lenny the greyhound

 

This is a portrait entitled Home Straight of Lenny, my daughter Phoebe's rescue greyhound, painted by my other daughter Chloe. She has been accepted by the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition where her limited edition of prints are flying off the wall.

Home Straight is a portrait of Lenny, a beloved, ex-racing greyhound who was rescued in October 2025. In racing, the ‘home straight’ marks the final stretch before the finish line. For Lenny, it represents something different. Whilst he won many races throughout his career, this finish line was the most important- it led him home. Since being rescued, Lenny has shown gratitude in his own quiet way, discovering a life where he is safe, loved and respected. Through his story, the work aims to raise awareness of the many retired racing greyhounds still waiting for their own home straight.

Rocket loves it when Lenny comes to stay but is a bit miffed that Lenny can run faster than him.

Geoffrey is very vocal. Ask not for whom the cock crows, it crows for thee - I try and re-assure my guests. As the alpha male in the flock he bosses the ducks around, rounding them up when it's time for bed. 

You'd hardly believe he looked like this when he first arrived. I had all hopes of him being a hen but he does make me laugh. He has such attitude.

Rocket reminded me of a joke the other day. 

A man wearing a hat goes into a  pub  and the barman's dog jumps up and takes his hat. The barman laughs and the man complains. I don't like your attitude he says. It's not my attitude the barman replies it's your hat he chewed. 

Rocket suppressed a giggle when he told me this and asked if I thought he could do  stand up.

At the moment there are these five jackdaws in the shade tunnel. They are not related but have palled up with each other. There is also a magpie and a crow but in the day I leave the door open and say those who can only walk stay those who can fly go.  The magpie and the crow go only to appear again later clearly knowing where their bread is buttered.

The Ghost Pocket rolls over on the carpet what greater gift than the love of a cat  he says my friend Charlie Dickens said that you know. I ask him how the ghost writing is going for Mr Dickens. Very well indeed he replies I've written a book for him called Bleak Mouse - it serves as a savage critique of the corrupt British legal system. 

And since I've got into writing I'd sentence you to two years for writing poor sentences. I try to explain to him that sometimes I'm using speech when I send text messages as auto correct are alway mis representing me.  Honestly I tell him it refers to our holiday let as the Pink Towel instead of the pink tower and referred to a woman from Auschwitz as a woman from Ipswich. But the Ghost Pocket pays no attention to my grammar pleas.

I've also ghost written a book for my friend Jane he continues.

Jane Austen I enquire? What have you named this one?

He gives me a haughty yet pitying look.

Purrsuasion he replied.

And did you know he then continues that in ancient times cats were worshipped as Gods and we have not forgotten this. 

I nod. I know she was called Bastet wasn't she - is she up there with you? 

Of course he replies washing a stray whisker. 

Are all cats up there with you? 

Of course not he frowns only us important cats. Humphrey the chief mouser at number 10 is here and Felicitte who was the first cat who went to space and Schrodinger's cat of course though sometimes he's there and sometimes he isn't. 

I nod. You do realise he carries on that cats are put on earth to remind us that not everything has a purpose. Oscar Wilde said that I said but he'd gone back to the book shelf to exam  my Dickens collection.

  If man could be crossed with a cat it would improve the man but it would deteriorate the cat he remarked over his shoulder. 

 Mark Twain? I enquired but he'd gone. I noticed he'd disappeared into my copy of Huckleberry Finn.

                                            out the kitchen window

To a black greyhound

by Julian Grenfell 1888-1915

 

Shining black in the shining light,

Inky black in the golden sun,

Graceful as the swallow’s flight,

Light as swallow, winged one;

Swift as driven hurricane –

Double sinewed stretch and spring

Muffled thus of flying feet,

See the black dog galloping

Hear his wild foot-beat

 

See him lie when the day is dead,

Black curves curled on the boarded floor.

Sleepy eyes, my sleepy-head –

Eyes that were aflame before.

Gentle now, they burn no more;

Gentle now, and softly warm,

With the fire that made them bright

Hidden – as when after storm

Softly falls the night.

 

God of Speed, who makes the fire –

God of Peace, who lulls the same –

God who gives the fierce desire,

Lust for blood as fierce as flame –

God who stands in Pity’s name –

Many may ye be or less,

Ye who rule the earth and sun:

Gods of strength and gentleness

Ye are ever one.