Rescue Dog

What on earth is Jimmy doing?

- Amanda Evans-Nash

I raised my head from the pillow. My husband, Graham, and I had been lying in bed that June morning at our home in Kinross, Scotland, when our greyhound, Jimmy, shoved his wet nose into my armpit, sniffing around as if it was his job.

“Stop—that tickles!” I said, pushing him away.

But Jimmy was relentless. Sniff, sniff. What had gotten into him?

Our sweet Jimmy was usually so polite and docile. That’s what first drew me to him two years ago at the Greyhound Rescue, where I continued to volunteer every Thursday. Many of the former racing greyhounds were nervous and unsure of how to be pets when they first came in. Their lives in the racing world were difficult—they were muzzled and kept in cages up to 21 hours a day, raced twice a week, then dumped by their owners when they were no longer profitable, at about three or four years of age. They tugged on their leashes, paced their enclosures, barked loudly and shied away from new people.

But not Jimmy. I first spotted him resting quietly in his crate in the break room one day, shortly after he came in. I turned to one of the senior volunteers. “Why is he in here?”

“Jimmy’s so mild that we’re keeping him away from the others,” she said.

He’s adorable. I thought. A skinny, black-and-white beanpole of a pup. He was so peaceful, regal even. And so well-mannered!