He was the king of greyhounds.

The Memoirs of Patrick.

I was a greyhound. Born at the track. I was more than you could handle. 0 to 100 meters per second in five seconds flat. Was usually first out of the gate. Then lost when my lungs said enough. I was a hundred meter guy. Made me a bum at the track. But spectacular from the start. Enough to keep me alive for a time.

Grew up in a pile of other greys. Lots of them died. They looked up to me. But I had nothing to give. Left them in a pile of the dead.

Then they threw me into the rescue mess. Waiting for people to love a grey who had learned to care for no one.

Woman came. Took me to another grey. A man was there too. He and the other grey were friends. With the woman. Then the other grey died. They stuck a needle in his arm. They had a couch. I went on the couch. Then they took me to an old lady, who was dying. She had Cheezits. She didn’t like greys. Until she liked me. She sat in a chair, all by herself, and I looked in on her because she was so alone. She gave me a Cheezit. Every time. I didn’t need the Cheezit. But she liked it so.

The man took me for a walk. I didn’t give him a chance. I bolted. We go fast, us greys. But he stopped me cold. When I started to like him.

They moved me to a house. He hugged me. I didn’t like it but I did. They took me to a park. We had a baby with us, bigger than me, a deerhound baby. A grey bigger than me growled. I told him what I would do if he hurt the baby. He cringed and shrunk away.

We lived in the house. We were happy there. There was another grey. She was awful. But the man still hugged me, which I never liked, but his arms around my chest felt good at times.

And then I suddenly died.

Only after I died could I suddenly understand what he had been saying. He loved me. He thought I was the Arnold Schwarzenegger of greyhounds, and he was going to die a little when I did. So he did. And so I did. And I miss the old lady too.