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moved toward my chair to lie down. First her slender front legs buckled, and then her haunches sank until her rear made contact with the floor. Her front paws inched forward until her deep chest touched the ground, and finally, when her entire body was stretched out, her head very gently came to rest between her paws, and her large eyes closed. The slow-motion performance always reminded me of an old building being demolished.
    â€œThat was different,” said Freddie. “Now tell me why she shouldn’t go back.” Encouraged, I rushed to fill in the details about Maggie, Wings for Greyhounds, and the treatment of retired racers. Freddie was mildly interested in the flying taxi service, and her face registered shock when she learned of Comet’s condition at the time she was rescued. But she zeroed in on the foster family ranch, interrupting my story to point out, “So the greyhounds actually have a perfect home on that ranch, with lots of room to run, which is what they like to do.”
    â€œBut it’s only temporary,” I objected. “The family can’t keep all the dogs they foster.”
    Freddie sighed and got up, heading for the bedroom. I followed. Spring sunlight warmed the pillows. Comet trotted in after us and, with a flicker of movement, leaped onto the bed and stretched out. Eyes closed, body relaxed, her pose signaled snobbish disinterest in our guest.
    Freddie sat on the bed and reached for Comet’s face. The greyhound’s liquid eyes snapped open and she glared at Freddie with an expression of hurt and confusion. A loud, low-pitched growl curled in Comet’s throat. Freddie instantly jumped up. “What just happened?”
    â€œNo, Comet,” I said in a stern tone. I walked to the bed, gently pushed Comet onto her back, and stroked her belly. In the same firm voice I repeated, “No,” several more times. I was well aware that dogs are hierarchical animals who vie for position within the pack. It was essential that Comet accept Freddie as her superior. Comet rolled to her stomach as I sat next to her. She snuggled her body next to mine and tried to bury her cold nose behind my back. Freddie softly asked, “Has she done that before?”
    â€œNo. It’s just that you weren’t part of the original deal. Maybe this is too much too soon.”
    To Freddie’s great credit, she immediately understood. “Poor thing. She’s scared, isn’t she? Why don’t we leave her alone and let her get used to having someone else in the house.”
    Late that afternoon, Freddie and I sipped wine on the back patio. I caught up on news about the girls and grilled Freddie about the spring arrival of eagles and herons, the number of neighbors’ gloves the goldens had picked off the snow over the winter, and the activity on the lake as boats were returned to their lifts. Freddie had questions, too. She asked about the not-so-tidy house, my worsening limp, and my wince whenever I got to my feet. In the growing darkness, the biggest question descended like fog: with my health steadily declining, how was I going to care for myself, much less a greyhound?
    As if to lift this blanket of uncertainty, Comet slipped out to the patio and stood about ten feet away from us, proper as a debutante. Her soft eyes regarded us for a brief moment, and then she seemed to make a decision. She glided forward to a quiet stop directly in front of Freddie. Comet stretched to full height and tilted her head forward, her ears angled to the side. Her eyes focused on Freddie’s, and she waited. I have witnessed this ritual countless times since, and I am always struck by its intelligence and purpose. The formality of the greeting seems to slow time and relax the person to whom it is directed. It is a near-human gesture, an armless hug.
    â€œI think Comet likes me!” Freddie declared.
    Soon after that introduction, my wife informed me that Comet’s