My Love for Ultrarunning

By Michelle Barton

Do or do not. There is no "try."
~Jedi Master Yoda

I was only three years old when my dad (Doug Malewicki) took me on my first overnight backpacking trip to San Gorgonio Mountain. I can still remember hiking up the Vivian Creek Trail carrying my bright orange backpack filled with a jacket and a stuffed animal. One trip, that's all it took for the mountains to get in my blood.

Every summer, my dad and I took weeklong backpacking trips to Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite National Park. I loved every aspect of hiking different trails and living outside in nature.

Fast forward three decades later. I continued the tradition that my dad began. It was August 2002 and my daughter Sierra, who I named after my favorite mountain range, was two and a half years old. My dad and I took Sierra on her first backpacking trip to the Minarets in Mammoth, California. Every summer since, Sierra, my dad and I have gone on hiking trips together. We have hiked the John Muir Trail and all over Tuolumne Meadows. It is one of my dreams to run the 211-mile John Muir trail.

I was drawn to trail running after my daughter Sierra was born a decade ago. My dad bought me a jogging stroller. I used it every day until the tires were completely bald. My dad encouraged me to sign up for a Winter Trail Running Series. The WTRS consists of trail races every other Saturday in the Cleveland National Forest. The race series starts with a 12K in January and culminates with the 50K in March. The San Juan Trail 50K was my first ultra in March of 2003. I was immediately hooked on the ultramarathon distance.

In December 2004, I had a minor setback when I broke my left ankle (fibula) on a 22-mile training run. After being in a hard cast and crutches for two months I was ready to get back to running and training. I became friends with Dean Karnazes that year. Dean's book Ultramarathon Man: Confessions of an All-Night Runner inspired me like nothing else. I wanted to get faster, train harder and do my best at races. I started incorporating mountain biking and swimming into my training regime. Crosstraining is my secret weapon for helping me recover from racing and winning ultras on back to back weekends for over a month straight.

From 2000 until 2010, I have accumulated forty ultramarathon wins and more than a dozen trail marathon wins and even a handful of half-marathon and 10K wins. I won more ultramarathons than any man or woman in 2007. I broke five course records over a six-week time period. My course record streak in 2007 consisted of four 50Ks and one 50-miler. The one week in between that I did not race, I ran 75 miles over Memorial Day weekend with Gordy Ainsleigh, the founder of the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run. The Western States trail is one of my most favorite trails in the world. It is so beautiful. Thanks to Gordy Ainsleigh, who was the first person to ever run the Western States 100-mile race in 1974, we are able to experience running 100 miles from Squaw Valley to Auburn on the Western States trail. The amazing Winged God, Gordy is one of my best friends. I paced him at the Western States 100 in 2006 and 2007 and plan to do so again in 2010.

My dad got me interested in trail running and in return I got my dad interested in running ultramarathons. My dad has run many 50K races. My dad even ran 70 miles to celebrate his 70th birthday. His motto for the three-day event was that famous quote from Jedi Master Yoda in Star Wars, "Do or do not. There is no 'try.'"

On January 23, 2010, three generations of my family toed the line at the Winter Trail Running Series 15K race. Sierra, age ten, finished the 9.2-mile trail race with over 3,500 feet of vertical ascent in 1:54. She won first place for all male and female competitors under age nineteen. She even beat her grandpa by 12 minutes.

I can picture our ancestors looking down on us and wondering why modern day humans would choose to run 30, 50, 100 or more miles just for the pleasure and pure challenge. I am grateful to use my mind and body to run trails and feel free like a wild horse roaming, racing and exploring beautiful trails with forests, meadows, peaks and valleys.

You are a rich person if you experience trail running. Different trails have different personas. Some are nasty and rocky and steep. Some are sweet and smooth as sugar. Races can keep things exciting and new. There are so many trails to explore and so many new races to run to keep the sport exciting.


Ultrarunning makes you truly live in the moment, one step at a time. It takes you down to the basics. Drink, eat and perpetual forward motion. You experience the highest highs, the lowest lows and everything in between. The people, the pain, the challenge, the struggle and the achievement makes it all worth it.

