The Camp

This short story is a tribute to Fennec, the lurcher whose every line is a drawing, from his brindle markings to his body muscles, from his maori face down to the scars testifying of a difficult start in life. Every line telling a tale, every tale building the story of an exceptional dog.

The matt, dull orange light particles scattered around by the scanty street lamps of the Limerick suburbs would have dropped lifeless on the cold and shiny asphalt, if the mist hadn’t helped them to remain suspended half way, between a black sky swollen with the October rain and the waste ground where the travellers had gathered up. Instead, they seemed to attempt an awkward, ungraceful dance to the tunes of the moist autumn wind, a wary fiddler who had obviously grown indifferent to their charm.

So the mist and the light were one and everywhere, lingering around the solitary posts, alighting on the roofs of the caravans, coating the garments, sheets and rags that invariably hung across the camp as if they ever had any chance to escape their shroud of fog or rain. An escape that, however, was hardly a commodity for anyone at the camp, from the humans in the caravans to the piebald tinker horses enclosed by and within them, to the restless and confused lurcher bitch that had been seized by the frenzy of an unnoticed, unimportant and unassisted motherhood.

So she’d lay there, underneath a caravan, in what must have been a cardboard box that had first served as suitcase and then as laundry basket, to be finally cursed and kicked out of the way by a drunken home comer in order to accidentally land under the reveller’s dwelling, and partially spread open behind one of its wheels. The lurcher bitch shivered, sat, stood, turned around, wined and voiced her restlessness, until it all began. One by one, at intervals, she grabbed them and licked them, turning around to severe the cord, after dropping the one she had been eagerly nursing before. She was infallible in picking the last born, in spite of the darkness, the cold and the moisture, the hunger and the loneliness.

The pups were all but taken aback by the circumstances. Blind and deaf as they were, in their ignorance of betting against all odds, they were determined to live. They applied themselves to suck with method and perseverance, voracious and selfish, as if they had learned beforehand a lesson that only centuries of precariousness could instil within a few instants in a newly born.

The pups were taken for granted, just like the rain and the wind. The bitch, however, had earned some credit among the few travellers who still exerted their right to a night out lamping. Hence the few morsels of brown bread, scanty and sticky spoonfuls of cold, lean and sometimes fermented porridge and the accidental bone that were carelessly thrown under the caravan by some passers-by, with quick, indifferent gestures as if to hide some kind of unmanly weakness in throwing a glance at and sparing a thought for the litter of voracious and restless lurchers.

The days went by, November came and the strongest, boldest pups were still there, with their swollen hungry bellies, attempting some hide-and-seek games among the scattered cardboard boxes, the torn and abandoned wellingtons, the mouldy, semi-unfolded hay bales and rusty tools that were lying underneath the caravan. Together with November and its first persistently chilly nights, when the long dark hours and the drizzle make human and beast seek shelter, the first mice came, looking for unlikely winter provisions that were not there for anyone. Attracted by the warmth of the jeep’s engine and by a few hay-seeds dropped by the horse feeder, they would leave the bushes growing beside the near end of the campsite to wander about, at first hesitantly, then more determined, until they began to gain some confidence, so much so that a young fellow would at times dare to patrol the surrounding area until underneath the caravan. And so it did, on one chilly miserable incipient morning, confident to remain unseen or to be confused with the low shadows cast to the ground by the fading street lamp. So it did, as light as a mouse, until it woke the even lighter sleep of the hungriest puppy, a beautiful fellow made to look bold by its blue brindle maori tattoo pattern on a fawn greyhound head, which, however, already betrayed the wide, strong and unrelenting jaw of some ancestor that at some stage must have emigrated from Staffordshire. A face made even bolder by the hopeless perspectives which were already marked and foretold by his beautiful maori drawing. The puppy looked, spotted the mouse and stared at it, tickled in his nostrils by the smell of human and animal urine which the mouse had picked on its way from its bush to underneath the jeep and further to the caravan, the very same smell which it thus entrusted the omnipresent wind with spreading in the direction of the sleeping pups. The maori lurcher looked again, while getting up, and performing a series of actions he never knew being capable of nor ever gave a second thought about. He got up, curled, focused, enjoyed the excitement and the shivers, and felt the ancient, violent rush arise and reach every single muscle of its still tender body. So he strained and sprang in the semi-darkness, blinded by desire and drive, oblivious of hunger and cold, so determined and yet so unaware of the significance of its actions. He leaped, reached and set its teeth on the terrified, spasmodically convulsive, squeaking mouse’s tail, then lifted a paw, held the tail down to the cold, wet and tarred ground, opened and closed its jaws nearly at the same time, with an imperceptible movement of the neck by which he felt the mouse’s fur under its deciduous canines. Then he nipped and squeezed, and he did it again, until he could first clutch, then fully serrate his disproportionally strong jaws, and feel the fur rip and fill his mouth, the bones creek, the flesh tear, the warm blood fill his palate, dripping down the sides of his muzzle and his throat at the same time, and there and then, on the most dejected November morning, when misery and dismay seem to be the only possible salute to one's beginning life, there - with a life coming to an end - the maori pup felt the sheer joy, the quintessential happiness and the ecstasy of the kill.

