This bloggist is very, very sad to announce the death of our tiny, runty dog, Satie, who has featured frequently on this blog.
Rarely can there be such a tiny being with such an enormous character. Rescued from a life of ridicule, he entered and then guarded the Hot-House compound with bristling fearlessness. Ridicule?
Satie was purchased at half-price from the only Italian greyhound breeder in this region; half-price as he had a pointy chest, was extra small and would therefore never be shown. Nicknamed Bébé, his pedigree name had been 'Donatello des Tendre Calins' - Donatello of the soft cuddles . . . we were having none of it and he was re-named Satie after the composer who, apparently only wore grey velvet suits, this minute dog, resembling at the time, a scrap of grey velvet.
I think he imagined himself to be the size of a doberman and was fearless, barking furiously at any dog that threatened the pack (at that time, us, and a rescue Italian greyhound from SPA called Una)
He fulfilled utterly his breed's mission - to snuggle with the owners (apparently, they were bred to warm the beds of the Italian courtiers) on the sofa under many blankets without seeming to need oxygen.
He was loyal, loving, manic as if constantly on a small dose of speed; at times infuriating with his staccato bark, demanding to be let out-in-out-in-out-in, etc, and always there to be mused over - why are his ears so big? and his teeth? how can his legs be so skinny?
Eluding to legs, a major event in his life was losing one during a play-fight with our bruiser cat Bronzino about seven years ago. After several operations to try and mend the limb it was decided that it would have to go, and it did, leaving after a short time, a fur covered stump which would still move with as much manic-ness as the rest of him.
He coped admirably, accepting, as most dogs do, the loss within a short time and he continued to maintain his angry stance, seeing off other hounds whatever their size.
He could walk/hop for hours; even just a few weeks ago he had managed a hike of four hours with us up to the top of the small mountain viewable from our garden. Except he would no longer be able to see the mountain; the cataracts were getting worse. He'd also had most of his teeth out, leaving him with a demented grin.
Dog of a catalogue of operations . . . broken tail, the leg, the teeth removal, near death through poison-eating, near-death through eating a bee . . . but dog of such determination and strength despite it all.
Losing a pet is always tragic, especially one of such tremendous character. But I somehow feel he will always be with us, hopping along on a walk with his funny tri-cornered gait, wrapped in his favourite orange blanket or sitting in the sun on the doormat with that grin and half-closed smily eyes.
R.I.P, Satie. Aka: Runty, Tripod (thanks, Alvin) Tyne, Sat-Nav. 17/1/2020