The bond that develops between runners is unmatched in most human endeavors. In the longer events we sometimes suffer together. I truly consider my ultra friends part of my family.

My best trail running moment was a few years ago when I won the Javelina Jundred 100-mile race in 19 hours and 42 minutes. Everything clicked and it was magic! In 2006 and 2007 I won the Orange Curtain 100K, the Twin Peaks 50K, and the Orange Curtain 50K and I beat ALL the GUYS at all three events! That was AWESOME!! The ultrarunning guys don't seem to mind getting "chicked" by me.

The greatest advice I have to give to someone who wants to start running ultras is to never stop believing in yourself. Remain tough, stay strong, and prove the naysayers wrong. Since I started running ultramarathons in 2003, I am more confident that I have ever been. I can run 100 miles in under twenty hours, and therefore I feel that I am capable of doing anything that I set my mind to, if I want it bad enough.

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Finding the Right House

By Ruth Zimberg

Everything is in the hands of heaven, except the fear of heaven.
~The Talmud

"Got your cellphone? Glasses? Wallet? ID?" I asked.

"What are you doing, a pre-flight check?" my husband Avraham smiled. "Can we please get going? You've got to get to your interview before I go to see my patient at one o'clock."

"Right. Got your medical bag?"

"Check."

Even years after moving from North America, we still loved the half-hour drive to Jerusalem. The blue sky above the rocky mountains, the trees, and the ascent to the Holy City always filled us with gratitude for the privilege of living in Israel. My eyes drank in the greenery like an invigorating tonic.

As we sped along, Avraham commented, "Every day is an adventure here. I really do appreciate that everything is meant to be. Before coming to Israel, I knew that, but here I experience it every day."

We approached our favorite part of the journey, just past Mevasseret Tzion, where a panoramic view of Jerusalem suddenly appears above the roadway. Before we knew it, we were at the entrance to the city. We had made good time and arrived at my meeting with time to spare.

After my interview, I met Avraham at our favorite Angel's Bakery Café. Avraham ordered his daily dose of iced coffee and a bag of fresh, whole wheat bagels. Glancing at the clock, I suggested we get going to see his patient.

Avraham had received a request to make a house call at the home of an elderly woman in Jerusalem. Her daughter had called the day before to arrange the appointment. As there are very few podiatrists in Israel, Avraham would travel all over the country to see patients requiring specialized foot care. He searched his pockets for the slip of paper on which he had written the address. He checked his medical bag, his notebook, and even the bag of fresh bagels. The note was nowhere to be found.

"I don't believe it! I must have left the address and phone number at home."

I sighed to myself in frustration as I realized our "pre-flight check" had been incomplete.

"Do you remember any part of the address?" I asked.

"I remember that there was a 17 in it, because it was part of my birth date."

"Do you know the street name?"

"No. Just that it's in this neighborhood."

I had heard the family name mentioned briefly the day before and recalled that it sounded European. "Let's try looking at building number 17 on this street and see if the mailboxes list any familiar sounding names," I offered.

Avraham agreed. "I guess it's worth a try. We are already here."

We scanned the listings at number 17, but all of the names were Israeli. We tried two more nearby buildings without success.

"This is like looking for a needle in a haystack," I complained.

"Well, since we are already in the city, let's try one last building," Avraham suggested, as he whispered a prayer for God's help in finding the right house.

We wearily approached the entrance to an apartment house down another street and noticed all of the European occupant names. Taking this as a good sign, we entered the lobby and climbed the stairs. We encountered a young boy who informed us that indeed an elderly couple lived next door to their married daughter in the building.

We quickly went up to the first landing and knocked on a door covered with children's art. I recognized the woman as a teacher from an educational workshop I had taught.

"What a small world," I remarked. "We know one another from teaching, and now my husband is here to see your mother. Where does she live?"

"My parents live right next door," she replied, pointing the way down the hallway.

We proceeded to the neighboring apartment where an elderly gentleman answered the door. Avraham announced that he was the foot specialist whom their daughter had called. The delighted man warmly welcomed us. The couple had recently arrived from South Africa and were so pleased to find an English-speaking doctor who made house calls. The wife suffered from a variety of ailments which made it difficult for her to travel to a clinic. She sat in a reclining chair, her bare feet ready to be examined.

