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Overview
Comet’s Tale is a story about a friendship between two former winners, both a little down on their luck, who together stage a remarkable comeback. A former hard-driving attorney, Steven Wolf has reluctantly left his job and family and moved to Arizona for its warm winter climate. There he is drawn to a local group that rescues abused racing greyhounds. Although he can barely take care of himself because of a spinal condition, Wolf adopts Comet, an elegant cinnamon-striped racer. Or does Comet adopt Wolf?
In Comet’s Tale we follow their funny and moving journey as Wolf teaches Comet to be a service dog. With her boundless enthusiasm and regal manners, Comet attracts new friends to Wolf’s isolated world. And finally, she plays a crucial role in restoring his health, saving his marriage, and broadening his definition of success.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781616203344 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill |
| Publication date: | 08/27/2013 |
| Sold by: | Hachette Digital, Inc. |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 274 |
| Sales rank: | 1,041,764 |
| File size: | 882 KB |
About the Author
Steven D. Wolf is an active participant in greyhound advocacy. He divides his time between Omaha, Nebraska, and Sedona, Arizona.
Lynette Padwa, the author of numerous books, including Everything You Pretend to Know and Are Afraid Someone Will Ask, has collaborated on many more. She lives in Los Angeles.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
FALL 1998 WINTER 2000 — NEBRASKA TO ARIZONA
"You think I should retire," I said, slowly repeating Tim's bombshell. "You think I should leave the firm. Is this some kind of joke?" My partners sat stiffly in their high-backed chairs, their faces impassive. With enormous effort, I kept my voice low and controlled. "You might be frustrated with my unorthodox work schedule, but all my files are up-to-date and my cases and revenue are in line with those of every person in this room."
"It's not about any of that," Tim said evenly. "We're tired of wondering if you're okay. We can't plan for the future. We can't anticipate. And because you're squeezing a week's worth of work into the three days you might make it into the office, we're frantic about you missing deadlines and committing malpractice. How are we supposed to deal with your cases if suddenly you don't show up anymore?"
"Who said I'm not going to show up?"
"Look, Steve, we don't know what's going on with you. But one thing's certain: you're a physical mess. You can't keep doing what you're doing. You're killing yourself, and we're not willing to risk everything while we wait for the funeral." He glanced around the table and each of my partners nodded.
The office was deserted by the time I left. I rode the elevator down to the parking garage and tottered to my car, still trying to process the news. They can't fire me from my own firm! Can they? I clambered into my SUV and merged uncertainly into the traffic on Dodge Street.
The western edge of Omaha quickly faded in my rearview mirror as I headed toward the rural lakeside village where I lived with Freddie and our daughters. The area hadn't changed much since it had been Pawnee hunting ground a hundred years earlier. Majestic eighty-foot cottonwoods, with trunks as big around as a pickup truck, populated the banks of the nearby Platte River. To the west, rolling hills of corn unfurled to the horizon. The drive home had always felt like real-life time travel, and it was my favorite part of the day.
But lately the half-hour commute had become an hour-long grind, not because of traffic but because my back would spasm if I sat for too long. Each journey was my own private Lewis and Clark expedition — frequent stops with a lot of walking around looking at the ground. Today was no different. After one such break, I slowly straightened and found myself locking eyes with a red-tailed hawk perched high in an ancient hackberry tree across the road. His dark stare looked hungry. Predatory.
"I'm not roadkill yet," I said out loud, returning to the car.
At home, I opened the garage door with the remote. Two blond balls of fur raced to greet me, leaping in circles and yelping, their tails thumping against the car as they spun.
"Sit!" I yelled out the window, desperate to exit. Cody, the golden retriever I had rescued from a puppy mill for the price of a broken shotgun, immediately slammed his haunches flat onto the cool concrete. His daughter, Sandoz, continued her whining, whirling dance and promptly stomped Cody's paw. His low, pointed growl convinced her to sit down next to him. Then both dogs turned to me. Cody's lolling, dripping tongue couldn't hide his smile. In his pale face, whitened by age, his black eyes and nose stood out like coals on a snowman. Sandoz squirmed and wiggled next to him like a schoolkid who urgently needed permission to use the restroom. "Careful," I warned, and they managed to stay put until I was safely inside the house. But despite myself I, too, was smiling, once again warmed to my core by these friends.
As I sank onto the couch, the dogs lay on the carpet in front of me. As usual, they strategically placed themselves in the exact spot I needed in order to stand and walk away. Escape was impossible without some type of physical contact, which I knew was the point. But today, instead of sighing contentedly and shutting his eyes, Cody studied my face closely, ears perked. No doubt he detected the disgraceful stench of failure.
"What's wrong?" My wife stood in the doorway, her face pinched with concern.
"They kicked me out."
"Oh, Wolfie. Je suis désolé," she said, reverting to her native French. "But you saw this coming. Didn't you?"
"No."
She sat down next to me, taking my hand and lifting it to her cheek. "What choice have you given them? They don't have a clue about how bad you really are, because you won't tell them. And the doctors have been warning you to slow down, anyway." I patted her knee but I couldn't look at her.
