Dog portraiture

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. 

Serpent dog

I often look at our beautiful second-hand greyhounds and wonder at their sheer noble elegance and grace.
This is 'Bali' half dog-half serpent (musical instrument or snake) after leaping from the car this morning into a field of early spring flowers.
Someone who came to see us yesterday told me that the English cousins of these dogs are let out onto the moors of Yorkshire when deemed to be too old for racing to wander like ever-thinning silhouettes, muzzled so they eventually die from not being able to eat . . . I knew about the horrors of what happens to the Spanish greyhounds (which ours are) - hanged, starved, beaten etc, but I hadn't realised there was a UK equivalent cruelty.
I think we will always be accompanied by two of these marvellous, gentle and good-for-the-eye hounds. A drop in the ocean perhaps but at least we can bequeath the gifts of good food, regular walkies, the sofa, and love on a few.

And above all, don't fuss them too much

This is what we read when first adopting our greyhounds - feed, walk, bit of a pat on the head, etc.
Oops, a couple of years on or so . . . this is Bali, waiting in the kitchen for 'Crust Time' (breakfast) where we sit at the table, surrounded by salivating dogs waiting to be hand fed bits of toast, after which they will have walkies and collapse onto all available living room furniture for the rest of the morning, to be disturbed only by Lunchtime, further walkies and much, much stroking, whispered words of endearment and kisses on the head.
Not bad, eh? But then having escaped from terrible lives of beatings and bare concrete pens as hunting dogs, I suppose they deserve as much fuss as they can extract from us and other fellow greyhound worshippers . . .



          Hello, are you waiting for crusts? (squeaky voice)





              Having to share the sofa