A composite of three photos taken moments apart.

Back in the day, Nina only ran when seven other dogs were at her heels.

Frankly, most of the time she was the one watching seven other behinds, as she wasn’t particularly fast – winning just 13 out of a nevertheless remarkable 111 races. It’s amazing to think of the thousands of dollars won and lost on her over the years.

But as I watched her run today at the beach – in full retirement and sporting a bit more tummy than would’ve been permissible during her career – something occurred to me.

We’ve always assumed the main reward of retirement for these dogs was just that; a glorious, unexplained transition to a life of endless naps, better food, plenty of treats and way more love. And certainly that’s very rewarding for us as owners.

But seeing them off leash reminds you that being the fastest seems to be immensely satisfying to these dogs: catching up – and ultimately passing – everything in front of them. While other breeds live for tug of war, playing fetch, swimming or wrestling with other pups… blowing everyone else’s doors off seems built into a greyhound’s DNA.

So along with all that fluffy retirement stuff that makes us people feel good, Nina and her big sister have obtained another wonderful, intangible prize in their post-track lives: the fact that they’ll never be beaten again, if they choose not to be. They’re the fastest goddamn things on any stretch of land they step onto. Nothing can touch them.

Maybe I’m personifying them too much, projecting feelings like pride and, by extension, disappointment onto animals. But something tells me Nell, Nina and all their fellow greyhounds experience a genuine burst of confidence in the knowledge they’ll never see another dog pass them by.

I don’t know about you, but when I find myself with some leftover piece from a project or treasured belonging, I often have a hard time letting it go.

And while that’s the same basic rationale behind hoarding: cataloging dusty socks… stockpiling 10 year old hamburger wrappers… I’d like to think there’s room in our lives for a bit of old, useless stuff now and then.

Such is the case with this 60 year old stamped brass badge, removed from the canoe I gave Melissa for our 10 year anniversary.

Having parted with two of its three anchor points during decades of exposure to the salty Tacoma, Washington air where it’d spent its entire life, it could no longer be trusted to sit on its mahogany perch where it’d been since ‘49.

Heck, I doubt it’d survive a gentle scrubbing.

But this scrap – though no longer functional – still has beauty, history, and therefore some value left in it. From the knowledge that it was carefully placed on a curved plank by Floyd Willits in he and his brother’s little shop overlooking the Puget Sound… to the effects of a corrosion that I can only describe as exquisitely thorough… I just couldn’t imagine throwing this little scrap, barely larger than a quarter and half as thick, away.

Instead I found a little square frame of end grain bamboo. With a tiny dab of rubber cement, and a bit of cream-colored laid paper (the warmth of which complements the greens of the oxidized metal) I’ve attempted to elevate it to something greater than merely detritus.

Now it can be enjoyed on our desk, reminding me of the effort it took to restore Melissa’s boat, the fun of keeping it a secret for so many months, and the transient, ever-changing nature of all material things, regardless of how much – or how little – we care for them.