Inhuman.

Two hundred dogs a day are abandoned in Victoria.

No, wait, it's way more than two hundred.

That's only the number that is taken in by the RSPCA.

Take a look into the eyes of one abandoned dog and how could anyone ever subject any dog to the pain of being separated from what it believes to be its pack, its lifeline to ... life?

Bye, Clyde!

He went off to his forever home today. I hope he gets a good family.

I found something oout about Clyde the very day before he went.

The last six or so dogs had shown no interest in Fetch! so I guess I gradually forgot. Yesterday, I was in the yard - with Clyde following me around, of course, when I accidentally kicked a tennis ball across the yard. He leapt upon it, picked it up and brought it back to me. Clyde fetches! We played fetch for quite a while.

Now I feel guilty. I could have been playing Fetch! with Clyde for four weeks.

Goldie shorn.

It's been hot in Melbourne and when it's hot, 12 year old Goldie pants and pants. She doesn't enjoy the heat at all, but she has the presence of mind to sleep in the hallway between the back and front door, catching a nice night breeze. Dogs are clever. That's where I wanted to sleep.

Time for her annual haircut.

She came home looking like a shorn sheep with the head of a brittany spaniel. I can't stop laughing. Clyde (the greyhound, who goes to his forever home this week) didn't recognise her and chased her around the back yard until he could get a good sniff of her butt and realised who she was.

$60. I only pay $12 for a trim, but then I guess I only have my head shorn.

And they bathed her and clipped her nails.

I want to be a dog.

What dogs do when you're not there.

There are these things called 'hides' that bird-watchers use to observe birds, secretly.

If there was such a thing to watch dogs, here's what you'd see, using Goldie, my Brittany, as an example:

Wake. (The dog bed - an old couch - is in the double garage. The dog's bedroom is bigger than my own.)

Stretch. Walk out of garage door. Sniff the air. Decide to go back in again. Jump on couch. Do three turns. Flop down hard. Decide to come out again. Sniff the air.

Walk to the lawn in that will-I-or-won't-I manner. Flop down hard. Start panting in the morning sunshine. Close eyes half-shut, enjoying the sun. Roll onto side. Fall asleep.

Wake. Stand up jerkily. Trot around to back door to see if it will open. It won't.

Trot back to lawn. Sniff about for yesterday's bone. Find it and chew busily for a few minutes. Pick it up and carry it to a new part of the lawn. Chew it some more.

Drop it suddenly as if it is the most boring thing she has ever tasted. Walk to water bowl. Drink, slurping it everywhere. Turn around to look at clothes line. Go to bed.

(Later)

Bark furiously at bone, still on lawn where she dropped it this morning, until blowflies buzz off. Pick up bone. Carry it to new part of lawn. Drop it. Walk away.

Flop down heavily on lawn in south east facing position providing best view of next door's fence, on which next door's cat often appears. Pant while regarding fence, head moving slightly back and forward. Eyes half shut again. Get up, walk behind apricot tree, pee while awkwardly moving herself forward with front legs as if trying to water as much lawn as possible.

Back to cat observation point. Cat appears. Gallop furiously to fence. Set up such a barking as you've never heard before, with plenty of deep throaty notes. A kind of elongated growl bark. RRRRRRRR-OW! RROW! RROW-RROW! RROW-RROW-RROW! RROW-RROW-RROW-RROW! RROW-RROW-RROW-RROW-RROW! RROW-RROW-RROW-RROW-RROW-RROW!

You get the picture. She starts with one and adds on one extra RROW until she reaches about maybe twelve, then she goes back to one again.

I didn't know dogs could count.

Then she goes back to bed. Three turns. Flops down hard.

Bonding.

Sometimes, it just happens.

I've had him for two weeks. He is always pushing his face into me, everywhere.

OK, so he likes me. That's OK. Most of them do. Many don't show it.

Today, Clyde walked over to me. I was lying in the backyard, on the grass, in the beautiful sunshine, reading a book. (The High Window, Raymond Chandler, 1943.) He sat down next to me and he laid his head across my legs, like, ninety degrees.

Later, he did the same thing. His affection has taken a massive upturn in the last couple days and that's when you know they are bonding with you. Like, really bonding. Like, they have decided: 'at last here is is someone who loves me unconditionally and whom I can trust and who looks like having my company for the rest of my life. Cool! I'm glad I'm such a lucky dog!'

And then they have to go after three weeks. It's damn hard to give them up, sister.

It's damn hard.

Clyde.

We've had him two weeks and he still is showing his entire backbone and six or seven ribs.

I am known as the foster-carer who can fatten up those hounds, but Clyde is taking his time. He eats, but not as ravenously as Davy, Eric or Blue. He'll get there, but just not as quickly.

Clyde has very endearing traits. He pushes his face into you. Everywhere you go.

The regime:

Breakfast:
Chicken mince cooked with garlic, carrot, celery, rice and stock.

Mid-morning (if you're home, if not, make it a bigger breakfast):
Peanut butter and cheese sandwich with a LOT of butter.

Lunch:
More mince and maybe a chicken frame.

Afternoon tea:
A piece of cheese. You can buy no-name brand cheese from the supermarket for under six dollars a kilo. A slice or two a day goes a long way.

Dinner:
More mince.

Three times a week:
A big bone.

More snacks:
Biscuits.
Cheese.
Buttered bread.
Peanut butter.
Sardines (Good for their coat.)
Chips left over from your Friday night fish & chips. Or even the fish.