A hunter was born.

From the Memory Lane: Ch. Selvaggia di Roccabarbara

As customary in the Christmas Season, once again we visited the people at the Roccabarbara kennels, this time however prepared to face the fact that our beloved Vitaliano Cattabiani Ferrari would not be there in body. Thus, together with Sandro, one of his closest friends, we spent a few hours with the dogs and the people who are still there. And talking about the dogs, among the many memories, one especially did occur to me, and brought me back to the early Nineties…

As a fresh graduate in Modern Languages, I used to make myself useful as a ring steward and remember hearing judges from all over Europe say "This is it" when they saw this particular representative of the Roccabarbara kennels, a wonderful bitch called Selvaggia. I hadn't seen many borzois when I started with my first one, but one thing is for sure: I'd never seen so much charisma, quality and movement in any dog or bitch before, and probably ever since.

It’s hard to tell where Selvaggia’s phenotype came from. She did not look like any of the large, predominantly white old Polianka dogs which Count Cattabiani was using… Maybe there was a hint of the ancient van de Zilverstrand, a line he worked with at the very start. On all accounts, Selvaggia was different, and could bewitch anybody. It was impressive. I remember exhibitors – who later became breeders and judges – from Italy and other neighbouring countries trying at every special show (you need to win 2 special or club shows in Italy if you want the Italian Champion title) but Selvaggia would be there, just for fun, since she had won by far more than what she needed for the Italian title.

Her owner Mr D'Urso was a peculiar person. He had been able to buy Selvaggia because she was "too small" according to Mr. Cattabiani Ferrari. So he kept entering Selvaggia in the open class and blocked everyone else. There were people from Italy, France, Switzerland, Slovenia and Germany coming to the specials but they never won, no matter who the judge was. I personally remember Mr. David Allan speechless at the Padua Special in 1993. With pen and paper in my hands, I was waiting for him to say anything and he just stood there, looking at Selvaggia.

