HOMER

 

Homer may be a dog of dubious character, one with an eye to the main chance or simply an injured stray, shouted at and abused, dumped at the door of an English family, those notorious dog lovers.

We found him lying in a flowerbed below the steps to the terrace, politely waiting to be noticed. And once he was, he laid it on pretty thick: a nervous pitiful expression and that gammy leg. How we sympathised.

‘He must have been kicked or hit by a car. Look at his dreadful limp! Ooh, poorly sweetheart.’

‘Don’t feed him or we’ll never get rid of him. And be careful: he might have rabies.’

He wasn’t thin and he wasn’t fat and he wore a collar. A smooth brown and white coat, beagle ears, long legs: he was a hare hunter we were told as we asked around for an owner. We tried ignoring that baleful expression; his eyes were like those paintings that seem to follow you around, as he lay motionless between the lavender bushes but after a few hours we relented and gave him a meal. Somehow he acquired the name Homer. That evening he crept slowly, in a wobbly limping way, up the steps onto the terrace and lay supine in a patch of late sunshine looking cowed but licking his lips. We checked his leg for a wound or a tender place, manipulated it this way and that, but not a whimper.

The sun rose after a chilly May night. Homer had availed himself of a sunbed outside our bedroom doors and remained there for the day. He allowed us, in a rather regal, condescending manner, to pet him, as he stretched out in the warmth, comfy on his recliner. We told ourselves his leg needed to recover.

Of course, all our Greek friends were asked to check if anyone was missing a hound. The word went round the hilltop village and St. Nickolas port.

That night the wind blew a cold draught along the terrace. I thought Homer would appreciate a cosy rug on his sunbed and he hopped up with some alacrity after his supper. Hum, I thought, quite athletic after all.

This observation was confirmed the following morning when we set off in the car. Homer appeared in the rear view mirror, bounding with enough speed to overtake us and remaining about thirty yards ahead.

‘He seems to have recovered.’

In vain did we make sudden turns down alternative tracks trying to sneak away. Within a couple of hundred yards there he was again, careering past as if his life depended on it. We gave up, opened the boot and he jumped into the back of the car. This became the story of our days. Homer would not be left behind and was always running ahead of the car until, to prevent an accident, we called him back to come aboard. Once at our destination, he would saunter around, watching out of the corner of his brown eye as we cast off in a boat or sat down for a meal. On our return to the car, there he would be, ready to hop into the back to go home. After a week he seemed to remember what his tail was for and began to wag it. We worried that Homer was feeling all too much at Home. Soon we would return to England and what might happen to him?

Each time Richard went out for a jog, he was accompanied for a few yards before the hare-hound caught a scent and tore away across the olive groves or forest, fleet as a whippet, capable of running for miles, reappearing hundreds of yards later, to trot alongside for a moment or two before another sprint into the scrubland.

Each night Homer visited the tavernas where we dined, roaming in the darkness, one ear cocked for our return to the car. Then there were only three days before our flight to England. The stray dog charity regretted that they were inundated with the rejects of canine society, those skinny old souls who dragged their drooping teats around, the half-bald diseased looking mutts and the puppies, so many puppies dumped at roadsides.

Friends and relations, falling in love with handsome Homer on Instagram and Whatsap put pressure on us to take him back to England.

It was serendipity that a young couple, running The Old Windmill Taverna, observed the attentive figure of Homer, head tilted, sitting by our car and curious, they listened to the tale about him. To our joy they wondered if they could try him out for a night; they were thinking of getting a dog. Panniotti fastened a rope to the collar and assuring us that Homer would be kept in, asked if we would telephone in the morning to see what they had decided.

A delightful call took place in which they asked if they could keep him, as a pet not a hunting dog, telling us how he had slept near their bed and they loved him.

We flew back to England very much relieved.

Two months later, we were on the island again and decided to have dinner at the Windmill. As we walked from the car park a brown and white streak flew towards Richard and licked him, his tail like a flag, jumping up in excitement.

Homer is a great favourite at this taverna; we noticed recently that he is becoming rather tubby. Paniotti still has to catch him in the car when Homer is galloping along beside us as we try to leave. In the winter he will get more exercise, as the restaurant closes for the season. He is a lovely boy, the couple tell us. He is still called Homer.