Bo walk? Walk Bo? Walk Bo now? Walk! Walk! Walk!

He loves it. He wants it. No excuses.

But what about me? As a human, I’m the one with the higher order thinking skills. For example, I’m the one who holds Bo back when he wants to traipse into oncoming traffic. I’m the one who can trace a particularly terrible bout of diarrhea back to Bo’s cherished, but apparently toxic new treats. I’m the one who can tell the difference between a plastic bag skittering in the street and Bo’s new best friend. And yet, as important as writing is to me—and I’d have to say it’s at least as important as Bo’s daily constitutional is to him—I don’t always put it first.

And why is that?

It’s not like I’m some dumb (but loveable) animal who needs to wait for someone else to open the door and let me play. My time is mine. My computer is always on. My ideas are always waiting for me to pick them up and play with them. And yet, every once in a while, I catch myself sitting around and hope, hope, hoping today’s the day some leash-wielding someone will give me the command: Sit. Write. Good girl.

At least on those rare days when Bo doesn’t get to go for a walk—they’ve been few, I swear—he can blame me. I guess we have that in common, Bo and I. When I fool myself into believing that work schedules, wedding plans, or socializing are acceptable excuses for preempting my writing, I’ve really got no one to blame but me.

Introducing Bo-Bo

This is Bo (aka Bo-Bo, silly, and crazy galoot).

We didn't bother to name the hula monkey. Sure, every self-respecting stuffie deserves a name, but it's probably not good to get attached to a toy you're giving to the the unassuming, angelic-looking greyhound you see above. Just 14 months after being pressed into service as Bo-Bo's bestest buddy, Hula Monkey's stuffing is bursting out of the hole Bo ripped in her middle, her orange bra has faded, and her smile is decidedly tired.

Hula Monkey is most definitely in critical condition.

But Bo-Bo's doing just fine. Oh, his poo flows a little softer than is probably natural, but that's an entry for a different day. Today I just want to introduce Bo-Bo to the world. So world? This is Bo-Bo.

And while we're at it, let me introduce the blog. It's simple really. If Bo-Bo teaches me a little something about the big somethings every day, the least I can do is pass his pearls along. Sit. Stay...tuned.