SEGA once posted this picture of an adoptable dog.
I lost my heart.
And my mind.
Stat K Sam was a two-year old breed snob with a monster prey drive. (Sam's slogan: If it's not a grown greyhound, it's dinner.)
I owned Oreo at the time and was fostering. I couldn't just dump my foster and snatch up Sam, so Sam went to a foster home where they were looking for a dog to compete in agility with their other greyhound. They soon began to worry that omnivorous Sam, off-leash during an agility run, might go after another dog. And Sam really wasn't agility material: he ran into a tree in their front yard.
Meanwhile, another SEGA member fell in love with my foster. I let her take him home, and I "volunteered" to foster Sam so his then-foster-parents could hunt for another agility dog. We all swapped dogs, and I brought Sam home. That was 5 October 2002.
Oreo was horrified. She put up with the other foster dogs, but Sam was crazy and had no off switch. And he totally ignored warning growls from her. He'd look away from her--not confrontational at all--and continue to do whatever was annoying her...like using her as a pillow:
After Oreo died, Sam welcomed Jacey, who let him pretend to be the boss for about four days before she corrected his delusion. But even she was patient with him when he turned her into a pillow:
Jacey's gone, and now there's Silver--who doesn't tolerate Sam very well yet. (Just wait till cold weather. That's when Sam's pillow-maneuvers really get going.) We have had one almost-cuddly occasion--but Sam was on the bottom. And asleep:
Sam's prey drive has never slackened. I used to have a bird feeder outside my living room window. Sam would look out the window at the birds and squirrels, and he was fine with that. But one day there was a cat outside. Sam screamed, reared back, and put his foot through the glass. Fortunately, he didn't hurt himself (and he thoroughly scared the cat).
I got the window fixed, then bolted Plexiglas to the inside of the window frame. The cat came back. Sam threw himself at the Plexiglas, bounced off(!), threw himself at it again, bounced again, and I got to him before his third attempt. I got rid of the bird feeder.
These days, as a nice old man (he's 11--born 10 May 2000), Sam's prey drive is tempered by the knowledge that Mom isn't going to let him eat squirrels, birds, and other dogs. Sam mostly just drools at the sight of dinner-on-the-hoof, and walking Sam no longer is like walking a hooked marlin. (Mea culpa: I stole that descriptive phrase from another source.)
Sam still loves squeaky toys,
He's a complete mama's boy, and I love him to pieces.