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scratchy's garden

There are three entities in the known universe which stand apart from all others for voracity.

The best-known are black holes, non-sentient beings which just love eating any chunks of the universe which come within reach.

The second of the super-hungry beings in the universe is His Imperial Highness, Lord Zyz Spryxlinkgrot, of the Ffipll race, the former inhabitants of the planet Aggth. I say former because the Ffipll people had to leave the planet of Aggth, which they had happily and uneventfully inhabited for millions of years, because Lord Zyz ate it.

The third member of this elite group of consumers is Scratchy the Greyhound. His elevation to this highest-category of gannetry was formalised over the weekend after Scratchy presented a supreme and unique demonstration of food desperation.

What happened was that my wife decided to clean the toaster, removing six months' worth of crumbs from its nether regions. There are many things you can do with a collection of bread crumbs - my wife decided to throw this lot into the garden.

In a flash, Scratchy followed.

It is not clear how a greyhound who has never, to my knowledge, been fed bread crumbs understood that what went into the garden was edible, but then who am I to question the instincts of one of the universe's most eminent gourmands?

Of course, Scratchy is not allowed in the garden and my wife, who is an excellent and energetic gardener, barked loudly and decisively and Scratchy jumped out of the garden as quickly as he had jumped in.

I hear murmurs of doubt at this point. How is it, some of the less generous amongst you might ask, that such a renowned and voracious eater of anything and everything can be so easily shooed away from food? Well it's simple really: Scratchy is a sweet, obedient and loving soul who understands that Little Boss doesn't have eyes in the back of her head.

So as soon as my wife turned to walk back into the house, Scratchy jumped back into the garden.

Shoo! Turn. Jump. Shoo! Turn ... etcetera.

He didn't, in the end, do much damage to the garden. But if you look carefully at the picture above - really, really carefully - you will notice that there is not one bread crumb anywhere. He found every one of them. I doubt even Lord Zyz could have managed that.


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Daisy's diary: Today's news is ...

June 23rd 2010 10:28
pet dog greyhound daisy
There was an especially informative patch of grass as we were walking this morning. Two cats, seven dogs and a mouse had left their mark there in the past 24 hours.

I was still gathering information when Big Boss, in one of those inexplicable hooman reactions, said irritably, "Can you tell the colour of the dog whose pee you're sniffing?"

It's what hoomans call sarcasm. He does it because he thinks morning walks are for walking. He doesn't understand that they are actually for news gathering.

Of course I never take any notice of his grumbling. I know that his bark is worse than his grumble.

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Daisy's Diary: The up-close room

June 6th 2010 20:06
pet dog greyhound daisy
One of the nice things about mornings in our home is the quiet time Big Boss and I spend in the up-close room.

I call it that because, being the compact space that it is, that's obviously what it is for - up-closeness.

The Bosses don't call it that - they call it the dressing room. Whatever, I like to stand in there with Big Boss. I like to get right up close. I do this every morning when he's dressing. It's our time of togetherness, and I know, deep down, he appreciates it as such even though he has to manoeuvre around me to get to his socks and shirts.

It's so peaceful standing in that quiet little room. I know Big Boss enjoys it too because every morning he makes these playful little grumbling jokes about me being in the way.




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A field of Daisies

May 19th 2010 12:37
greyhound dog pet zoomies

As we walked into the veterinary clinic a man, standing before the reception desk, was talking about Daisy. This turned out to be a fluffy cat cradled in his arms, and not the confused black greyhound by my side.

"Hey, Doofus," my Daisy said to Scratchy, "is that man talking to me?"

"I think he's talking about that hairy nibble he's holding. I think its name is Daisy too."

"A chaseable commodity named Daisy?" said Daisy. "Is that even allowed?"

Scratchy didn’t answer as we were at that moment called into the surgery to start the twice-weekly process of removing the bandaging from his broken leg, inspecting the leg for pressure sores and dermatitis, and rebandaging.

Scratchy sighed. It was all very well for the hoomans to repeat, as they did on each visit, that he was so relaxed and easy to treat – the perfect patient – but this really was getting tiresome. When, oh when, will I be able to run again?

Daisy, who comes along for moral support, wasn’t offering much this day, appearing distracted. “It was a cat, wasn’t it?” she was thinking. “A cat called Daisy. I don’t know whether to laugh or feel humiliated.”

Then things got worse. As we emerged from the surgery and returned to reception, a woman was standing where the man had been standing earlier. She was holding a coiffed Pomeranian. “This,” she announced, “is Daisy.”