Avraham took a detailed medical history and conducted a thorough examination. After treating her and suggesting appropriate follow-up care, he packed his bag and we departed.


Moments later, as we buckled our seatbelts, we laughed about actually finding the house despite the incredible odds. "We certainly had some help from 'upstairs' on this one!" Avraham exclaimed.

As we were about to pull out of the parking lot, the daughter came rushing up to our car. She could hardly contain herself. "Thank you for coming to help my mother." Then she added, "But I have to ask. How did you know to come to see her? After you left, my father came over to thank me for calling you. I told him that I hadn't called. I thought he had called."

Avraham and I stared at each other. It was the wrong house!

Or was it?

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A New Best Friend

By Dina A. Leacock

Cheerfulness is what greases the axles of the world. Don't go through life creaking.
~H.W. Byles

Thirty years ago I'd wake up all too often engulfed in raw, jagged emotions. My life was so full of unhappiness and yet I was only thirty. I hated my job, I couldn't get out of debt, I didn't care much for a lot of the people I called friends, and half my family had just died in a car accident.

The only ray of sunshine on a dark horizon was my relationship with Tom, and as much as I loved him, I needed more than love to lift me out of my depression.

As I sat home, my leg in a cast after I broke my ankle, smoking a pack of cigarettes a day and watching repeats of old TV shows, I wondered how I'd ever gotten to this point. "I need to change my entire life," I said to Tom over dinner.

"Why?"

I stared at him. "Can't you see I'm in a rut so deep that if it rains I'm going to drown?"

He nodded. "That is an awfully extreme way of looking at it, but yes, you have been sad since the accident."

Sad? I wanted to scream, sad is how you feel when you lose a contest or your puppy runs away. This is so much more than sad. "I'm despondent!"

He nodded. "What can we do about it? Want to go away for the weekend?"

I always wanted to go away, but this time I knew that leaving wasn't the answer. I couldn't run away from myself. "We can go to the shore after I get the cast off in two weeks but for now, whatever my problem is, I have to figure it out myself."

The two weeks came and went and I was cast-free and back to work but still unhappy. As the months passed, I got a grip on my mourning and was able to accept the deaths of my brother and sister-in-law.

When summer arrived I had two and a half months off. Away from the teaching job I hated more than anything, I decided to take stock of my life. Sure I'd had some really harsh breaks, starting most recently with my broken ankle. It had been my own fault playing kickball with my students in three-inch heels and I was stuck with a bum ankle that wasn't healing well. I was still missing my family members who were gone. My pay was so low I was broke and in debt, never quite able to pay off my credit cards. Most of all I hated my life and I guess that meant I wasn't too fond of myself.

But there was also some good in my life. Tom was always there for me. He loved me and supported me even though I was such a downer to be around. I was lucky to have a job and although the pay was considerably less than the other area school districts, it still paid for my car and apartment and my occasional trips to the shore. I still had my parents, my sister and my nephew.

"If I'm ever going to be happy, it will be up to me," I said to myself in total disgust. "I'm going to change my life because no one is going to charge up on that white steed and do it for me."

Yes, the job made me unhappy, but I was just going to have to deal with that. It was only a job. It didn't have to come home at night and I really did enjoy working with my students. I forced myself to detach from the problems of a corrupt urban school district and inept administration. With Tom's help, I stopped constantly talking about the events that were so disruptive to my existence.


Slowly, I began relating the things that happened at work as humorous stories. Sure, I embellished a bit here and there, but I started making the people around me laugh, including my students and co-workers. Then I started laughing as well, looking forward to the evenings to share my day with Tom. I began writing stories, in the beginning thinly veiled tales from work, but soon I didn't need that any more. I had found a way to tolerate and even sort of enjoy going into work every day. As time went on, I married Tom, left the horrid job and had my own children who supplied me with so many stories, I just had to keep writing and actually ended up penning a column about my family for nine years.