When Selvaggia was mated to Eskenazi del Marchese di Rhieti we were shocked. Before the mating I remember her owner asking for a stud service from an established breeder. This dog, sired by a European Champion, was lovely in every detail but - unforgivable fault in Italy – measured only 82 cm at the withers. Be that as it may, at the very last moment Selvaggia’s owner called the mating off and announced he had an "American dog". We were all puzzled and we waited for the offspring. At the International Show in Milan (January 1995) Aldebaran de’ Nobile Veltrus and his litter mates were shown. The pups’ names were carefully chosen among those of Mr. Gabriele D’Annunzio’s sighthounds. A sublime poet, novelist, soldier, dandy and casanova of the early 19th Century, the great Gabriele D’Annunzio was famous – among other things - for his horses and sighthounds. And Selvaggia’s owner became famous too, namely for his arrogance in adotping those names.
Such a carefully chosen set of names, however, could not prevent the drop in quality in the dogs themselves. These dogs did not seem to have inherited a single hair of their dam’s outstanding quality, and accordingly, never won anything. They quickly disappeared from the scene except for Aldebaran, that was sent to try his fortune in Russia. That turned out to be a very fortunate circumstance, as we all know, since he ended up in the hands of an influential breeder and sired hundreds of puppies, some of which are found in the pedigrees of the most successful dogs to date. But that’s another story.

Below: A wonderful bitch in the Roccabarbara pedigrees, Tchaika de Mayerling

110 Jubilee Show of the Hungarian Kennel Club, Budapest 2009

On Saturday 28 and Sunday 29 November Gitana visited the beautiful city of Budapest, the Pearl of the Danube, founded by the Romans as Aquincum and embellished by the Humanist and Italian-educated King Matthias Hunyadi and his wife Beatrice of Naples. A more or less peaceful fusion of several ethnic groups and cultures made of Budapest the symbol of a super-national Europe which existed long before the European Union and was called Mitteleuropa. A cultural environment unique to Budapest, Vienna and Trieste, a spiritual and intellectual climate that allowed for truly great achievements in the arts, especially literature, and the sciences, such as psychology.

And speaking of achievements, in a festively decorated Budapest, our Gitana was CAC CACIB and BOS at the 110th Jubilee Show of the Hungarian Kennel Club on Saturday. Unfortunately, Gitana went Res CAC on Sunday and missed the last CAC needed for the Hungarian title. But we certainly had a lovely weekend on the shores of the Danube, and enjoyed our time in an ever fascinating city.

New Slovenian Champion

On Saturday 7th November our Gitana went CAC, CACIB and BOB at the International Show in Šempeter (SLO) and became Slovenian Champion. On Sunday she went CAC and res. CACIB. We are very happy about her fourth Championship title and about the lovely days we spent at the show in good company, such as Marie Christine Dulin's and her husband Giuseppe with their beautiful and stylish Italian, International and new Slovene Ch. Russki Azart Ideal.

However, once again our thoughts go to our beloved Czardas who should have been there with us. And should be here now to enjoy the bright sunny Autumn days, the walks along the little, peaceful river and the harvested fields, the runs on the beach with the scent of the sea, and the evenings by the fireplace. There is no ribbon in the world that can make us forget his place is empty.

The Tsar's Last Chase

It is with the greatest feeling of loss and deprivation that we had to say good bye to our beloved Czardas. He went, unexpected as he came, regal, noble and full of dignity as we always knew him, leaving an empty space in the house and in our hearts. Within two fatal days, after repeated and extensive examination, it was clear that nothing could save him. So he went, without a groan or moan, without a grudge or complaint, with his unique smile up to the very last, with those kisses he had for all of us within his little family of canines and humans, and that boyish look full of love and gratitude for all the good things he had shared with us.

A natural born hunter out in the field, a true male leader in charge of his pack, and at the same time, the most affectionate and dedicated of dogs ever, the most capable of unconditional love and devotion at home, he will be missed during the years to come.

For oblivion is a haze
That shall not alight
On the Tsar’s last chase
On His Highness' flight.

