If your Dog Park is anything like ours, there’s a mix of dogs from really small to really big with plain old small, medium and big between the extremes. The two most common sizes are small and really big.
I don’t worry about the small ones, even though some of them are nuts.
But when a really big dog wanders anywhere near my people, I go ballistic. That’s my job. Luckily, what almost always happens is that one of my peeps bends down and scritches the big lug on the head and runs a hand along its back. Most of the time, the dog loves it and I relax. The big dog is okay after that and we usually become friends.
So when a Greyhound loped (they don’t really walk, they lope) over to see my two people, I reared back to launch a salvo of my most effective small dog barks. But I paused. Something in the dog’s eyes and attitude told me he’d be okay. And he was. What a nice dog.
He’s a retired racer, only 3 years old which probably means he wasn’t a very good racer. His name is Tiger and if you can make out the stripes and light orange-y coloring in his coat, you’ll see why Tiger’s a perfect name. I’ve been assured that nearly all Greyhounds are like Tiger, sweet, relaxed, big and fast. I think we’ll be friends. Maybe he’ll let me catch him in a race which will truly impress my friend Archie, the fearless squirrel hunter.