As I changed my life, cleared out the people who weren't good for me to have around and tried to surround myself with real friends and things that made me happy, I also changed myself. It was a long, difficult process but throughout it all, I learned how to be happier, even though bad things still happen in life. Best of all, I really learned to like myself in the process.

Life is a series of bad and good, but it can be easier when you face it with a good friend you can always depend upon, especially if that good friend is yourself.

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Christmas Grace

By Mary Z. Smith

You are excellent of men and your lips have been anointed with grace, since God has blessed you forever.
~Psalm 45:2

Snow continued its determined onslaught outside the assisted living facility windows. By late evening, I grew anxious about how the roads would be when I headed home. It was the week before Christmas. I should have been on my way home by now. The evening receptionist who was scheduled to relieve me had phoned to say she'd been unable to get her car started. Why was I the unlucky one stuck behind a receptionist's desk when I should have been home sipping hot cocoa and decorating the Christmas tree?

The telephone shrilled. Answering a little grouchily, I heard a man's voice. "Is this Avis rental car?"

I tried to remain calm. "No, I'm afraid our phone number here at the assisted living facility is one digit different than Avis. Let me give you that number so you don't have to look it up again." Sighing, I quickly glanced at the familiar number of the car rental company on the pad of paper in front of me. I finished giving the gentleman the number, wishing him a Merry Christmas. Just as I was about to hang up, I heard his voice in midair.

"Wait a minute please!"

"Yes?"

"I know this must sound insane, but I have to ask: do you believe in miracles?"

I sat straighter in my chair, startled at such a question from a total stranger.

"Definitely; why do you ask?"

"I'll try to make a long story short. My parents recently passed away in a car accident. I have no one left in the world but a grandmother somewhere in Virginia who I haven't seen since I was little. An uncle placed my grandmother in an assisted living facility when he grew too ill to care for her any longer. He's gone on to heaven as well. I have to ask -- do you happen to have a Grace Sheperd at your facility?"

My heart beat faster as I recognized the familiar name. I pictured the gentleman holding his breath on the other end while I listened to the pinging sound of the icy precipitation pelting the window to my right.

"Are you still there?" he asked finally.

"Yes, I'm here. I wish I could give you the information you're after. I'm afraid there's a privacy policy that prohibits me from answering. The director of the facility will be in her office on Monday morning, however."

"I understand your responsibility in protecting the residents." The young man sounded so sad. "Thank you for your time, and Merry Christmas!"

"Wait!"

"Yes?"

"Virginia is a beautiful state to visit at Christmas time! Let me give you our address in case you happen to be traveling through our area any time soon!"

"Bless you!"

Christmas Eve I arrived at work earlier than usual. Christmas lights twinkled on the decorated trees up and down the hallways. Carols drifted from beneath a resident's closed door as I delivered the morning papers.

I was passing Grace Sheperd's room when I suddenly froze in place. Grace sat in her usual rocking chair, her Bible open in her lap. Seated on the stool directly in front of her was a handsome young man with curly dark hair. His hand gently clasped Grace's as she read The Christmas Story.

Suddenly Grace spotted me. "Paul, here's the woman who helped you find me! Mary, please come and meet my grandson, Paul!"

I hurried inside as tears clouded my vision. The young man slowly rose to his feet, taking my hands in his.

"How can I ever thank you for leading me to my grandmother?" Shaking my head, I attempted to talk around the enormous lump in my throat.

"We both know it was a Christmas miracle!"

"Yes it was... Merry Christmas!"


"Merry Christmas, Paul. Merry Christmas, Grace!"

Making my way back to the reception area, I sent a silent prayer heavenward.

"Father, now I know why I was meant to stay late the other night. Thank you for the miracle of Christmas and for your abiding grace.... Paul's Grace too!"

I couldn't help smiling. It was going to be a glorious Christmas!

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She Tricked Me!

By Caitlin Q. Bailey O'Neill

Mirror, mirror on the wall, I am my mother after all.
~Author Unknown

My mother tricked me. And not just me. She tricked my sister and brother as well. In the midst of three children and an additional half dozen or so in an at-home daycare, she had the nerve -- the audacity -- to absolutely fool us into leading healthy lives.

