The Return of the Corn Dog

Several years ago I attended a seminar at a greyhound gathering where Dr. Couto (aka greyhound cancer Yoda) talked about a variety of illnesses and injuries that plague our breed. He had a course of treatment for everything he talked about except the only one I cared about at the time - corns. Evidently, little rock formations on the bottom greyhound feet continue to baffle modern veterinary medicine. 

We've tried everything to keep Seka comfortable when it comes to her feet. What started as a corn on one back foot, quickly became one on each back foot. Now we have a total of four corns, one for each foot because we can't leave any appendage out.

The corns on her back two feet caused her a lot of trouble. She didn't want to walk when those cropped up. We used Therapaws when we went on walks or were out and about, but she never liked wearing them. I fully believe that she knew people and other dogs were staring - and they were.

We did the whole duct tape thing, wart remover, the cold sore remover, vitamins, the natural cream with the baggies treatment - you name it we tried it. We ended up turning to laser surgery on both of those back pads to cut the corn out as deep as possible. While the recovery was not fun and it took FOREVER, it did improve her mobility and now the corns are very shallow and I can just pick the hard area right off the top of the toe. It's more like a scab or scar tissue than a deep corn.

For her front feet, I regularly use the same method Genji's Corner uses with their corn dogs to remove the corn as deep as possible from her paw pads. This seems to make her more comfortable, well at least I thought it did.

On her front feet, the corns are so big around and so deep it is almost like removing the entire pad from that toe. She is left with a giant crevasse on the bottom of both of her front feet. Seka HATES it when I remove those corns from her front feet. I mean, shows her teeth and gives me little growls (which are kinda cute but I know she means business). I guess I'd hate it too if someone was digging at me with an icepick. But I figured walking without rocks in your feet must be more comfortable than walking with rocks in your feet.

This picture does not do this corn justice. 

This summer I was lazy when it came to her corns. I absolutely let her pads go. One day I realized that she was walking better than I had seen her in a long time. She is still a bit gimpy on that back hip, but she was solid on her front feet and putting good weight on all four limbs - which is huge for any corn dog. I looked at her feet and the size and shape of the corns on the front of her feet were truly shocking. There are little mountains growing off the bottoms of her feet and one even protrudes out a bit from the bottom of the foot pad when she is standing.

I'm sure what I'm about to say qualifies me for greyhound jail, but despite the size of these boulders on her toes, I didn't do anything to her front feet. I just left the corns alone. I figure if she starts limping, I'll grab the trusty root elevator and remove them. But for now, she seems just fine on those front feet, even on hard surfaces! I am curious to see how big these might get or if they will just fall off at some point. There's no doubt in my mind, Seka would win a biggest corn contest. 

I guess the best medicine might be to leave them alone. Maybe that's what Dr. Couto was saying after all. But next time you see us, ask to see her corns. You'll be shocked for sure. 

P.S. If you're like me (let's hope you're not) and you like to get all of your news through Facebook, I started a special Greytblackdog Facebook page. While you'll find the latest blog posts linked there, I try to add spice up the content throughout the week with tidbits from my girls. Take a minute and use the link on the right of this page to like GBD on Facebook and we'll show up in your news feed. 

Table Manners

My mother and grandmother were sticklers on table manners. I even had to go to a White Gloves and Manners class when I was in the 4th grade. No lie, this is what it was called. I learned, among other things: how to properly sip soup from a spoon, how to cut my meat and butter my bread without offending others and how to set a table for a formal dinner party with all sorts of plates and silverware. Little did I know that when you grow up, the only women who throw dinner parties with that much flatware and china have a net worth of $1 million. What I wish I had learned is how to throw a dinner party for 10 and spend under $50.

During the week, I cook no more than three times a week and I try to serve at least one meal at the dining room table. The rest of the time we eat at the island bar in the kitchen. The dining room table is actually in the kitchen, so I'm not sure why we just don't move over five feet and sit in a real chair instead of a stool, but we don't.

Oh, wait a minute. Yes, I do know why we don't. My mangerie has the worst table manners in the world. I know it is my fault that they are always underfoot while we are eating at the table or, in the case of the cats, on top of the table. I can't complain about what I allow, so I've decided to start putting up the baby gate to keep the savages away from the gourmet meals I prepare. Maybe they will get the picture or at least make a better attempt at not being so annoying while we enjoy our food.