“Eek.”

The “eek” was in response to a black greyhound poking its noise into her buttock. The woman gathered the Pomeranian more closely to her and looked down warily.

“Sorry,” I said, pointing at my dog, “her name is Daisy too. And there was a cat here earlier named Daisy. And, well, I think my Daisy's a bit unsettled. Minor identity crisis, if you know what I mean.”

The look of the woman suggested she did not know what I meant. Or didn't want to know. The Pomeranian said nothing.

Hours after arriving home, Daisy still looks puzzled.



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Chris's Diary: Missing you

May 10th 2010 05:34
lamma island
Lamma Island

Dear Scratchy and Daisy,

As you may have noticed, in your occasional waking moments over the past two days, I am not there to feed you and hug you and yell at you when you whine outside the bedroom door at 6am.

I am not there because I am in Hong Kong. In fact, I am on Lamma Island, just south of Hong Kong Island. Lamma, unlike most of the rest of Hong Kong, is sparsely populated and covered in jungle. There is little concrete, no cars and just one village, where the people get around on foot or on bicycles.

Lamma Island, my darling greyhounds, is important because, during the time I live here, in what feels like another life, I saw, for the first time, a greyhound.

It was at a fair at what is known as the Lamma Back Beach. It was crowded with people and stalls and music. And it was hot. It was the middle of summer and the temperature was set at Roast and the humidity was set at Niagara Falls. I wanted only to be inside somewhere cuddling an air-conditioner, but it is the duty of a parent to suffer for his children.

So we went to Lamma Back Beach and the kids disappeared to find fun and bad food and I looked about for shade. I found it, along with a convenient flat rock, under a large tree. There were quite a few parents under that tree, all looking pale and wet, breathing in short, laboured pants, and talking in short sentences to conserve energy.

Also in there, stetched out in the cool sand alongside the rock, was a greyhound. And I was lucky enough to be able to sit down next to him. And over the next hour or so get to know him.

I had never met a gentler creature, but then of course I had never before met a greyhound. I also met his owner, who told me a lot about the breed. In that hour, a seed was planted.

So, my dear Scratchy and Daisy, I'm missing you not only because I am away, but because I am back in magical place where, even if it wasn't completely clear at the time, I discovered that I would one day have greyhounds in my life.

Hugs and licks and cuddles and stuff. I'll see you next week.

PS Please say hello to Little Boss for me, and tell her I miss her too. Very, very much.


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pampered pooches

Life has been complicated here of late, and I am blaming certain “fans” of this blog who suggested that Scratchy, convalescing with a broken leg, would enjoy the comforts of a heated dog cushion.

[ Click here to read more ]
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Bed-time story

April 26th 2010 07:42
dog, pet, greyhound

There is a dog rule in our home which we admit could be a little confusing. The rule is that dogs are not allowed on beds, except when they are.

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Scratchy's dream

April 19th 2010 07:44
scratchy's broken leg

The thing about recovering from a broken leg, procedurally speaking, and I shall try to keep the technical terms to a minimum, is that you need cushions.

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Daisy's diary: Sleep approbation

April 15th 2010 12:27

The point I would like to make, a point that I don't think, generally, has received sufficient attention, is that, in certain light, I look much younger than I am.

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pet dog greyhound scratchy broken leg

We have had better days. It started poorly when the Big Boss woke with a headache and a dry mouth. He drank too much red wine last night while entertaining vegetarian visitors. He doesn't mind cooking vegetarian, and last night's roast pumpkin and feta quiche won rave reviews, but the following morning he always feels meat deprived.

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greyhound installation art

Daisy once said I couldn't do something creative if I was injected with the DNA of Vincent van Dogh. Which was hurtful.

[ Click here to read more ]
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The game of the rose

April 2nd 2010 21:22
a daisy

Most mornings, in a peaceful park on a quiet street corner in Melbourne, Australia, Scratchy chases Daisy.

[ Click here to read more ]
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Scratchy's muse

March 20th 2010 03:27
pet dog greyhound scratchy

The Bosses have taken to leaving this sliding door into the courtyard open because it is autumn and the air is cool and sweet.

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The wind in her ears

March 20th 2010 02:50
pet dog greyhound daisy

One of the more entertaining things to do in our house is to watch Daisy sleep. Scratchy has his moments of animation too but in observing him dream one gets the firm impression that all Scratchy's sleeping reflections, like all his waking thoughts, are about food. Scratchy dreams about dinner.

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