In the next few days, I learned that in spite of my denial and avoidance during the past year, Freddie had done some thinking about the inevitable. "The doctors say that you're dramatically worse during the winter months because the cold won't let your body relax. And the nonstop stress of your job doesn't allow your mind to cope. The only way we're going to get through this is if you get away from here during the winter, which will also allow us time to emotionally deal with everything." I was puzzled by the emphasis on the words we're and us. This spinal condition was my problem, not Freddie's. The whole point of my relentless work schedule had been to shield my wife and daughters from the consequences of my illness.
"We could sell that lot in Arizona," Freddie was saying. A few years back we had bought a parcel of land in Sedona. "We could use the cash to buy a small house there, where you could live for the cold months. You always said you felt a healthy energy flowing through all those red rocks."
I know we discussed money — how could we not have, given the drastic slash in income that was to come? And I hazily recall the paralyzing anxiety we both felt about splitting up. Freddie could not leave her job managing the hospital cardiology unit she had helped establish years earlier. For one thing, she loved it, and for another, she was now the sole breadwinner of our household. She and the girls were my last life preservers, and if I moved to Arizona they'd be twelve hundred miles away. There were tears, lots of tears. But there are two things about that week that remain vividly etched in my mind: the totally overwhelming sense of shame, and the reassuring wetness of my dogs' noses pressed against my palm.
ONE WARM NOVEMBER day, about six weeks after I had been deposited in Sedona, I pulled into the parking lot of Weber's IGA supermarket. I kept these excursions to once a week, since it was getting harder to reach for food and push the shopping cart around. Leaning heavily on my canes, I slowly waddled across the lot. My tortured progress took me in a crooked line toward a small commotion on the nearby sidewalk. I toddled to a stop and straightened to see what all the fuss was about.
A group of people were crowded around a slim blond woman. Edging closer, I saw that she was holding the leash to a dog, and it was the dog that had captured the crowd's attention. Not that the animal seemed to notice. His pose was proud and indifferent — if he wasn't exactly bored by the admiration, he was certainly accustomed to it. He stood about forty inches tall, his head level with the woman's hip. His skull was elongated, tapering to a delicate muzzle. Both ears were perked in the same sideways direction above a small forehead. Outsized almond-shaped eyes serenely surveyed the group. The dog's sleek fur was black with a stippled reddish hue, and his deep chest rose steeply toward a thin, almost dainty abdomen. He was extremely narrow and lean, his ribs visible beneath the fur. Sharply defined muscles popped from his haunches, but his front legs were slender. All four legs ended in large, finely boned paws that sported long toes with thick black nails. The paws were slightly suspended above black pads, creating a distinct athletic appearance, like a basketball player bouncing on the balls of his feet. A slim tail sloped straight down from the dog's rear and ended in a small U slightly above the sidewalk.
"What kind of dog is that?" I asked the woman.
Smiling, she said, "This is Lance. He's a greyhound. I'm Maggie McCurry."
"Sorry," I stammered, feeling like a recluse who'd forgotten how civilized folk behave. "I'm Steve Wolf. But I go by Wolf. It's nice to meet you."
"You, too," Maggie replied. "Wolf. I'll remember that. Almost everyone around here knows Lance, but very few of them remember my name. I guess Lance is pretty distracting."
Entranced, I extended my hand toward the dog and allowed him to investigate my scent. "Is he always this quiet and laid-back?" I had never met a greyhound in person. My only knowledge of them came from snippets of television footage I had glanced at while channel surfing. I assumed the breed was a bunch of skinny, hyper racing dogs. And I don't know why, but I was sure they were placed on the intelligence scale next to a bucket of hair. My mental image certainly had not included the amazing specimen standing in front of me.
"In general, greyhounds are calm to the extreme and very sweet. In fact, they're known as the couch potatoes of the dog world," said Maggie. As she talked, Lance leaned into her legs.
"Couch potatoes?" I started to ask another question but realized that Maggie probably preferred to get on with her day. "I must be holding you up."
"No, no. That's all right. I'm involved in greyhound rescue, so I like to tell people about the dogs. These racers have a rough life. At about four months of age, they're placed in a crate. After that, they rarely get any attention except to train or race." Maggie's voice softened and she patted Lance between his ears. "As a result, the racers only know how to act around other greyhounds or their trainers. Most don't know how to play or defend themselves. They don't even know how to climb stairs. They're strangers to the world outside their cages and the track."
"How long are they kept like that?"
"Well, they typically race for only one or two years. If the dogs don't win quickly and often, the owners don't want to spend one more dime on their food or anything else. At that point, they're just an expense that needs to be eliminated. Rescue and adoption groups have been formed to keep the dogs from being killed. We really need people to adopt them."
I instinctively stepped back, sensing a hard sell coming my way. Maggie picked up on it and laughed.
"We'd better get going. So long," she said.
"Right. Bye," I replied lamely.
Lance led Maggie through the parking lot, his muscles flowing and his spine articulating with each step. The languid movements reminded me of a cheetah.
