Reminds us of an Agatha Christie title: Murder at the Gallop.

This is by way of thanking the very kind ladies of the Greyhound Friends of New Jersey who responded to my plea for help in getting our greyhound Rikki up the stairs.

We have tried and failed to get Rikki up the stairs. Someone suggested letting him watch another greyhound do it. What we have is a 110 pound deerhound named Raebert with legs nearly as long as Secretariat’s. After meals and other outings, Raebert comes bounding up the stairs like a herd of buffaloes. It shakes the house and when he charges at me on the couch I am always momentarily in fear he won’t be able to stop.

At full speed up the stairs and down the hall to a dead stop 1 inch in front of my face, he looks just like this.

And sounds like this:

The first 30 seconds are pretty accurate as to sound. The picture’s not bad either for a while. The guy who pulls up short would be Rikki. So be it.

You see, Rikki is — as a guy, I hate to say it — Bambi.

We’re pretty sure his daddy got mixed up in the rackets in Brooklyn and was hunted down by the Russian mob. On the second floor.

Where was I? Oh. Yes. Thanks to all the kind ladies of GFNJ. We’ve read the advice and appreciate it. Our conclusion is that Rikki is a ground floor dog and we will continue to take him for walks, visit the couch he refuses to get up on, and light candles for his father, Guido the Deer in the Headlights.

Raebert says hi. He thinks Rikki’s cool as hell.

He gets this way. His favorite song is “Song Sung Blue.” And he hates flies. But he puts up with the Stones because he loves his daddy.

“Say goodnight, Raebert.”

“Goodnight Raebert. And Rikki.”

And for those who don’t acknowledge that deerhounds are the coolest sighthounds of all. We leave you with a deerhound pic not even a greyhound can match.

The Emperor. The late Psmith.