Thirteen years ago, a litter of three Greyhound puppies was born. There was one male named Reward Peabody, a female named Reward Line who went on to be known as Launchie Girl and a female named Reward Terry who later changed her name to Blueberry. As you might have guessed, that dog named Blueberry went on to live with us.
We first met her eleven years ago as a two-year-old. She arrived at a now defunct Greyhound adoption group two blocks down the street from us on a cold January night. We were supposed to foster her, but someone else was interested in her as a foster with intent to adopt, so we chose to bring home her mother, a senior dog who needed a soft bed to rest on after seven years of work. I thought that would pretty much be the end of our association.
However, I was mistaken. In August, the woman who had ended up adopting her was having surgery and she asked the woman who ran the adoption group to watch her for a few weeks while she recovered. She already had two puppies in the house and was less than thrilled to have a two year old dog in the house. We were asked if we’d take either the puppies or Blueberry. It was an easy choice, and we thought it would be fun to see Lilac and Blueberry together. The rest is history. Most of our readers know that things got a little odd with the woman and finally, in December, we were told that Blueberry was ours.
She had a few issues when we got her. She stole food, right off the plate and from under your nose. She’d been taught to sit in front of a person, then jump up and take food out of their mouth, which resulted in black eyes for both my husband and me. When she got tired, she was antisocial, growling at other dogs who got in her space. I was afraid someone would want to adopt her to have the status of a blue Greyhound and they wouldn’t be able to handle her.
We used to have a conversation every year on her birthday, where I would tell her that she was a grown up girl now and the wild child antics would stop. She would reply by giving me the raspberry. However, when our first Greyhound, Treat, passed away, overnight she did grow up. She sensed that we needed her in a special way and she was really there for us. Of all our dogs, she has the softest, thickest fur — like the plushest velvet. I cried about five million tears into that soft fur.
Blueberry really isn’t one for tears, though. She lives to make us laugh. I’ve never met a dog with a better sense of humor. When her mission is accomplished, it isn’t just her tail that wags, it’s her whole body, and she smiles to go along with it. Somewhere along the way, she went from Wild Child to Miss Almost Perfect to The Best Dog Ever. Yes, she actually answers to that title and Mr. Taleteller calls her that all the time.
It’s hard for me to fathom that she’s thirteen years old. She doesn’t look it or act it. Sure, she’s slowed down a little, but she still wants to be included in most of what we do. It seems like just yesterday that she was a wild puppy, but she’s grown up into such a wonderful and magnificent dog. I feel very blessed that we’ve been able to share the journey with her so far, and I hope that she’ll be with us for many more years like her infamous mother was.
Happy Birthday, Baby Blue, and many happy returns!