MEET THE PACK

These are the hounds behind the stories.

Some walked before us. Some walk beside us now.

And others will someday follow. Each leaves their pawprints on the stories—and their place in the Pack.

SHAMROCK

The One Who Opened the Door

Shamrock was not just my first Irish Wolfhound. He was the dream that had waited a lifetime to arrive. My heart dog. My guardian. My teacher. The beginning of everything that would follow.

I had been drawn to Irish Wolfhounds for as long as I can remember, long before I understood why. Something about them felt familiar. Ancient. Like hearing a song you somehow know by heart the very first time you hear it.

It wasn’t until the day after I brought Shamrock home that I learned something I had never known.

My father died when I was sixteen. His name was Charles Hill, though most people called him Charlie. We didn’t share the kind of everyday life where I would have known all of his hopes and dreams, and there were things about him I would only learn years later.

One of those things was that he had always wanted an Irish Wolfhound.

My mother knew. I didn’t.

And she had deliberately never told me.

She didn’t want that knowledge to influence my choice. She wanted whatever dog I chose someday to be entirely my choice.

So she waited until Shamrock was already home.

Then she said:

“You know… your dad always wanted one of those.”

Suddenly, the pull I had felt toward Irish Wolfhounds for most of my life carried another meaning. Without knowing it, I had found my way to the same extraordinary breed my father had once dreamed of having.

Some things are known by the soul long before the mind catches up.

And so he became Shamrock Charlie Hill.

He grew into everything I had dreamed an Irish Wolfhound could be—and so much more than I ever imagined. He was gentle enough to earn the trust of the smallest creatures, yet powerful enough to stop you in your tracks simply by standing beside you. He could thunder across a snowy field, all flying legs and impossible joy, looking less like a dog and more like something that had wandered out of Ireland’s oldest legends.

And yes, he was also an absolute goofball. His tongue had no dignity whatsoever. His birthday celebrations were legendary. He could go from noble guardian to oversized clown in a matter of seconds—which somehow made me love him even more.

Shamrock changed me. He changed the direction of my life, what I valued, and what I wanted to build. Because of him, I discovered that Irish Wolfhounds are more than a breed to me. They are history. They are stewardship. They are a living connection to something beautifully old.

Emerald Hounds Abound exists because of him. Every story, every photograph, every laugh, every tear, every lesson, and every hound who would one day follow began with Shamrock.

He was the first.
The one who showed me the path.
The one who changed my world.
The one who opened the door.

Shamrock — his first morning home. ☘️

THE NAME THEY SHARE

A Legacy of Love

They never met. Shamrock was gone six months before Clover came home, and Hooligan would come later still. Different hounds. Different chapters. Same story.

Shamrock’s full name was Shamrock Charlie Hill. Clover’s full name is Clover Charlie Hill. Hooligan’s full name is Hooligan Charlie Hill. And that name is not random. It began with my father.

My father never had the Irish Wolfhound he dreamed of having. I didn’t even know that dream had existed until Shamrock was already mine. So Shamrock carried his name. Not because I had lost my father, but because I carry him—through love, through memory, and, somehow, through these hounds.

Some things travel slowly when love has to cross distance.

Years later, when the time came to say goodbye to Shamrock, that connection was still there. He had just died. I was still holding him in my arms when I looked up and spoke to my dad.

“He’s headed your way. It’s your turn to look after our boy.”

Our boy.

Shamrock had carried my father’s name through his life. In that moment, I entrusted him to the man whose dream had somehow found its way to me.

Six months later, Clover came home. There was never really a question about the name she would carry.

Clover Charlie Hill.

She wasn’t Shamrock. She was never supposed to be. Different soul. Different energy. Same legacy.

And then came Hooligan. By then, Charlie Hill had become more than the name I had given Shamrock in honor of my father. It had become part of our hounds’ family story—a name carried forward from one extraordinary hound to the next.

So Hooligan carries it too.

Hooligan Charlie Hill.

Three hounds, each entirely their own. Three lives connected by a name that began with a man who dreamed of an Irish Wolfhound but never had the chance to bring one home.

My father never got his Wolfhound. Somehow, I found mine. And now there are three.

Shamrock Charlie Hill.
Clover Charlie Hill.
Hooligan Charlie Hill.

A father’s dream. A daughter’s hounds. A name carried forward.

Some bonds do not end.

They simply change form.

CLOVER

The Chaos Goblin with a Golden Heart

Clover came after loss. After silence. After grief so heavy I wasn’t sure my heart would ever feel whole again.

And then she arrived.

Not quietly. Not delicately. She burst into my life like she had somewhere important to be.

Hi. I live here now. Let’s make room for joy. We’re going to need a lot more adventures... and significantly less crying.

She approaches life at full speed—with flying ears, giant paws, endless affection, and the unwavering confidence of someone who has never once questioned whether the world is meant to adore her.

Most days, she’s right.

But beneath all that glorious chaos is a heart that somehow always seems to know exactly what’s needed.

Clover is clever in a way that keeps everyone around her slightly off balance. She watches. She figures things out. And there is often just enough of a glint in her eye to let you know that whatever happens next may not have been an accident.

She has a habit of quietly studying a problem until she decides she has found a better solution. Doors, gates, routines, boundaries—Clover pays attention. She learns quickly. And every so often, she makes an executive decision that one of our rules no longer requires her cooperation.

Recently, that included her X-pen. She had apparently decided she was finished with it. So she got out- again.

There was no destruction. No raid on the cat food. No accidents in the house. She didn’t even leave the downstairs.

She simply removed herself from confinement and carried on with her day.

No, thank you. I don’t believe I’ll be doing that anymore.

That is Clover’s particular kind of clever. She isn’t constantly looking for trouble. She simply pays attention, figures things out, and occasionally decides that our plans could use some revision.

She is also extraordinarily sensitive. For all her confidence and chaos, Clover feels things deeply. She notices changes in the people and animals around her, and beneath the flying ears and wicked sense of humor is a remarkably gentle hound.

That became especially clear during one of the moments when I needed her most.

One day, she climbed into my lap carrying Shamrock’s old teddy. She simply brought it with her, curled against me, and stayed.

It felt like a quiet promise. Not replacing him. Never replacing him.

Simply carrying his love forward.

Clover is the present. The laughter after the tears. The muddy paws. The flying ears. The impossible zoomies. The joyful reminder that healing doesn’t erase love.

It grows around it.

Welcome to the Pack, Clover Charlie Hill. ☘️💚

We’re so happy you found your way home.