For I have myself bred up a hound whose eyes are the greyest of the grey; a swift, hard-working, courageous, sound-footed dog, and, in his prime, a match at any time for hares. She[1] is, moreover (for while I am writing, she is yet alive), most gentle and kindly-affectioned; and never before had any dog such regard for myself and my friend and fellow-sportsman Megillus. For when not actually engaged in coursing, she is never away from either of us. But while I am at home she remains within, by my side, accompanies me on going out, follows me to the gymnasium, and while I am taking exercise sits down by me. On my return she runs before me, often looking back to see whether I had turned anywhere out of the road; and as soon as she catches sight of me, showing symptoms of joy, again trots on before me. If I am going out on any government business, she remains with my friend, and does exactly the same towards him. She is the constant companion of whichever may be sick; and if she has not seen either of us for only a short time, she jumps up repeatedly by way of salutation and barks with joy, as a greeting to us. At meals she pats us first with one foot and then with the other, to put us in mind that she is to have her share of food. She has also many tones of speech – more than I ever knew in any other dog – pointing out, in her own language, whatever she wants. Having been beaten with a whip as a puppy, if anyone even to this day does but mention a whip, she will come up to the speaker cowering and begging, applying her mouth to the man’s as if to kiss him, and jumping up, will hang on his neck and not let him go until he has appeased his angry threats. Now really I do not think that I should be ashamed to write even the name of this dog; that it may be left to posterity that Xenophon the Athenian had a greyhound called Hormé, of the greatest speed and intelligence, and altogether supremely excellent. |