Bali, our rescue Galas, or Spanish greyhound has probably been photographed at least 2,000 times; on walks, playing with old slippers, looking unbelievably elegant, and gazing adoringly at Mark, and the other members of her pack, but more so, Mark. He who never wished to have a dog, and actually uttered words such as, no way are we having a dog, he, I suspect is the soppiest dog owner amongst us.
The no dog idea was undermined by me and Ezra years back when Mark went back to the UK for two weeks. During that gloomy and freezing February fortnight I went to the SPA (dogs' home) in Narbonne with then eight-year old Ezra and said we would just . . . have a look, with the promise (unlikely, I thought) that if there was a Jack Russel or some species of greyhound, I might think about offering it a home. And of course there was dear old Una, our first greyhound-type dog, an elderly Italian greyhound-cross, crossed with, no idea - she was considerably larger than the usual Italian variety. So we took her and her withered leg back home, stopping at a dog washing shop on the way home(the smell!)
Mark had glanced at her when we all went to meet him at the airport and had uttered something calm and cool along the lines of, "thought that might happen". But he was soon dog-addicted: walks, sofa snuggling, appreciative of the always manically-pleased-to-see-him little pointy face and wagging tail of that old dog. And she was old when we got her - already ten, but she went on to live until twenty, and it was a sad beyond sad day when she went.
Then followed Satie, the runty Italian Greyhound, a tiny dog of immense character, then Gala a rescue Spanish Galgas, and following on, Bali, our remaining greyhound. Dog of never-ending enthusiasm for walkies, dog of sofa, dog of playing; perfect dog.
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