Nina, Nina ljubavi

It was a crispy night in early April when the amniotic sac with the apple of our eye, Nina (Katnu Karenina) glided into my hands. The living portrait of her great-grandfather Votka the Terrible, who was about to leave us for the longest rest, she revealed herself his worthy successor from the start: A hunter in heart and soul, a jester and a tough wild little thing at the same time, she was the only one to counter the mad attacks by Fennec the Looney Lurcher, to retort to her mum’s authoritarian and dictatorial ruling, to challenge her toughest, biggest brother Kidai, and especially, to enchant us with a never ending curiosity, an innate wilderness, a free spirit that was destined to conquer if not the world, at least the mountain of Knockarea… Unfavourable logistics and human fallacy have caused us to part, on 3 July 2008, something we will always regret. We will never forget her incredulous, puzzled look when she was not allowed to join her uncle Fen, mum Gitana and three litter brothers back into the station wagon that had just landed on Welsh soil. It was therefore with the greatest joy that we received from our pen-pal and borzoi friend Masha Zarnova some lovely photographs of Nina as a young lady of 15 months! Congratulations to our dear friends Maddy Donnelly and Margaret Manning for the great job in rearing and taming this wild little beauty!

Below our Nina at three months, a picture we will never tire of looking at:

The Parallel Worlds of Coursing Sight Hounds

Once on the coursing field in Manerba, I confessed to being unfamiliar with the CACIL proceedings:
“I never went coursing like this…”
“What??” – Was the rather indignant and slightly derogatory reply by one of the participants – “And you have sight hounds!”
I could not help looking at the soft, smooth terrain, then at the well-groomed, well-behaved hounds, with their well-dressed owners in their designer sun glasses, and think of how different this was from the day of the hunt.

The Hunt at Portavaud Bay

The sun was all white light and no heat, that April afternoon, while the crispy, cold ocean breeze was still burdened with the weight and smell of the heavy rains that were arising from and diving back into the big waves out at sea. On that spring day, the rains seemed to be reserved, nearly shy, and would do their dance like banshees, far away from the coast, on the open ocean, where the sun goes to rest. Like Ulysses’ sirens, they seemed to be aware of this young, feeble star’s destiny, and would patiently wait for the sun to join them at the end of his journey.

The day, though, was still sharp. The light was blinding, the rocks shiny as coffins. It was a day that would decide of life and death, on the last nip of Irish land that would not give in to the Atlantic ocean.

The enormous, flashy, shiny vehicle of the traveller and his boy arrived slowly to the gathering, pulling an old dog cart as it followed the windy, stony coast road that would lead to the local grocery store. The foreigner was walking along the same road, with his Russian hound, the girl following with the young lurcher. They met, exchanged a few words, and proceeded towards the meadows that ended with the dark, mossy cliffs, where the wind never ceased to howl. The traveller and the boy were holding their lurchers, an older brindle bitch and a red dog of about the same age as the girl’s, and equally covered with scars and bald patches. They had a black, rough terrier too, a tiny tireless hunter whose sole desire seemed to be dedicating his foundling’s life to that of his travelling deity.

The wind was salty, and was gathering up the first clouds when the terrier started his search. Had it been up to the borzoi, the terrier’d been the first to lose his little, insignificant life on those meadows. But the foreigner held on to his hound, and followed the traveller across the fields, on top of the rocks and around the thorns that held the dry walls of ancient stones clasped together.
The girl was following too, with her brindle lurcher. Suddenly, the terrier, having gone ahead, caught their scent and yapped.
“He’s opening up” - the gypsy cried – “They’re there. Faster, now!”

The terrier was delirious with excitement, while the traveller’s lurchers sprang forward. The borzoi pulled, crouched, whined, nearly howled with frustration, as the foreigner would not trust him loose, knowing his hound would go for the nearest kill first. And so would the gypsy, if anything happened to his lurchers. Thus, he quickly passed the frantic borzoi to the girl, and snatched the lurcher's lead out of her hands. Shaking with excitement, breathless with urgency, he took the thick, wide collar off, wrapped the red nylon lead around the dog's neck holding the two ends between his thumb and finger, ready to let go. He knew their lurcher would not listen as well as the traveller's, and decided to slip as late as possible.