Sure, we were allowed two cookies after dinner. But she had us convinced that we didn't need the Sugar-Frosted Chocolate Krispie Gems calling out to us from the cereal aisle. We had something better.

We had "fruit plates."

Arranged on a brightly colored plastic plate would be a yogurt, an apple and a peach, sliced and rationed among the troops, and a handful of crackers or pretzels. Sometimes there'd be toast or half of a sandwich. And man, were we thrilled.

Fruit plates offered a brief respite from the "well-balanced" healthy meals we were forced to enjoy as a family at roughly 5:12 p.m. every single day. Fruit plates could be enjoyed at 4:30 p.m. when an elementary school open house beckoned at 5:30 p.m., or even after 6:30 p.m. on the days when soccer ran late. Fruit plates were the rebellion against the norm.

It wasn't until I tried to pass off a bagel, a handful of raspberries, and an apple as dinner for my ravenous husband that it hit me like a brick wall.

Fruit plates were the result of a woman who, once in a blue moon, didn't have time to cook a full meal in the midst of running a household, running a daycare, and running after three kids. One last-ditch effort to pull together a meal that satisfied the food pyramid.

And that woman made us think it was a treat.

Sneaky.

She probably even made us go to bed before ten so we'd be awake in school and stay on the honor roll. I wouldn't put it past her.

My mother probably knew what was best for me all along, and what's worse, she probably did what was best for me every day.

And here I am now, making fruit plates. And turning into my mom in other ways too. When I remind my sister to write down all her credit card numbers and phone numbers in case her wallet's stolen, I get it. After telling my collegiate brother to be careful at a party, the response taunts me: "Thanks, Mom."

Anyone who has ever met my mother has been let in on the secret mantra, which they then joyfully recite for their own entertainment: "You are your mother's daughter."

It's worse, though, and I don't know if anyone but me and my all-knowing mother know the extent of just how bad it is.

I am my mother.

I already type up lists of emergency phone numbers -- and laminate those lists before posting them on the refrigerator. I can't stand crossing out dates on the calendar and instead take the extra seventeen minutes to locate the Wite-Out. I worry when my husband or siblings are out late and forget to call. Christmas isn't complete without a tree in every single room.

And the prognosis? Incurable. My affliction will only get worse.


Someday, I'll hang every hand-drawn picture on the fridge, and a framed drawing of a stick-people family will sit on my mantle long after the artist has gone off to college. I'll feel the need to sit in the bleachers at every basketball game and hang up posters for every school play.

Someday, I'll trick innocent young children into believing that crackers, a cut-up apple, and a peach yogurt is a treat.

Someday, I'll be the sneaky mom I was blessed to have.

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The Votes Are In

By Marsha Porter

Oh, my friend, it's not what they take away from you that counts. It's what you do with what you have left.
~Hubert Humphrey

At the end of my junior year, nominations for student body officers caused quite a stir. It appeared that Debbie would run unopposed for president. Talking amongst a group of disgruntled girls, I muttered, "There must be someone who'd run against her."

Suddenly Liz focused her attention on me. "Why not you?"

"Me? No way. I work after school. I can't stay for all those meetings."

My closest friend, Linda, vetoed my protests. "Why not? Just think how great our senior year would be! You could get a real senior trip approved and get better bands for the dances. You could even get celebrities to speak at our assemblies!"

My little group continued to ignore my now feeble protests as they speculated on the wonderful changes I could make. By the end of the week, they'd gotten enough signatures to put my name on the ballot.

Debbie and I had very different campaign styles. Because I was always hopping around, I'd earned the nickname "Bunny." Signs soon popped up around campus with perky rabbits and the slogan "Make your votes multiply with Bunny!" My platform aimed for more fun and less restrictions. We wore uniforms and I advocated more free dress days and a broader interpretation of what accessories were acceptable on regular dress days.

My opponent, on the other hand, avoided any hint of silliness on her posters. Catchy slogans and cuddly critters had no place in her serious campaign. What she offered was the opening of Senior Lawn to all students and an alphabetical reformatting of the yearbook that would intermingle ninth through twelfth graders rather than highlight seniors in oversized portraits. Gone would be a dedication of nearly half the yearbook to seniors, their quotes and their many exciting activities.

