Getting your teeth into a fun run
January 7th 2009 08:49
In a small park in a quiet corner of an inner Melbourne suburb, acts of bestial violence occur several times a week. The ferocity, surprising in its intensity for anyone seeing it for the first time, is not something normally associated with greyhounds. But it is the only way Daisy has of telling Scratchy that zoomies time is over, thank you very much.
The park is fully-fenced and deserted shortly after dawn when we normally go there. We are regular in keeping these hours because the dogs, whose internal time-keeping is rivalled only by some of the more expensive models of atomic clock, wake us every day shortly before dawn.
Upon arrival at the park, Daisy and Scratchy, released from their leads, have only one immediate thought. Fertilisation. The local council has placed fertiliser collection bags for our corollary action.
That activity completed, Scratchy immediately begins his stalking tiger routine. Moving at the speed of a snail who ate too much lunch, he fixes his eyes on Daisy and does the scary predator thing.
Daisy feigns disinterest, Scratchy lunges, Daisy darts, Scratchy chases.
Scratchy is a big bloke. Larger than the average male greyhound, his racing career, while not stellar, was not without success.
Daisy is dainty. Smaller than the average female greyhound, she was never considered for a racing career.
But here's a thing, Scratchy can't catch her. He has the speed, but she has the agility. Every time he gets close, she darts left or right and accelerates away. She turns like a jet ski; he turns like a tanker.
Daisy enjoys this game so much that, after each darting escape, she slows down to let him catch up.
The downside is that Scratchy takes it too seriously. Perhaps he feels humiliated that he, the strapping ex-racer of distinguished Irish blood lines, can't catch the reedy weed who has never seen the inside of a racetrack.
Which means that, each morning when Daisy tires of the game, she finds a growling, teeth-bared Scratchy on her tail, blood fairly up and ready to take a mouthful of his target.
Which is why Daisy has developed the following tactic for calling an end to the daily zoomie: turn, wait, confront, attack. She gets in first, usually with a sharp nip on the nose. Scratchy yelps, backs off, and then the two of them trot off to their humans ready for the lead and the walk home.
Silly boy. He'll lose an eye or part of his nose one day, but he refuses to learn.
The park is fully-fenced and deserted shortly after dawn when we normally go there. We are regular in keeping these hours because the dogs, whose internal time-keeping is rivalled only by some of the more expensive models of atomic clock, wake us every day shortly before dawn.
Upon arrival at the park, Daisy and Scratchy, released from their leads, have only one immediate thought. Fertilisation. The local council has placed fertiliser collection bags for our corollary action.
That activity completed, Scratchy immediately begins his stalking tiger routine. Moving at the speed of a snail who ate too much lunch, he fixes his eyes on Daisy and does the scary predator thing.
Daisy feigns disinterest, Scratchy lunges, Daisy darts, Scratchy chases.
Scratchy is a big bloke. Larger than the average male greyhound, his racing career, while not stellar, was not without success.
Daisy is dainty. Smaller than the average female greyhound, she was never considered for a racing career.
But here's a thing, Scratchy can't catch her. He has the speed, but she has the agility. Every time he gets close, she darts left or right and accelerates away. She turns like a jet ski; he turns like a tanker.
Daisy enjoys this game so much that, after each darting escape, she slows down to let him catch up.
The downside is that Scratchy takes it too seriously. Perhaps he feels humiliated that he, the strapping ex-racer of distinguished Irish blood lines, can't catch the reedy weed who has never seen the inside of a racetrack.
Which means that, each morning when Daisy tires of the game, she finds a growling, teeth-bared Scratchy on her tail, blood fairly up and ready to take a mouthful of his target.
Which is why Daisy has developed the following tactic for calling an end to the daily zoomie: turn, wait, confront, attack. She gets in first, usually with a sharp nip on the nose. Scratchy yelps, backs off, and then the two of them trot off to their humans ready for the lead and the walk home.
Silly boy. He'll lose an eye or part of his nose one day, but he refuses to learn.
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Comment by HoundChef
But out of idle curiosity, have you ever thought of using their muzzles when they run? Might make the chance of losing an eye a little less likely? Just a question, not a criticism. And have you checked out the google group for the new greyhound book that's being written? If you're interested check it out and join, your stories would be welcome, any greyhound stories would be welcome. Really Long Link
Comment by Chris Champion
LettersToNorm
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Many thanks for the link to the greyhound book project. I've had a look; I shall join and submit a story or two.
Best wishes,
Chris
Comment by HoundChef
Comment by Pearso
Comment by Chris Champion
LettersToNorm
Vyoos
Zoomies
Bloggercises
The Blog of Lists
The best place I have found is a dedicated dog park at the corner of Essex Street and Blandford Street, West Footscray (coming from the city, you turn right into Blandford Street from Barkly Street, and the park is a few hundred metres up on your left). It's fully fenced, there are usually other dogs there to run with, and there are regularly other greyhounds there. It's a great park for dogs and for friendly dog owners to chat to