Hi there,

It's been about a year, and I want to share with y'all a story that will certainly be sad — ⚠️ content warning: pet death — but also full of so many joys. While I’ll do my best to make it a lively read, this email may be a tad lonnnnng, but …well, so was she, as my wife likes to note.

Let's start at the end: Our greyhound Riley died a year ago, two days before Christmas.

It was, like the deaths of many loved ones, somewhat undignified and sad and surreal. Standing in the driveway shortly after we'd arrived in Los Angeles, her hind legs started to wobble and then give out. She seemed to be numb in the back half of her body and barely noticed bodily functions. We put soft blankets in the trunk of the hatchback, and I lifted her gangly 70-lb. frame. I don't remember everything, but she likely screamed a little as she nestled down; she definitely didn’t stand like she usually did. I drove as quickly as I (safely) could to the area's nearest pet emergency room.

Riley had been screaming for weeks, several times a night. This was unusual, but you also need to understand that screaming is simply a thing that greyhounds do. (It's lovingly nicknamed the GSOD — the "Greyhound Scream of Death". Your pup will walk stoically on an injury for weeks without a sound, but then a leaf will touch her butt, and she'll peal a keening wail worthy of Julliard.) We'd taken her to the greyhound vet back home, weeks earlier, out of caution. Our vet was phenomenal, meticulous, but she couldn't suss out anything in particular: not corns, not a broken bone, likely a sore muscle or overextended leg. We took home some pain meds for her.

We'll never know exactly what happened, but Riley's condition went downhill fast. She was bleeding internally, and there wasn't much the ER vets could do. It didn't look good. We got only two more chances that final day to see her, and she was so eager to stand — almost ripping out her IV — and follow us home, even when she was in no condition to.

We were fortunate to be able to say goodbye to Riley together, with the grandparents watching our kiddo. We'd brought a few things she loved: blanket, chew toy, a bag of her favorite treats. Blinded by pain and morphine, Riley's eyes were glassy, but when we shook the bag of dental chews, she was halfway out of the stretcher before the nurse could steady her. It took two doses to stop her heart, with the longest short intermission between, which added to the unreality of the farewell. We drove home through empty streets, sitting at each red light in shock, still processing it all.

Riley was my first — and only — pet. I didn't ever plan on having a dog, before I met Inna. Dogs were a big responsibility, and I was young and had no shortage of responsibilities as a self-employed consultant.

Inna, however, was determined to get a greyhound. She'd pined for one for seven or so years, volunteered at the local rescue, and was utterly smitten with the sweet sleepy noodles. After we wed, the clock started ticking, and I was begrudgingly along for the ride.

There were communication frustrations in the adoption process, par for the course with working with any non-profit staffed by volunteers, but one thing that they did exceedingly well was match our personalities to a dog. Riley was shy and antisocial and food-motivated, much like her future owners. On our first meeting, she got her zoomies out, quenched her thirst from a rainwater-filled kiddie pool, then flopped in a shady corner and deigned to let us pet her.

There were weeks between our first meeting and when we could take her home — weeks in which the cabinet under our kitchen sink was discovered to have a cavernous opening to the crawlspace below the house AND an infestation of black mold, which led to our kitchen being tarped off with clear plastic, like a hazmat zone, while dehumidifiers ran through the night — so we had time to think of a better name for her. The rescue had named her "Mallory," alongside a cohort of "Hillary," "Norgay," and others named after famous mountaineers. With a slightly shorter snout than other greyhounds, and pointy ears that didn't flop, Inna thought she looked like a coyote, but I wasn't down for Wiley. Riley, though? The name fit.

We didn't know enough to realize that she was extremely anxious. The whole ride home, she panted like a freight train. At night, on a bed next to ours, she would loudly chew her nails in the middle of the night, a steady clack-click-CLACK that never failed to keep me awake. She was literally anal-retentive, so spooked by the sounds of the city outside our small apartment that she'd lurk in our doorway and refuse to go out to do her business.

A dog trainer told us that Riley was the most anxious dog she'd ever seen; we'd spend entire lessons of a dog training class trying to convince her to travel 50 feet from the parking lot to the shade of a tree where all the other participating dogs were gathered. It was so bad that she'd hold her bladder for 36 hours, unless we coaxed her outside with a greasy fistful of cooked chicken (what we nicknamed "The Golden Hand!"). And yet slowly, glaaaaacially, we drew her out of her shell to explore the neighboring blocks.

On a Sunday when a big running route passed by our front door, the thundering footsteps and blaring hype music scared her so much, she retreated into her shell again. With long months of patience and Prozac (and chicken), she eventually got excited about walks again.

Riley's schedule of walks got us out of the house. It taught us to notice things we wouldn't otherwise, to slow down and be patient, especially when she'd catch a scent and loop back without warning. Riley's walks made sure the workday ended promptly. Her needs prepared us, in so many ways, for parenthood.

People who haven't known a greyhound expect that they are high energy; the truth is that they're wonderful apartment dogs who need two short walks and sleep 18 hours a day. Riley had a dog bed in nearly every room of our small apartment (or made one with spare blankets), and always slept on them akimbo. Mostly, she slept half off the cushion, in a way that looked like it couldn't be comfortable. Sometimes she'd sleep with her eyes unnervingly open, so we'd have to check that her chest was still rising and falling.

