Albert our beloved greyhound arrived in the world on October 27, 1998. He arrived on our doorstep in August of 2003, having raced in Portland and Phoenix as “Smoking Albert,” having once covered 300 meters in 17.2 seconds. He left us on Friday.
We gave him 12,000 walks. On almost every one, he either made a friend or saw a friend and he quickly became the Prince of Cathedral Hill. People carried treats in their pockets for him. Drivers would yell his name from passing cars. When the woman who owned Nina’s Café would hug him, he would smell like patchouli oil all day. Ellen reports that he was given treats at Solo Vino and I can attest that they made a fuss over him at the florist’s. The guy who owned the Italian Beef sandwich place said he loved watching Al walk past because he reminded him of the dogs he knew as a boy in Jordan. People would turn and smile when Al passed restaurant windows. Neighborhood acquaintances chased after us and gave him Christmas presents. Drunk girls wobbling out of W.A. Frost’s or Fern’s on a weekend night brightened when they saw him. Ellen even had to develop a special “no flirting!” command. He made people happy pretty much every time he walked out into the world.
He charmed the dour and calmed the fearful. A woman who had been terrified of dogs ever since she’d been attacked as a little girl said she was not afraid of him. When we brought him home to Blair House, two neighbors refused to ride in the elevator with him. By year three, both were won over. The most dyspeptic of them said, “All dogs should be like this.”
Actually, he charmed pretty much every one. When David Schultz—then a Ramsey County Attorney candidate—was addressing a group in our living room, Al discerned that the attention in the room was directed at Dave, walked over, and forced Dave to pet him.
When he had to go into surgery at the emergency vet because he ran over glass, we told the vet about his racing history and how he had been selected to be in the Night of the Greyhound Stars—a special night when the best racers run—but that he had, sadly, finished eighth out of eight. When we picked him up some hours later, he had a blue wrap on his leg. The vet’s staff had attached some red, scissor cut, decals: We ♥ # 8.
As a younger dog, he was always up for adventure. We took him with us to the Hotel Monaco in Chicago once. Eminem and Fifty Cent were staying there and when one of their retinue shared the elevator with Ellen and Al, he pronounced, “your dog is tight.” Indeed.
Al charmed people because they might feed him. He was, after all, a dog. On his first visit to the vet, the doctor said, “he’s so affectionate” as he stood on his hind legs and hugged her. What she didn’t know was that he was hugging her with one paw and working the other one around so he could knock over the treat jar. At a party we hosted, there was the quesadilla he simply licked, rendering it unfit for anyone but a . . . dog (sorry, Bryan), the homemade salmon roulade he decimated in two separate swipes at another party before being led out like a charming criminal, the pans of brownies he knocked onto the floor (sorry, Bridget!), the sticks of butter he nabbed from a dog-sitter’s pantry, and the quiche on that first weekend that led to eight years of spotless counters.
But most of all, he loved being with those who loved him. When we were all together on a weekend night, watching a movie, or just sitting in the living room talking on a Sunday morning, he would smack his lips with happiness.
He loved Ellen most of all. Once when she had been gone for some days on a trip out east, and he hadn’t spent any time in her office, I picked up the phone. She was on the other end and we thought it would be fun to have her speak to him. He spent the rest of the night in her office, waiting for her to emerge from the phone.
Our guy time was the morning. For 3,000 days—except for a handful of travel and sick days—I woke up at six a.m., made my coffee, and walked Al. He got up and stretched when he saw me get dressed and then, as I tied my shoes, he’d be absolutely pumped—spinning around, mock barking at me, racing down the hall.
I’m going to miss those mornings with my buddy. I’m going to remember him always.
