In the last few months I’ve been opining on political matters, so I thought it might be time for a complete change of pace: my husband’s and my recent adoption of not one, but two greyhounds simultaneously.

For over twenty years, I’ve been doling out advice on greyhound adoption: how to adopt, why to adopt, and even when not to adopt. But when we added these two dogs to our pack, we broke virtually all of my own rules.

Here’s how it happened, and I am only half-joking when I say, “Don’t try this at home.” If someone less experienced than we are took this on, it is unlikely the results would have been nearly as good. But as two veteran adopters, we emerged unscathed. In fact, by some measures, you could even say we’re the better for the experience!

Regular readers of this column know that we’ve had a few recent canine, and one feline, deaths in our animal family. Last May, we lost Archa, the Afghan hound brought here from Russia. Early September saw the passing of Rosebud (Kings Kosiba), a Greyhound. Later that month, we also lost our little 24-year-old cat, Bridget Pegeen Kelly.

The coming of the new year offered little relief: our remaining Afghan hound, Bruce, was really starting to fail, partly from advanced kidney disease and partly from various infirmities of old age. So while Charles and I are veteran adopters, we are also veterans of seeing animals through to the other side. But veterans or not, it is a process that takes its toll physically, emotionally, and even spiritually.

As much as I try to focus on the good times we have with our pets, and to console myself with knowing that I give my animals the best possible care, the truth is, losing them hurts, and it can hurt for a long time.

Just the other day I was in the supermarket when a sale on chuck roasts, of all things, set off an unexpected wave of sadness. How, other than contemplating the grim fate of the cow, is such a thing possible?

Well, for me it brought up bittersweet memories of Ajax (Special Policie) and how we nursed him along to the ripe old age of 15 years and 7 months in part by serving him, and his eager pack mates, either chuck roasts or turkey thighs that we cooked overnight, every night, in the crock pot. His pack mates are now gone as well, with Rosebud being the last member of what we have come to think of as the old pack.

We have since rebuilt our canine family, but sometimes, seemingly out of nowhere, a stray thought, an old photograph, or incredibly, even a chuck roast, will resurrect those days into a focus so sharp as to bring tears to my eyes. So it was no wonder that, back in early January, I was ripe for the adoption picking when I decided to foster not one, but two greyhounds at once.

I have long sworn off fostering because, as my husband Charles is known to say, “We’re like the roach motel. They check in, but they don’t check out.” But, I told him, and myself, that these two dogs were an exception. They were coming in from a farm in Oklahoma and my adoption group had no available foster homes. In addition, they were coming in on a sleeting winter evening and we knew little about the pair except their names and ages.

I outlined what seemed like a reasonable plan: we keep them overnight, bathe, photograph, and cat test them in the morning, and then take them to a vet hospital for boarding and spaying once they were settled in. In the back of my mind, I knew one night was one night too many; and if pressed, I think Charles knew it, too.

But we forged ahead and, at the appointed hour, headed out to meet the truck and bring home the girls. We knew in advance that the two were a mother and daughter pair. The mother, who we’ve since named Mither, was 9 and her daughter, who we’ve since named Babycat, was 16 months.

My research revealed that following a respectable racing career, Mither went on to produce several fine litters of which Babycat was a part. But she, I was told, had a canine learning disability I’d never before encountered: she could not be trained to walk on lead and, therefore, was unsuitable for racing.

Once the hauling rig slowed to a stop, Mither, a seasoned woman of the world, leapt gracefully from the truck and promptly relieved herself on the pavement. It was clear she had been around both the track, and the block, more than a few times. But Babycat, who had never before been off the farm in Oklahoma, much less separated from her littermates, was rigid with fear.

Mither waited patiently and casually sniffed at the cold New Jersey air as her recalcitrant offspring pressed herself against the back of the hole, had to be pulled out, and then carried to our car. Babycat’s weaning from her mother had long since been accomplished. I don’t think she even recognized Mither as a blood relative, much less was able to take any comfort from her presence.

Babycat’s performance reminded me, of course, of our Rosebud who, when we took him in as a foster dog, was afraid of just about everything new, yet who, by the end of his life ten years later, was more than halfway to normal. ‘All’ it took was time, patience, and understanding.

But Babycat knew nothing of that, and the young, timid dog trembled as her small, dull eyes stared blankly at the floor. Meanwhile, Mither’s bright eyes peered out the car window into the icy darkness with what I can only describe as alacrity. Mither was ready for a change of pace, a new adventure. Babycat was not.

Cynthia Branigan is the author of the best-selling book “Adopting the Racing Greyhound” and the award-winning book “The Reign of the Greyhound.” She is the founder and president of Make Peace With Animals, an all-volunteer adoption group that has placed over 5,000 greyhounds since 1988. Cynthia's column also appears in "The Greyhound Review," the monthly publication of the National Greyhound Association.  Comments are welcome and can be directed to FromTheHomeFront@Verizon.net.