Rescue dog.

Someone, out on a walk, said, ‘Oh, you have a rescue dog - what a sad life he must have led!’

I was walking towards the Northern Memorial Park with Zorro, a greyhound.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘The racing dog eats premium vitamin-balanced food that puts the average African child’s diet to shame. He lives with other dogs, is exercised twice a day and travels the state weekly. He is groomed, cosseted, and patted by trainer, owner, spectator and admirer. He is never alone.’

The sympathiser snorted. Like a horse.

‘Then why did you rescue him?’ came the question.

‘I didn’t. He didn’t need rescuing. On the other hand, the dog left all day in the suburban back yard needs rescuing. The dog locked up in an apartment needs rescuing. Every lone dog in the world needs rescuing. He is not a Hawaiian Monk Seal, nor a Desert Turtle, nor a Snow Leopard. He is a dog. A dog is a pack animal. He will seek companionship even over food.’

They don’t listen. ‘Racing is cruel,’ came the aped response, as if heard from someone else. 

‘Not racing is crueller,’ I replied rhetorically, not literally, because racing is not cruel to begin with. 

‘The dogs have no choice in the matter,’ came the reply. Once again, the statement was trite. Philosophically you could argue that under the table, but you wouldn’t want to humiliate; that’s a step too far. People are entitled to their opinions no matter how stupid, the person or the opinion.

I once saw, a long time ago, when walking over one of those main road pedestrian crossings, a Rottweiler tied to a post on a short chain in a suburban back yard, a sad lonely existence on a hot summer day; a panting lonely dog without companionship, without water, without shelter, in the hot summer sun.

A sad, lonely, hot dog. The activists would not have seen it in a million years. Maybe they don’t go for long walks over bridges.