Treacle

Treacle came to us after her racing days were over. Don’t let the name fool you. On the track, she’d been lightning. Sleek as a shadow, graceful as a dancer. But when we got her, all that was behind her. She was six, all limbs and long naps, with a slightly wonky ear and a look in her eyes like she'd seen it all. We didn’t expect much activity. Greyhounds aren’t like other dogs. She was calm, quiet, moved like silk when she did bother to move. But most of the time, she slept. On the sofa. On her special cushion. In the patch of sun by the patio door. If dogs could get degrees in loafing, she’d have earned a first. But here’s the thing: when she slept, she ran. Legs twitching, paws pedalling invisible ground, chest rising like wind in sails. I always said she was chasing phantom hares in her dreams, back on the track, in the prime of her life, free from the aches of age. I liked to imagine she won every time. She had her quirks. Wouldn’t sit, greyhounds rarely do. She’d lean instead. Stand beside you, rest her head on your thigh and exhale like the world was finally right. She never barked. Not once. But she’d huff dramatically if dinner was late, or if you sat in her spot. In her final months, her legs got stiff, and the dreams came less often. But she still watched the birds through the window, still accepted a biscuit with polite delight. The day she left us, she was curled up, warm, still. Peaceful. I like to think she’s still running somewhere now. No finish lines. No cages. Just wide open fields, cool grass underfoot and the wind in her ears. Sleep well, Treacle. You were never slow to love.