PURE GRACE

(Sorry, Jen, this isn't about your daughter. At least not yet.)

My husband owns a greyhound. For those of you who are not acquainted with greyhounds, I must clarify just a few points (honest, just a few):

1. Greyhounds are not dogs. They are greyhounds.

2. Contrary to assumptions, greyhound are couch-potatoes. Yes, they race fast on the track, but they are sprinters only. They need to run about once a day at 45 mph for 24 seconds, and then sleep the next 23 hours, 59 minutes and 36 seconds.

3. Greyhounds are big. Ours weighs almost 80 lbs., and none of it is fat. The ultimate in long and lean.

Okay, enough information - let us move on.

My husband's greyhound's track name was, honestly, "I Don't Know." It leads my mind into an entire "Who's On First" routine; can't you just see it?

"I wanna place a bet on a dog."

"Okay, what's the dog's name?"

"'I Don't Know'"

Abbot and Costello, watch out.

But off-track, her name is Delilah, and that's what we call her. And she sleeps at the foot of my husband's bed.

Which leads to the fact that my husband and I have separate bedrooms.

Not for martial differences (although, of course, we have our share of those, but so does everyone), but because after 22+ years of being kept awake by his thunderous snoring, I pulled rank when we moved into this house, took over the master bedroom, study and bathroom and banished my husband to the servants' quarters next to the laundry room.

And Delilah sleeps on two dog-type pillows in there.

Since my husband goes to sleep around 7 p.m. (1900) every evening, and I go to bed after midnight, I wake Delilah up to take her outside for her very last business for the night around 11:30 p.m. (2330).

Generally, I open the door, am blown back two steps by the resonation of a not-so-soft palate vibrating (or perhaps throbbing is a better word), wait for a breath intake to take the two steps forward, and wait for Delilah to stand up, stretch (you haven't seen an animal stretch until you've seen a greyhound stretch - it's almost orgasmic).

Then she shakes her collar, which has three enormous metal I.D. tags dangling from it, loud enough to wake the dead but not someone who snores at the 90+ decibel level (anything over 85 will cause hearing loss,, just FYI), and she then comes out of the bedroom.

Until last night, that is.

When I opened the bedroom door, Delilah tried to rise. However she had somehow moved in her sleep to a east-west position from a north-south position, thereby wedging herself exactly between the bed and the bookcase in such a manner to be firmly and solidly stuck.

We all can agree that uproariously laughter and uncontrollable glee can lead to increased levels of endorphins, less bladder control, and augmented blasts of myself snorting.

She did (eventually) free herself, but this is one of the times I wish I had had a cam recorded within reach, so you could see it also.