I'm not sure if they will pass my greyhound White Paws and Manners Class, but maybe they can learn to keep their elbows off the table.

Water Bugging?

In the South we call roaches, "water bugs"mostly because they seem to show up in your house when there's a lack of rain and we think they are searching for water. This is just a polite term that I'm convinced that some Southern woman came up with as to not offend her neighbor. You know it can be rather rude when your host opens up a cabinet to reach for a glass and one of them big ole' "water bugs"crawls out and you scream roach. You only call them roaches when they are present due to poor housekeeping.

Lately, Seka has spent more time with all four feet up in the air lately than I think she ever has.  Who can blame her? With 100 degree temperatures daily everyone moves at a snail's pace. And since she is a Southern dog, I prefer to refer to her position as "water bugging" instead of that nasty creature, the roach. Maybe we'll start a trend - at least for those greyhounds below the Mason Dixon line.

Hidey-Hole

Tub Safety

It has been well documented that Roxy is a thunder-phobe. When we are at home, she hunkers down in our bathroom floor, face on the air conditioning vent, thinking good thoughts until the storm clears. I break out the soothing storm music and aroma therapy on exceptionally rowdy storms for added "protection." And for afternoons where the storms just keep coming without a break - as they sometimes do here in the south - we have drugs to help her get through it. On those afternoons, I wish I had drugs to get through it too, but that's another story.

We have that home routine down cold, but when we travel Roxy has to decide where she feels safest. Anywhere dark and cold is her usual go-to location. While staying in our mountain house during the week of July 4th, weather dog Roxy struggled to find just the right place to feel safe during the regular afternoon boomers.

Seka could care less about the storm.
Bonus, she gets all the Kongs!

Thunder in the mountains is exceptionally loud. Even small rumbles often feel like they are right on top of you. Add that to the redneck fireworks display each evening and Roxy looked like she needed a drink. Finally, she decided that the actual bathtub with the shower curtain pulled most of the way shut was the best place to be. Every afternoon around 3p, whether the weather was stormy or not, she would retreat to the bathtub hidey-hole and take cover until we went to bed, only coming out for a brief dinner and a potty.


I tried to make her come out, but the more I fussed with her, the more upset she got, so I just let her spend time in the tub if that's what she wanted to do. I was afraid that this psycho behavior would carry over when we got home, but so far she's been pretty normal - whatever that is for Roxy.

Pie in the Sky

I've got a few recipes up my sleeve that make me look like a genius in the kitchen. In no particular order: 
1. my mother-in-law's meatballs
2. my sister's crock pot chicken & dumplings
3. my mother's lasagna

No shock, all three recipes actually belong to someone else and I just borrow their awesomeness. No one will ever say - "Heather's Crap Baked in the Oven makes me look like I should be on Top Chef." I can be certain of that.

This week, I've been having fun with two of my favorite aunts and my mom in the mountains of North Carolina. Days are spent visiting old folks who are still hanging around Boone. Evenings are spent cooking, drinking wine and laughing at just about everything. Tonight was no exception.

While I was looking like a genius in the kitchen, preparing my mother-in-law's meatballs and sauce, my aunt started talking about a pie her mother made that used Ritz crackers, but tasted like apple pie. I called B.S. on this. A Google consultation proved that there is indeed an apple phenomenon created by a whole bunch of sugar, a pie crust and some buttery crackers.

Well, it just so happened that I had a box of Ritz crackers (the secret ingredient in the meatballs) just waiting to be used up. Someone grabbed their car keys and scooted off to the grocery and came back with a pie crust. You know what happened next...

When it went into the oven it looked like a pie - not an apple pie, but some sort of pie.

When it came out of the oven, it smelled like a freaking apple pie. But that's just the smell of the cinnamon, right?

When we sliced it, it looked like an apple pie. No lie.

When you taste it - Holy Shit! It's Apple Pie.

We know that this dessert has been called a few different things since the mid-19th century when it was first published by the early American pioneers. I think my profanity-laden exclamation after my first taste prompted a discussion of what someone might have said when they first took a bite throughout the years...

