Until one has loved an animal a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.
~Anatole France

Experience fostering retired racing dogs led my husband and me to believe we could handle anything. Yet nothing prepared us for what padded into our lives the day we adopted Ray.

Steve and I had inquired about a sleek, handsome boy who sported a black-and-white tuxedo coat. Retired due to injury, he had transferred into foster care almost immediately. Within two short weeks of house training, he pranced through our door.

Ray had no other place to go. Behind his sweet face lurked a dark and damaged soul. An atypical Greyhound, Ray possessed an aggressive nature. Wide-eyed and fearful, his strong prey-drive kicked into overdrive during his foster care with other pets, and he created havoc. Desperate to find him a home and not deliver Ray to the farm, the adoption agency rushed him to our door when we offered to adopt. Our experience with Greyhounds and a home without children or other animals made us perfect candidates, and we were his refuge of last resort.

Ray pranced around our house. He tried to understand the enormous world he now lived in, a strange one compared to the confined quarters he had known for so long. Adjustment would take time, but his inexperience, and apparently ours as well, made coexistence interesting.

Patience and training with any new pet is important, but with Ray, it was vital. He tested our limits and tried our patience in every way possible. He did not respond to commands, love, encouragement, or food. He had no idea what we expected of him. In fact, he had no idea that he was a pet, or that he even had a name. Like an alien from another planet, he had no concept of life in our world. He had known only the racetrack, so he sped around our back yard with a crazed look that shouted, “This is what you want from me — to race and to win — right?” And so a new and challenging journey began for all of us.

In a large, scary world, fear manifested in bursts of rage. Ray’s hostility coupled with separation anxiety and antisocial behavior were a recipe for disaster. He literally threw himself at the window whenever anyone approached our home. In a canine frenzy, he scratched at windows and doors whenever we left the house. Concerned for his safety and the condition of our home, we crated him. But he resisted and attempted to bust free, so leaving our home became increasingly problematic. The stress we encountered as a result of the stress our dog endured overwhelmed us.

Then things got worse.

We had adopted Ray in the heart of the recession. Two weeks after welcoming him into our family, I lost my job, and then Steve lost his. Now three worried individuals paced anxiously through the sanctuary of our loving home. Our burdens consumed us. Steve and I no longer had any idea how to alleviate the mounting bills or threats to our sanity. Still, we focused on the positive. Time not working provided additional time to teach Ray about life in a house.

Eight weeks after adopting our dog, we hung our heads in defeat, ready to send him back. Ray had consumed our attention 24/7, showing minimal improvement and unabated anger. He attacked the window blinds for obstructing his view, the coffee table for daring to be in his way, and the baby gate for barring his entry. By the end of the second month with Ray, our frazzled nerves had stretched to the breaking point. We discussed alternatives and realized we had only one: returning Ray to the adoption agency, where he would most likely be put down.

“Do we call first thing in the morning or give him another week?” I whispered to Steve. His eyes filled with tears. He shrugged. The question tormented us. We decided to give Ray one more day and then make the call. We saw no other option. Ray was too aggressive to enroll in obedience training and too unpredictable to leave home alone. He’d shown slight improvement — at last, he knew his name — but little will to change, and his aggression persisted. The quality of life for all of us had deteriorated. Something had to give.

I knelt down beside Ray that night, hugging him tight. Tears stained my face as I whispered into his ear. “Please, Ray, please try harder. You must be good tomorrow, or we’ll have to send you back. We want you to stay, but you have to want it, too!”

As if my words had struck a chord of meaning deep within him, the next morning Ray’s attitude was transformed. Calm and mindful, he came when called and responded to commands. He still had a long way to go, but now exhibited a willingness to learn and behave. All that training had sunk in. Steve and I breathed easier each day that Ray improved. If he was willing to keep trying, we owed it to him, and to ourselves, to do the same.

Within a month, we had found work, and Crazy Ray no longer tore at doors, windows, and blinds when we left the house. We trusted him home alone, knowing no harm would befall him or our possessions.

Like training, socialization played a huge role in his development, and Ray evolved into a socialite. When he padded through the pet store door to attend a meet-and-greet, it was like Norm walking into a bar of welcoming cheers. Everyone would call out “Ray!”

Ray grinned at the smiling faces, and other dogs rushed forward, dragging their owners along to ask, “So, how’s Mr. Personality today?” The group recognized the change in our dog, and pats on his back for all that he had accomplished felt like a tribute to all of us.

After retirement, Ray still needed a purpose in life, and he found it in guarding our home and being a loyal, loving companion. He also provided comic relief with his never-ending funny faces and attempts to pilfer food. In the process, he earned a few nicknames: Corned Beef Thief, Baklava Bandit, and Strawberry Stealer.

Sweet Baby Ray entered our lives at a time when we needed him most. We taught him how to thrive in our world, and he taught us how to focus our attention on something tangible and valuable, rather than on failure. We three became a family. Ray learned to open up and love, and with a huge heart, he loved us with all of it.

Despite a difficult beginning, Ray’s time with us ended too soon. Losing him to illness at age seven tore a hole in our souls that still hurts, but we remain grateful for our time with him. Ray taught us a great deal about endurance — to never give up on ourselves or those we love — and to give new members of our family a chance to find their place.

— Cate Bronson —