Underclassmen loved Debbie's ideas; her equality among the grade levels held a magnetic appeal for them. Would-be seniors, however, were livid. The lawn we'd gazed longingly at for three long years as our own private paradise was now to be shared by all? Outrageous! Senior portraits to be lost in a sea of lowerclassmen? What was she thinking?

My classmates rallied behind me and I was confident they could sway enough underclassmen to vote my way. Each day I got reports of a few more freshmen and sophomores seeing the light, however distant, of senior perks.

On election day, I felt fairly confident. I was even looking forward to quitting my job and focusing on school politics. The vote was to take place during homeroom but before any ballots were distributed, the principal's voiced boomed from the PA system.

"A special congratulation goes out to Debbie Hart who put our school on the map with her outstanding science fair project."

My head began to throb as I tuned out additional details the principal just had to share about the honor and glory this one science project had heaped upon our school. The details grew fuzzy but I got the feeling that Debbie's entry was equivalent to the invention of penicillin or the polio vaccine.

At the merciful end of the principal's tribute, the ballots were, at long last, passed out. I knew my peers would not be swayed by the announcement, but what about the rest of the school?

By the end of the day, the votes were counted and Debbie was declared the winner. A friend who helped with the counting let me know I'd lost by only twenty votes. Almost winning felt just like losing... actually it WAS losing... and I got depressed. All I'd been hearing for the past few weeks prepared me for the thrill of victory, not the agony of defeat.

Avoiding my group of friends, I sat on the steps that led to the Senior Lawn. Just staring at what would soon be shared space, I didn't notice Mr. Laskey, the cool young teacher with long hair and a beard. He sat down beside me sharing my view of the grass.

Turning to me, he smiled. "Congratulations!"

"No, I didn't win," I replied.

"Yes, you did. You won the time and freedom to do whatever you want next year." He went on to tell me he'd lost an election in high school too and it was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Honestly, I thought Mr. Laskey was nuts at the time. I didn't want to hurt his feelings though, so I didn't argue with him. What I didn't realize then was how wise he truly was.

Debbie's campaign promises came to fruition in September with the renaming of the Senior Lawn to the People's Lawn. Once the underclassmen invaded, my class of seniors lost all interest in eating there. When our yearbook came out in the spring, the only thing that set a senior apart from a freshman was what the seniors wore for their portraits. Size and placement mattered to us and there was a chorus of complaints about being buried alphabetically amidst students of every grade.

As the proposed changes became reality, I was the recipient of complimentary remarks from my fellow graduating classmates. The message was always a wish that I'd been elected to maintain the senior tradition of being set apart as both special and privileged.

As for me, I kept my job and took nine units at our state college while completing my high school classes with my friends. It took some juggling but I managed to fit everything in, a feat I could not have accomplished with all the extra meetings and activities required of a student body president.

I guess Mr. Laskey knew what he was talking about.

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A Home for the Holiday

By Cathi LaMarche

Scratch a dog and you'll find a permanent job.
~Franklin P. Jones

"We want a dog for Christmas." When spoken by my children, these words used to squelch my Christmas cheer faster than scorching the turkey with my mother-in-law, fork in hand, perched at the holiday table. As my daughter named her fantasy dog and my son pointed to his dog's future sleeping quarters at the foot of his bed, panic set in and I began a frenetic search for gifts that would trump any adorable, barking ball of fluff.


Each day before Christmas, I'd say, "I've been thinking. Instead of a dog, how about a... (insert the newest, coolest toy on the market)?" praying to change the children's minds before Christmas Eve. After all, no mother wants to witness her child's disappointment as the last gift under the tree happens to be flannel pajamas, cozy and fluffy, but lacking the excitement of a Golden Retriever.

I feared the dog would follow at my heels, begging for attention as the children played the new video game they had received from Santa instead of playing ball with the new pooch. My husband would offer no help and merely toss me the I-told-you-so look. Experts repeatedly warned about the dogs dumped into shelters after the novelty of the holiday wore off and the reality of dog ownership set in.

