Zoro, not Zorro.

They had told me over the phone in July that our next foster dog’s name was Zorro, but when his papers arrived it was spelt Zoro. I didn’t know whether the name was a misspelling of pulp writer Johnston McCulley’s fictional character, or an obscure reference to Zoroastrianism. I liked the latter as Zoro (the dog) was a cool, calm, peaceful creature; although when he arrived here in July there had been a scar on the crown of his head which, with a little imaginative typographical realignment, could conceivably have been a ‘Z’.

Zoro/Zorro stayed for the regulation four weeks, and was the initiator (via his presence; he didn't contribute) of a philosophical discussion about greyhounds and their role in modern society. These random debaters are confused about many things but completely uninformed on most; least of all the animal relationship theories of Kant et al, so that any discussion becomes bogged down in cliché and parroted second-hand opinion.

Zoro/Zorro returned to Tullamarine one cold Wednesday in late-winter August for his pre-adoption evaluation; and after leaving the black sleek form in the holding yard I looked back to see him gazing after me, head turned, jaw slightly agape in a kind of smile of goodbye - and was that a wistful expression in his brown eyes? Of course not. Sheer sentimentality.

Nevertheless we adopted the dog so he’s here for good. His racing name had been Superior Digby - 68 starts for 43 places.