Riley was the gentlest of souls. She'd take treats from your hand with the grace and slow precision of a surgeon, even from the unpredictable hands of our then-one-year-old. She rarely licked people, and never on the face. Friends and family who were wary of large dogs were, if not won over, at ease around her. On trips to the dog park, she was almost comically antisocial, frequently skulking around the fence; Inna dubbed her the goth girl hiding behind the bleachers at football practice. She only barked when "riled up" into play. In fact, the only aggressive thing about her was her profound flatulence. She could clear a room without opening an eye.

Inna gave her so many nicknames, we started a list.

For such a quiet and anxious dog, Riley loved so many things:

• Food, particularly chicken, fish, sweet potatoes, and yogurt. (Not peanut butter!) The aforementioned dental chews that smelled like bacon cooked in an automobile fire. Once, we cooked lamb, and Riley was beside herself. While taking the plated roast to the table, Inna accidentally sloshed some juices on her slippers. We promptly washed them (multiple times), but Riley sniffed those slippers intently for months.

• Grass. Was she a lawnmower in a past life? Was there a goat in her ancestry? She looked at a lush patch of lawn like nine-year-old me looked at a Sizzler salad bar. You’d think we didn’t ever feed her.

• Skritches and ear rubs. There was a spot on her side, where if you pet her, her hind leg would slowly raise and kick rhythmically in the air. Ear rubs were her catnip, though; she'd lean into them with her whole skull, her eyes rolling back in delight.

• Sniffing with curiosity where you least wanted her to, in or out of the house. She had a habit of goosing you if you weren't careful, which made it a challenge to dodge her after showers in the morning.

• Hunting. Her prey drive for neighborhood squirrels and cats was so high, she'd dislocate your arm if you weren't careful.

• Water. Not for bathing, nor drinking — she never drank enough — but for playing in. Anytime we were near a river or a beach, she'd find her way to the water.

• Running at top speed, even though she did it so rarely. To see her bound effortlessly at the dog beach, looking back over her shoulder to see if you were keeping up, was to see a face of purest joy. Even when she ran less, in her final days, she'd gallop in her sleep, her chest heaving, paws flexing in harmony, the edges of her mouth blown back in an imagined wind.

She was not the fastest — there was a reason she was retired from the racetracks — nor the brightest — which we jokingly attributed to her "double ancestors." (Thanks to the idiosyncrasies of breeding, her family tree was a pretzel.) She would run headlong into glass doors and shake it off. She had a habit of sniffing cacti and eating bees, particularly the bees dying of pesticide on the concrete outside our building.

And then there was the magical ✨CAT BBQ.✨ Riley was ever-curious about our neighbor's outdoor cats, who were always quicker — in paws and wits — than she was. Once, while she sniffed around the courtyard, a fluffy white cat named Napoleon bolted from his resting place under the covered barbecue grill, catching Riley's attention. Instead of following Napoleon (who sat a safe distance away watching it all), Riley inspected the grill with the intensity of Scotland Yard. For months and months and months afterward, Riley would beeline to the back of the grill when she went outside, even if Napoleon was clearly lying ten steps further, RIGHT THERE, watching with wary detachment. It was a helpful lesson in mental models: even when the solution is right in front of you, in plain sight, some folks stick to what they believe. And who wouldn't, if there was a magical barbecue grill that spawned delicious cats?

When they hear the news, many friends have asked if we'll be getting another greyhound, and they're surprised by the answer. We still love greyhounds, but if we do eventually get another dog, it will likely be a rescue mutt. We're unlikely to find another dog like Riley: not only was she a unique personality, but she's now also a rarer breed. Across the country, greyhound rescues are shuttering as the racetracks thankfully shut down and fewer greyhounds are up for adoption.

There are moments when we notice her absence more. When we hear a jingling of keys that sounds like her collar. When our son chooses to be a bee for his first Halloween. When we guiltily acknowledge to each other that the logistics of visiting family across the country is easier. When we get a good night's sleep. When we have a rare greyhound sighting while walking around the block.

We had such a sighting last week — a beautiful, lively brindle named Luther. His owner was on a long walk and let us pet him, and my eyes got a bit watery. As part of our downsizing for the upcoming move, we gave away to Luther the last of Riley's things: a big dog bed that had stayed in the spare room. (A greyhound can never have too many dog beds, after all.)

Pets aren't people, but the grief can be nearly as deep. I didn't realize that until I had, and loved, and lost a dear pet. In the weeks afterward, I felt doubly sad for not having the life experience to say the right things to friends who had lost their beloved dogs and cats in years before.

We loved Riley, and she loved us, and we miss her. I wanted to write all of this before I forgot it all, but far enough from the immediacy of her loss. Apparently, on the drive home after Riley left us, I told Inna that I wasn't sure what I believed about an afterlife, but I hoped our girl was running in the place from her dreams — wherever it was that we'd seen on her face as she slept, when her legs would pump in muffled strides against the air above her bed, and her tongue would loll through her teeth in the biggest of grins.

Living the proverbial life of Riley, in other words. 💙

Thanks to Inna for the help in eulogizing our sweet girl, and thank you for reading all the way to the end. If you have a story to share or a photo of a fond pet, I’m here for it.

Here's wishing you and your family (and your pets) the absolute best in 2026.

🙌🏻,
jason