As a result of having read magazine articles on the dangers of dogs sickened by a poinsettia, an overindulgence of turkey, or tinsel from the Christmas tree, I vowed to my husband that any dog brought home in the month of December would have stuffing and glass eyes glued to its head. My downfall was failing to stay away from the local pet supply store where, during a meet and greet for the local Greyhound rescue group, we saw dogs dressed in Santa hats and reindeer antlers.

No, we don't need a dog, especially at Christmastime, I reminded myself as I tried to sneak past the table with the flyers outlining the number of retired racers that needed homes. The thin, lanky dogs looked majestic, yet pitiful with their protruding ribs. Their muscular legs and sleek build were a reminder of their extreme athleticism, a trait which allowed people to take advantage of their natural gifts.

My son Holden said, "Doggies!" and pointed toward the table.

"They're just big couch potatoes," the woman said, holding the leash attached to the red-brindled Greyhound. "They don't need much. Just someone willing to give them a second chance."

"Second chance" -- the words snagged my heart like a wayward fishing lure. Wasn't Christmas a time to give to those less fortunate? I'd have to be Scrooge not to offer a neglected dog a second chance. My hand slid down the dog's head and ran across her smooth, bony back. She didn't respond with a tail wag, a lick of my hand, or a rub against me. I looked into the dog's eyes for any emotion. It took time, the woman warned, for a retired racer to respond to a human's touch since the dog had never experienced loving hands.

The woman talked of the Greyhound's heart problem that prevented her from winning races, so she was no longer deemed worthy of continued care when not earning her keep. She cost the owners money -- not exactly good business.

The rescue group had spared the dog's life and would provide her foster care until adopted by someone willing to give the Greyhound a loving home. Would I be that someone, the woman's gaze asked? The foster family had taught the dog how to maneuver up and down stairs, to walk across the linoleum in the kitchen without being skittish, to avoid darting through glass doors when spotting a rabbit outside, and to adjust to everyday sounds such as the microwave and the television, so the dog would be ready for her new home. The Greyhound had a temporary name -- Eleanor -- a little more personable than the racing number tattooed in her ear.

As the woman continued to tell me of the rewards of owning a Greyhound, my mind wandered to my unfulfilled Christmas gift list, untrimmed tree, and pending holiday meal preparations. Perhaps she noticed I was drifting when she said, "Unfortunately, we can't save them all. These are the lucky ones."

I glanced at the Greyhound and at my son who now had his head buried in the nape of Eleanor's neck, gently stroking her. We'd give her the gift of a second chance and a permanent home for the holiday.

We had a quiet Christmas as our Greyhound adjusted to her new home and her new name. We turned down party invitations and cancelled out-of-town travel in favor of feeding, walking, and grooming our new family member. Since it was Christmas, and she was red, we thought the name Holly was fitting: Holly Berry on the days she was a good girl and Holly Peño on days she was a bit naughty. We remained patient as she settled into family life, and we eventually joined the rescue group to help raise awareness of the need for adoptions. Several foster dogs spent time in our home before finding their adoptive families. Holly donned reindeer antlers for the next seven Christmases, blessing us with her loyalty and love.

"Mom, I want a dog for Christmas," my daughter Piper said this past year.

This time, I didn't panic or attempt to sneak past an adoption table. Instead, I asked, "What kind of dog do you think we should adopt?"

We sat on her bed and looked through a dog book, carefully studying each breed's temperament and basic care requirements.

"A Pembroke Welsh Corgi," Piper said confidently.

I contacted the local Corgi rescue group and completed the adoption process in time to adopt Penny for the holiday. Although we spent Christmas day coaxing our frightened and trembling dog from the corners of the house with tasty treats and kind words, we couldn't imagine a more fulfilling Christmas than offering a second chance to a dog who needed a loving, permanent home -- a true gift for us all.

We are currently blessed with three dogs, so it will be a while before we can adopt another Christmas rescue. But that doesn't stop our family tradition of visiting the animal shelter bearing gifts of blankets, treats, and toys for the dogs. We are always a bit saddened that we can't take the dogs home with us. As we leave the shelter, our Christmas wish is for each dog to be given a second chance and a loving home for the holiday.

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