Hero the greyhound (Simon's Hero)

Hero the Greyhound (Chapter 13)

"Well, he's not going to win any races any time soon but at least he's out of the woods." Sue, the vet, was balancing her mobile phone under her chin and making a cup of coffee at the same time.

"What's that? You're breaking up. Did you say you thought he could win races again?" asked Jemma, the Dogs Trust manager, "We might need to contact all the greyhound kennels in the area in that case, they might be able to trace his owners."

"No, I did NOT say that" said Sue, cursing under her breath as she dropped coffee granules all over the floor "I SAID he would definitely NOT be winning any races again. He may not even be able to walk properly although if we could get him some physiotherapy, that might help."

"So, what would you like me to do?" asked Jemma. She had hoped to adopt the greyhound herself although her job was pretty full on and he would need plenty of TLC if he were to get well.

"Well, let me see about some hydrotherapy, something gentle to help him build up some muscle mass again. Whatever's happened to him in the past, he has sustained some dreadful injuries and that swim down the river didn't help. I'll call you when I know what's happening."

"OK" said Jemma and set about her day's work of trying to find as many homes as possible for the twenty-or-so dogs in her care. Dogs Trust never puts down a healthy animal which means finding lots and lots of people to adopt dozens and dozens of pooches. They had homed a greyhound some months previously, she had named him Saracen. He was a big, brindle boy who'd been found wandering the streets of Portsmouth. Clearly, his racing days were over and whoever owned him didn't think it was worth trying to find him a good home so just dumped him on the outskirts of the city. One of his ears was badly damaged, someone had obviously tried to cut out his identification tattoo and he was very thin. They kept him in a pen on his own; he was (understandably) very nervous of humans and they hadn't held out much hope of anyone adopting him.

"What's that big one" asked Fiona, one of the volunteer dog walkers, on the first day she'd arrived to help.

"Oh, that's Saracen, he's a greyhound" said Nancy, a member of the Dogs Trust centre staff, "He's been here for almost two years now. Greyhounds are not usually people's first choice when they come and visit. He's a lovely boy but a bit nervous and of course, his chase instinct is strong and he's not good around small dogs." "Aw, that's a shame" said Fiona, "he seems lovely although he does look a bit pathetic in his winter coat doesn't he?"

Saracen was wearing an old grey blanket which some kind soul had fashioned into a dog coat and they had sewn two old school ties together to make a belt which were tied together underneath his tummy. It was not a good look for such an elegant hound. "Whatever you do" warned Nancy "do not take off his muzzle as you walk through the yard, if he passes a Yorkie or something similar, he might think it's a rabbit and you might find yourself minus an arm."

Fiona, having taken Saracen for a walk, fell head over heels in love with him and a few weeks later, she signed the adoption papers, made a donation to the Dogs Trust and took him home permanently. Jemma was a bit worried; the greyhound is a rare breed. Gentle by nature and yet, when they see something running, their hunting instinct is so powerful, they just run and sometimes can't stop so they need to be kept on a lead in wooded areas in case they run into a tree and knock themselves out. They also need to be socialised carefully and to get used to living in a house, walking up and down stairs, traffic, family life and all the other things they never encounter when they're racing. Fiona called a few months after the adoption to say Saracen had settled well and she was delighted she'd chosen him. Jemma hoped the injured black greyhound would soon find his 'furever' home although, with his damaged legs, it was going to be difficult to persuade visitors to consider him rather than one of the perfectly healthy spaniels, retrievers or even the motley collection of Heinz 57s she currently had in her care.

She picked up the phone to place their weekly advert in the local paper and tried not to worry too much about the greyhound although she couldn't help wondering who'd owned him, whether or not they gave two hoots about him or had even noticed he'd gone missing. Honestly, sometimes the human race was so disappointingly uncaring; she much preferred the fluffy, four-legged residents at Dogs Trust.

One of Hero's former owners did, indeed, give two hoots about his whereabouts. Gareth's life had pretty much fallen apart after Hero's accident. Donna had left him; now his wallet wasn't bulging at the seams, he held little interest for her and she ran off with someone who had a part share in a racehorse. He often saw her around town, driving her little gold two-seater, convertible sports car. If she recognised him, she didn't let on and in some ways, although he missed her chirpy voice and her ability to drink him under the table, he did wonder whether her shallowness would eventually have been the death of their relationship. She hadn't cared a jot about Hero. "That stewpid mutt" she would call him, in her strong Welsh accent; half joking, whole in earnest and when she'd heard he would never race again, that was the end of her interest in greyhound racing and even worse, the end of her interest in the slightly balding bloke who owned a part share in an injured hound. She was off to pastures new, making very sure to keep all the jewellery, clothes and designer handbags he'd bought her from his winnings.

'Where was Hero now?' he wondered to himself as he tried to decide whether or not to go to the pub. It wasn't the same these days; even if he did bump into any of his old race track friends, there was such an air of embarrassment, it really made him very uncomfortable. He had left his job, he couldn't bear to witness their total indifference to what had happened that night at the race track. None of them had cared enough about Hero to ring the vet and ask about his injuries; Gareth wondered what he'd seen in any of them and he didn't exactly feel happy about himself either. Was he really like them? He hoped not. He'd been caught up in the excitement of owning a winning dog but had soon seen how things could change once the winning lifestyle ended. Like rats deserting a sinking ship, both his girlfriend and his so called 'mates' had eventually shown their true colours and they were not pretty.

He hoped Hero had recovered well enough to be re-homed but hadn't had the courage to ring the vet a second time. Once he'd passed on the message to the others, that Hero might not walk again, they had all avoided taking calls from the vet or from the kennels. Eventually, it was clear the six work colleagues were not going to support Hero's recovery and a national greyhound rescue charity had had to step in and pay for his food and keep.

He decided against going to the pub and switched on the telly. He half-heartedly flicked through the sports channels; football, horse racing, greyhound racing...wait a minute, greyhound racing. He sat down and watched the race. The dogs were simply breath-taking; they so clearly loved to run, it was just a tragedy that so many races ended in injury for one or more of the dogs. He paused the race and picked up his mobile phone.

"Hello, do you have a number for any dogs' homes, y'know, dog shelters, places where they might have dogs who need to be re-homed, that kind of thing?" The voice on the other end of the phone gave him two phone numbers, he carefully wrote them down and decided that he would stop feeling sorry for himself and would set out to try and find Hero. The dog had worked his four white socks off to win those races and he really wanted to know whether he was OK.