In the waiting room, Finbar waits anxiously to have his stitches removed. A woman arrives with a famished-looking dog whose almond eyes dart everywhere. She looks at Finbar and beams.
“A Galgo,” she says. “He’s beautiful.” She points to her own dog. “This one will be the fifth I have adopted. He arrived two days ago.”
The skinny dog watches us. Finbar, usually so reserved, trots over, and the two dogs sniff noses. Does Finbar smell Spain on this rescue; does the fear of violent death still cling? I watch them, my big Galgo and this smaller, skinnier cousin, as they sniff one another’s faces, nothing more, and I cannot help but think of refugees, how they must never lose the fear of violent death, and how they will always recognise the reflection of that fear in the eyes of their companions in misery.
scatters cherry blossom—
kestrel rides the wind.