I spent last night and this morning in the company of three greyhounds. Well, make that two greyhounds and one saluki, a breed that looks very much like a greyhound only smaller. My friends Lana and Gary are involved with the Greyhound Pets of America and have two adopted greyhounds. (Their first adoption, Cici, recently succumbed to an aggressive cancer. Faye and Grappa are now running the household. Shelley, the saluki, is a houseguest while her foster parents are away.)
Faye, the little lady
Shelley, the houseguest
It's pretty funny to compare the three giant dogs with my three little ones. The only difference is size. Both sets follow your every footstep, sprawling on the floor when you settle in a room. Of course when the greyounds sprawl, there's not a lot of floor space left in the room. The greyhounds are every bit as spoiled as mine, though they sleep on their own beds and not with their humans. It's hard enough to fit my three on the other side of my bed. One greyhound would require the entire bed.
Grappa takes the couch
The greyhounds don't bark much. Mine barely stop. The greyhounds manage to walk among antiques and breakables and gracefully avoid dislodging anything. Mine tear around the house like wild dogs, dragging blankies and towels in their wake and generally making a mess at every opportunity. The greyhounds are faithfully housebroken. Mine? Let's just not go there.
Dogs will be dogs, whatever the size. They will take to spoiling like ducks to water. And I do love a spoiled dog. I had a great time playing with the big dogs, but I was glad to get home and have my little ones welcome me with plentiful kisses.
Dogs big or small. They are not just a good thing, they are a necessary thing. Even if you have to carry them upstairs to bed every night. Which I don't have to do anymore. Coco has graduated.