Behind today’s door we find…. shameless greyhound spam.
Christmas on my own became much more manageable once I had this beautiful soft, furry, daft, not-very-toothsome twosome for company.
As retired racing dogs made up largely of old weary bones, their favourite place was the sofa, and boyhound Ronnie loved nothing more than sharing his sofa space with (I like to think) his favourite human.
Girlhound Wendy would only permit the occasional fuss which was strictly time-limited, and then she would take herself back to bed when she’d had enough. This was until her last few months when she became very, very snuggly. Whether she got colder in her old age, or whether there was physically more space for her once Ronnie died I’m not sure, but it was a lovely way to find out that sometimes old dogs can learn new tricks.
Ronnie in full snuggle mode
Wendy in rare close contact mode
I miss them dreadfully.
The last few years, I’ve played at a hotel on Christmas Day and my Christmas didn’t properly start until I was snuggled on the sofa in my dressing gown and pyjamas with a drink and the two of them. One magical year, it started to snow just before midnight as I was drawing the curtains to go off to bed. Surely one of the best Christmases ever.
Wendy
Another year, we surprised my Granny with a visit on Christmas Eve. Unfortunately Granny had had an unfortunate accident while putting up her Christmas tree, which resulted in a fracture and a big boot and so she was rather fed up.
I rang the doorbell, and as she opened the door I managed to let go of their leads and the two of them raced into the living room to see Granny and almost took her out in the process. I was mortified. Thankfully no harm was done.
All retired folk safely seated.
On our first date, I tentatively asked my now husband what he thought of dogs. I gently explained that there was no point in things continuing if he didn’t like them, as I couldn’t contemplate an existence without more pets in the not too distant future. Thankfully he at least said he liked dogs, and over the next few weeks he carefully studied each dog before stating which breed he thought it was. Things were looking good.
We haven’t got one of our own yet. People keep asking, and we will soon.
Ronnie and Wendy died within a year of each other. In between them going, I adopted a beautiful boy called Ike but very sadly, things didn’t work out with him and I very reluctantly had to give him back to the greyhound rescue where he came from. Saying goodbye to three dogs in a short space of time was, as you can imagine, pretty tough, and my heart hasn’t quite recovered enough to make space for another dog just yet. Ronnie in particular was a Very Special Dog and it’s proving extra hard to contemplate loving another dog quite as much as him.
Ronnie “helping” pack the harp up - early in the morning for both of us and I don’t think either of us were quite awake!
What do you mean concert isn’t for greyhounds? I’ve learned all the words for O Holy Night!
And so, every dog I meet is cautiously greeted, and if a particular dog declares itself willing for a fuss, the world just has to wait a bit while I oblige. Even more so if the dog in question is skinny with a long nose.
You can only imagine the joy when we walked into a hotel bar in Ballachulish last weekend and came face to face (literally in my case) with Daragh the five-year-old deerhound….