While the traveller's lurchers rushed on, holding their snake heads higher than the grass, the man kept an eye on the terrier, and told the foreigner to do the same. Until the first hare sprang, a brown knot of speed and terror, of blood and despair rushing through veins that suddenly seemed too narrow for so much fear, anguish and horror to flow through. The traveller’s bitch sprinted after it, mad with desire, while the terrier – aware of his task – followed her with an intent look but then carried on searching the ground, while the hunters wouldn’t take their eyes off him. Until the second one bolted. Decisions were made, within seconds. The traveller took after his bitch, following the chase while running uphill towards the wider meadows, shouting orders to the boy. The boy spurred his lurcher on while the foreigner started running with his own shouting encouragement until he was sure the dog had seen it. Then he slipped.

The two dogs had never met before but worked at unison, ignoring the nearby flock of sheep.
The gypsy's lurcher took wide, jumping on a group of rocks, to the left of the cliffs. The foreigner's lurcher took right, climbed over a smaller wall and through the thorns, streaking his flanks with blood, and then with mud, as he crawled under a cattle gate, and darted towards the second, higher wall, at the far end of the enclosure. It was there, half way through the second meadow, as if aware of the wall being there at the end of it, that the hare attempted a last, erratic twist when the foreigner’s lurcher bent, stretched, grabbed, fell to jump back on its feet, deepened its bite and shook. The hare squeaked, slipped away, fell on the ground, attempted a few steps on the legs that were still unbroken, was caught again, and again it cried, this time with a longer, feeble and shrill cry that penetrated the foreigner’s pores, prevailing on the sound of the roaring waves down the cliffs, the whistle of the incessant wind, the voice of the girl who refused to look, and the howl of the borzoi that was longing for the kill. Within seconds, the boy’s lurcher joined in, demanding his share of that life slipping away, while the boy - ecstatic, wild, travelling bird of prey that he was – arrived on the spot of the kill shouting to the foreigner to free the hare, to ‘let it loose, let ‘em dogs have another go’, another catch, a longer agony, one more deadly shake.

The foreigner’s rush decreased, the girl’s voice reached them, the ancient fury and joy of the hunter began to ebb away, and before the boy would attempt anything, he made one more decision. He grabbed the hare from the lurcher’s mouth, held it by its hind legs with his left hand, head down, and hit its cervical vertebrae with his bare right hand, like he had seen his grandfather do with rabbits before slitting their throat, down South, among the vines. The hare bent its spine upwards, its eyes shooting out of their cavities, its head shaking, nostrils twisting and mouth gasping, while its front paws frantically jerked up and down, as if seeking the ground for a last, hopeless leap.

The foreigner stood there, shivering, shaking, as if after waking up from a wild dream, uncertain whether with pleasure or horror, a raw joy rushing through his limbs as a high fever seizes a child. So he stood a few steps from the cliffs on one side, with the dead hare in his left hand, first looking at his blood-stained, ecstatic hunter panting beside him, then watching the boy, staring into his mad gypsy eyes. He stood there waiting for the traveller to join them, and finally turned to the ocean that hailed the hunt, the sky that had turned black, the wind that had soaked with water and salt as if ready to cover the prey’s cries. The foreigner looked at his dog’s catch: it was a male, big and mature. The gypsy arrived, excited, proud with the pride of an ancient, out-cast loneliness, smiling behind his steel blue eyes, with his long thin black hair loose on his shoulders. He had called the bitch back, while the terrier was waiting to resume the search. He took the hare from the foreigner's hand and said:
“Who done it? Fen. Cute one, this Fen.”
Then he looked into the foreigner’s eyes, as if to prepare him for a moment of some significance, some ritual from his outdated gypsy world:
“I want you to have this, later. We leave it for now. I’ll show you".
He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, looking a bit embarrassed for having no knife, punched a hole between the hare’s tendon and bone, in its skin, slipped the other foot and leg into the hole until the stifle was through, as to form a loop, and hung the beast head downwards on the highest thorns.
“Ay, it’ll keep the foxes away till we come back. We’re hunting now”.