The World’s Speediest Couch Potatoes

By Janet Baldey

‘Mummy, why hasn’t that doggie got a tail?’

The voice of a little girl rose above the clamour of noise marking the annual village fete.  Its clarity cut through the cheers of proud parents and put the metallic whingeing of the tannoy to shame as it ascended into a sky heavily stippled by cloud.

 Monica couldn’t fail to hear it as she stood in the arena holding her dog’s lead.  She’d entered Hermes into the Dog Show on a whim, when the judge had picked up a megaphone and announced the next class to be ‘The Best Rescue Dog,’ She felt confident that Hermes qualified.  The other classes she wasn’t so sure about.  He certainly couldn’t be described as ‘The Happiest Dog’ for greyhound’s faces aren’t designed with humour in mind.  

Nor, although she loved him deeply, could he truthfully be called ‘The Most handsome,’ unless one’s definition of handsome included a gaunt, ribby body and strongly muscled limbs. Furthermore, as had been pointed out by an unknown child, ‘The Dog with the Waggiest Tail’ class was completely ruled out.

‘Why Mummy?’ the shrill voice persisted.

Monica could have told her but it wasn’t a story fit for children.

Brutal men with hearts made of the same material as their wallets, cut off the tails of greyhounds past their prime to ensure they were never raced again.   If the dogs had been earmarked, they cut off those as well. Then the mutilated animals would be dumped; often by the side of motorways, leaving them to take their chances with the traffic.

         Monica had learned all this, and more, when she approached a greyhound sanctuary searching for a docile companion to accompany her into old age.  As she sat in a functional room, decorated only by pictures of greyhounds, the re-homing secretary told her all she wanted to know about the breed.

‘Greyhounds have a long and aristocratic lineage. They are the only dog mentioned in the Bible and throughout history they’ve been prized for their speed and agility.  Flat out, they can reach speeds of 45 mph.  In ancient Egypt, the birth of a litter of hounds was second only in importance to the birth of a son and the whole household went into mourning if a dog died.  When they were first brought over to England, commoners were not thought worthy of owning such an animal.’ 

The lady drew in a deep breath and looked at Monica.

‘And maybe, that was right.  Because the moment common man learned they could make money out of them, greyhounds were in deep trouble.  They were taken over by the gaming industry and became commodities. Unscrupulous owners and breeders flooded the market with surplus animals, searching for the perfect winning machine.  Every year the rejects, thousands of faithful, intelligent animals with not a mean bone in their bodies, were abandoned, shot or drowned. The rest were sold for vivisection, ground up and used in the pet food industry, or sent across to the seas to places like China or Spain.  And if you think China has a bad record when it comes to human rights, their animals fare even worse. And, as for Spain!’  

Monica gasped as she learned what happened to greyhounds in Spain.   She saw her anger reflected in the other’s eyes and warmed to her. How dare people treat animals like that?

   ‘Even if they were chosen, their careers were short.  At the age of between three and five years they were judged ‘over the hill’ and suffered the same fate as the others.  Eventually, people like us stepped in. We drew people’s attention to their plight and lobbied for more regulation but it’s still an uphill fight.  One of our main jobs is to find good homes for them when they’re retired. And they do make excellent pets. They’re quiet, clean and need surprisingly little exercise.  They’re nicknamed speedy couch potatoes, with good reason, so they’re ideal for the elderly and….disabled.’ 

She’d glanced at Monica’s walking stick, and a faint bloom had flushed her cheeks.

         In fact, Monica had needed little persuasion.  As soon as she clapped eyes on Hermes she’d felt an instant affinity. They were both ex-athletes, albeit they didn’t have the same number of legs. Her joints were now shackled by arthritis and she’d also recently retired from running.  She and Hermes had things in common.  Each was pinioned now and never again would either of them feel the joy of flying round the track on feet attached to wings.

Now, as Monica stroked the dog’s snakelike head, Hermes gazed up at her with eyes luminous with devotion.  His hindquarters shimmied as he wagged his non-existent tail. He’d been one of the lucky ones. He’d been found minus his tail, rigid with shock but otherwise intact, chained to a gate outside the Rescue Society.

Often, in the evenings when a melancholy wind crooned down the chimney, Monica would watch the rise and fall of Hermes’s chest as he lay flat out on the sofa, and never failed to thank her lucky stars that, against the odds, she’d found him. Her companion for life.

         The judge, still working the circle, was looking for a sob story and when she reached Monica that was what she got.  But it was also one that Monica was determined to bring to a fairytale ending.

         ‘I don’t think that doggie deserves to win if he hasn’t got a tail.’  

         It was the little girl again.  A sudden burst of sunshine illuminated the onlookers and Monica could see her now, a strawberry pink blob with flaxen hair.

         Her hand, creeping over the dog’s head, caressed a velvety triangle and Hermes’s ears twitched.

         ‘Oh yes.’ She thought, watching as the judge walked towards them, holding a bright yellow rosette.

         ‘Oh yes, he does.’

Copyright Janet Baldey