The next day was rainy and cold — not Nebraska cold but chilly enough to keep me inside, immobile, and drowsy from pain medication. The rain pelted the concrete slab outside the sliding glass doors, and gas flames waved in the fireplace. I smiled at the thought of a sleeping greyhound warmed by the heat. Do they ever miss racing? I wondered. Are they truly content being still? Are they strong or incredibly fragile, or both?
AFTER FOUR MONTHS in Sedona I became more accustomed to fending for myself, but I never got used to how long it took me to do everything. When I lived at home, Freddie and the girls had always been quick to pick up items I dropped, and if they weren't around, one of the goldens was happy to help. Because I required two canes to walk, I often needed a hand opening doors or an arm to grasp if I had to climb steps. It was only now, without that help, that I realized how much I had depended on them. I had always thought of myself as the original lone cowboy, the guy everyone else leaned on.
Even answering the phone was a hassle. Freddie and the girls usually called at night, so I was surprised to hear it ring early one February morning. After a hectic search that left me panting, I finally retrieved it.
"Is this Steve Wolf?" asked a female voice.
"It is." I sat down to catch my breath.
"Hi, Steve. My name is Anne. I'm part of the greyhound rescue and adoption effort here in Sedona."
Uh-oh. I had almost forgotten that a few weeks earlier, Maggie had cajoled me into filling out an application to adopt a greyhound. I had run into her and Lance at the IGA again. This time Maggie was fundraising for her rescue group, Wings for Greyhounds. She owned a small plane that she piloted around the Southwest, retrieving greyhounds who were in danger of being disposed of by their owners. She then transported the hounds to foster families. Maggie told me she had recently helped rescue a group of dogs that had been abandoned at the Tucson racetrack. I was so moved by her story that I agreed to fill out the adoption application, but I had no intention of actually bringing a dog home.
"Good news," Anne was now burbling. "The greyhounds rescued from Tucson were placed with a foster family on a ranch outside Flagstaff. The rescues responded and are successfully socializing."
"Excellent," I mumbled. "Congratulations."
"Thanks!" With a hint of hesitation, Anne continued, "The greys all received veterinary treatment — their teeth were fixed and cleaned, shots brought current, and all were spayed or neutered."
I could tell there was more, but I interrupted, "I really am happy about this, Anne. But I'm not feeling so great. May I call you another time?" "Oh, I'm sorry. I just wanted you to know."
I cleared my throat and prepared for good-bye. "Wait!" Anne almost shouted. "I also wanted to give you the phone number of the foster parents. You were approved to adopt, and I wanted to give you the first opportunity."
No point in arguing. I jotted down the number and address and got off the phone.
I went back and forth about the whole outlandish idea over the next several weeks. What was I doing? Why would I lead these people on? I didn't need any more hassles in my life, not to mention the fact that if I got a dog, Freddie would feed me to the fish. She had been at me for years about saying yes to every request and taking on too much.
Beneath all the uncertainty was fear. It was natural to be leery of the unknown, of course. How would a new dog fit into our family? What would happen if the greyhound just wouldn't socialize? But those weren't the issues that were making me so anxious. I was mad at myself for being a coward. I was afraid that I was no longer capable of taking care of anyone but myself. I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to cope with complex tasks. I was afraid that pain would keep me from caring for a dog who urgently needed love and attention. More than anything, I was afraid I would fail again.
At the same time, everything I had learned about these racing dogs and their survival tugged at me like spring mud pulling at my boots. I knew that life was revealed mostly in shades of gray, but my upbringing had also taught me that certain issues were black or white, right or wrong. Killing healthy dogs in the prime of their life because they don't make enough money is wrong. When you have the chance to right a wrong, in whatever small or large way, you have a duty to step up and do it. But if that was the source of my conflicted feelings, I could simply volunteer to help with fund-raisers.
My attraction to greyhounds was something much deeper than duty. From the first time I saw Lance, sunlight sparking off his smooth coat while he calmly surveyed the world around him, my gut detected an attitude, a wisdom — an aura, if you will — that was Zen-like. I was left with the impression that Lance did not waste any thought or effort trying to correct the past, because he was too busy enjoying the moment. The softness of his eyes whenever he leaned for comfort against Maggie was proof he had moved on. That Lance could so obviously love a human being after being treated like a piece of meat was profoundly touching.
My head told me one thing, but my heart fought back. One evening, as I sat in my recliner weighing the pros and cons for the hundredth time, I wearily thought, Oh, to hell with this. I tossed a sleeping pill into my mouth and took a sip of water to wash it down. For some reason a quote by Henry David Thoreau flashed into my mind: "To be awake is to be alive ... We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn." That sudden thought rattled me. It made me realize how desperately I wanted, needed, to believe that the sun would keep coming up every morning. And I had a very strong hunch that these greyhounds could help.
"I guess it wouldn't hurt to take a look," I said to the walls.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Comet's Tale"
by .
Copyright © 2012 Steven D. Wolf.
Excerpted by permission of ALGONQUIN BOOKS OF CHAPEL HILL.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
What People are Saying About This
“Absolutely delightful! A very good book about a human whose life is transformed by a greyhound. Makes me want to adopt a greyhound right away!” —Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson, author of Dogs Never Lie About Love
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