The first thing that we notice is that he is very, very small. He is eight weeeks old and a miniature fawn and white whippet whose soft little body has not yet grown into his long, gangly legs. There is a whiff of puppy about him – well, a whiff of the other six puppies and his mother with whom he has lived for the first eight weeks of his life. Throughout those eight weeks he has been nurtured with care by the breeders – our responsibility now is to let him grow and flourish in our home as we would with any small creature – dog or human.
Already he is adapting to his new world, by sniffing, exploring and rushing about. Nothing is done in slow motion. He races around our kitchen, bullying an old sock. He is suddenly at your feet, nibbling your toes then looking up, innocence and blue eyes. At night he howls briefly in the dark, longing for the companionship of his siblings, bemoaning the fact that he’s stuck with a couple of oldy humans.
As you can see, no expense has been spared in providing him with toys. He has already found the beds scattered around our home where Hamish luxuriated for years. As he breathes their scent, I wonder if he says to himself, “Another dog was happy here – perhaps I can be happy here too.”
I certainly hope so.