1950s - Oh, my! That's apple pie
1960s - Dude, that's apple pie
1970s - What have you been smokin', that's apple pie
1980s - Like, that's totally apple pie-like.
1990s - Well, I guess it depends on how you define apples... pie
2000s - E-mail me that recipe for apple pie
2012s - Holy Shit! It's apple pie (my personal favorite because it is exactly what you'll be thinking when you taste it)

Give it a try. If it makes you look like a Food Network star, all the better.

Mock Apple Pie (a.k.a. Heather's Holy Shit, It's Apple Pie!)
Ingredients:
2 cups of sugar
2 tsp. cream of tartar
1 3/4 cups water
2 tbsp lemon juice and zest from that lemon
1 package of ready-to-use refrigerated pie crust (2 crusts)
36 RITZ Crackers, coarsely broken
2 tbsp butter or margarine, cut into small pieces
1/2 tsp cinnamon

Directions:
Mix sugar and cream of tartar in a medium saucepan. Gradually stir in water. Bring to boil on high heat.  Then simmer on low heat for 5 minutes or until the mixture is reduced to 1.5 cups. Stir in zest and juice; cool for 30 minutes.

Pre-heat oven to 425ºF. Roll out one of the pie crusts and place in 9-inch pie plate. Put cracker crumbs in the crust. Pour sugar syrup over crumbs and top with butter and cinnamon.

Roll out the remaining crust and place over the pie. Seal and flue the edges. Cut several slits in the top of the crust to permit steam to escape.

Bake 30 to 35 minutes or until golden brown. Cool before serving.

Breakdown

When I'm getting ready to go out of town I make lots of lists. Chores to do in the house. Things to gather for the dogs. Stuff to pack for the cats. Things to tell the house sitter. Clothes to pack for myself. Despite all of the lists I usually forget something. And while throwing out the milk that would go bad while I'm gone was on my list - throwing out everything in the fridge and freezer was not.

This is the second time since we purchased the fridge 11 years ago that it has crapped out on us. The first time I tried to salvage as much as I could in a giant cooler, but ended up throwing away everything anyway. This time, I didn't have a choice. With the exception of three packs of chicken backs still frozen enough for the dogs, most everything was toast. I guess when it's 117 degrees out, things don't last long in the ice box no matter how cool you keep your house.

We hadn't restocked the fridge since our Chicago trip eight days ago and we rarely keep anything in the freezer other than dog food and a few frozen dinners. So trashing everything wasn't as painful as it could have been. And at least it happened while I was still here and not tomorrow when everything would stink up the place after a week without cold. Now it will just stink up the trash can for the next week. I won't be here to smell it. I hope the raccoons leave it alone.

The girls did their part in helping clean out the fridge. I stuffed their Kongs with some roast beef, which kept them busy and their nose out of the trash as I cleaned. Roxy is so polite I can just hand her slices without fear of losing my finger. Seka on the other hand, may not have many teeth, but she still finds a way to chomp on my fingers.

Got Milk?

Every morning for breakfast until I graduated from high school, my father made my breakfast. Whatever he served up was accompanied by a glass of milk. Sometimes white. Sometimes chocolate. I've found that in the world there are two types of people - those who love milk and those who don't. I'm one of those people who like milk and so is Kev, so we keep it in the house at all times.

Guess who else likes milk - a lot. Greyhounds. Well, at least my greyhounds do. We cannot open the container of milk without the girls going bananas begging for a taste. I'm not sure if milk is good for them or not. It doesn't bother their tummies. It doesn't cause the big D. It doesn't cause gas - well, no worse than what they normally have. So, when we have a glass of milk, we save a bit at the bottom for them to have and they love it. 

Greyhounds get milk mustaches too. Well, Roxy gets milk mustaches.

On a side note, I've started a blog dedicated to my running exploits. I thought about combining the two, but I didn't think that readers who want to read about cute greyhound stuff would also want to hear about my morning run. When Roxy starts heading out with me, the two blogs will cross paths, but for now, I think keeping them separate is best. If you are curious, here's my running blog - Run One Run All.