My greyhound doesn't realise. My greyhound doesn't realise the extraordinary length of his face. He might have a depth perception fault, or maybe misjudges space. He's whacked his snout on chairs and tables, on banisters and doors, and yet somehow with his face in the way we still step on his paws. My greyhound doesn't realise just how fast he can run, he whips past unsuspecting folk like a bullet from a gun. He must have so much energy, the other dog walkers say. They don't know he sleeps on the couch about 18 hours a day. My greyhound doesn't realise that he is made of elbows. He's all sharp points and protruding ribs topped off with a big wet nose. While it's cute for a minute or two when he cuddles up to me, I come away with indentations and welts from Chesterney. My greyhound doesn't realise that he's actually quite big. He'd get to oz quite quickly, if he were disposed to dig. And with his size he doesn't mean to scape potential friends. He chases them. He thinks they're playing. They think they've met their end. My greyhound doesn't realise we can't always be at home, and sometimes there are good reasons why we leave him on his own. We're never gone for very long. We learnt that, November 4th. We came home to rip it up linoleum and bite marks on the door. My greyhound doesn't realise that he's very lucky indeed. Some greyhounds just would not come back if they were let off their lead. I hope he's long forgotten, his traumatic life before. I hope in his retirement he could hardly ask for more. My greyhound doesn't realise just how expensive he can be, but that we'd never compromise from vets to tailored feed. He doesn't even realise that he fits us like a glove. But somehow I hope he realises just how much he is loved.