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Irish Wolfhounds

The dog of Bards and Queens

This is a photo of my hound Nemo, on the hillside at my home. His ancestors lounged on the hearths of castles, he guards my little bungalow by maintaining a vigilant eye from the oak woodland above it.

I had always thought that some day, when I was a real grown up and had gone to live full-time in Ireland, I would have a cottage and several of these wonderful dogs around me. And then one day I just couldn't wait any longer. So I joined the Irish Wolfhound LIST, a daily posting of comments by owners, breeders and enthusiasts for this breed.

I listened and asked questions and was very fortunate in having the list moderator live close by, so I could visit him and his Braveheart hounds. Alan Cowen died last year and the world of Irish Wolfhounds lost a great man. He was my dear mentor and always had time to educate and counsel me, and guided me to a breeder of quality dogs so that when Nemo was born my dream was fulfilled.

He was a little silly looking then.

It does seem the duty of everyone who owns these amazing beasts to tell potential owners all the negatives, so the dog won't end up abandoned after the home turns out to be too small, or the owner leaves them alone too much and they are unhappy and chew things...... they are velcro pups, they like nothing better than to be the heartbeat at your feet. When they are 40# pups that is one thing, but when they are 150# + adults and they still want to be beside you at all times, tangling your legs as you cook dinner, wagging their 3' tail into your friends crotches, reaching over (not up) and clearing the food off your plate on the dinner table with one mighty sweep of the tongue, sleeping beside your bed and snoring and occassionally giving forth (while sound asleep) with a weirder than truth moan that is every bit the spine chilling howl of the hound of the Baskervilles, and of course there's the issue of who can resist feeding them food treats which cause them to be powered by methane gas........

but to walk down the street and rest your hand on your dog's shoulder without having to bend over, to see any potential bad guy give a wide eye and a wider detour, to have an utterly trustworthy and steadfast companion animal that is the symbol of the ancient Celtic nation..... what could possibly be better!?!

More than one!
OK, so we know the word for when there are a gaggle of geese, a murder of crows, a pride of lions. But what is it when you have two or more Irish Wolfhounds in one place?
I couldn't resist coining it:
an EXTRAVAGANCE of Irish Wolfhounds.

So here she is, this is Nemo's lovely young wife Orla. In this photo he is 3 years old and she is 3 months. Child bride, lovely red wheaten color, a tawny lioness against his oak-bark dark gray brindle.
He's already exhausted!

And he tries to be the good husband, but like any redhead, she gets her own way!

They say that Irish Wolfhounds grow UP for a year and a half (getting their height VERY quickly), then OUT for a year and a half (getting their bulk and adult weight), and then on their third birthday they get their BRAIN.
Nemo was very lucky indeed. He got a wife for his birthday!

They get along well. Dream date! This is Orla at 6 months... someone told me they are the fastest growing land mammal, and if they aren't they're close to it.

And here they are with Orla almost a year old, now she's bigger than Nemo,and they are giving the camera their best gleameyed Baskerville glare. but you can see they're quite happy together, in their role as tattoo parlor greeters and bouncers.

Here they are with a fan who is so loyal she got an armful of Irish Wolfhounds!

I will post more pictures here soon. Or you can come visit them at work in the tattoo studio, they are both there with me almost every day.

But what it is like to be owned by such magnificent beasts?

I take my IWs everywhere, and almost everyone who sees them has to blurt "Big dog!" at least once. Or "Perro Grande," since I live in the land of Panics. I take a certain semisadistic pleasure in telling people who ask "What kind of dog is that?" that they are "Baskervilles." That'll keep them from being able to find one in a pet store! Then I walk quickly away to avoid hearing the inevitable "They're as big as a horse! You could ride them." Which of course is patently untrue, they are possibly approaching the size of ponies, at most.

Then there is the undeniable truth that dogs wanna check your oil. Having their noses located conveninently at crotch height makes for some interesting encounters. Yesterday a mother from Alabama watching her daughter get a tattoo squealed at my female IW "What do you smell? What do you smell?" as Orla buried her nose in the woman's crotch. It was all I could do not to bellow "She smells your ____" but, hey, that would have been overstating the obvious.

And what about the people who say "Oh, how long do they live?" when introduced to the hounds? I mean really! What a depressing thing to dwell on. Every day with them is worth a week with a chihuahua! Make that a month!

I confess that I have those days, not often but they happen, when nothing will do but that I dress the Baskervilles in tshirts. They wear XLs easily and I put a rhumba-girl knot at the waist to cinch it in the tuck up. It may start out as "Humiliate Your Pet Day" but quickly becomes infinitely amusing, as we weave our way thorough the tourists and locals, who cut a wide swath for the tattoed lady and her beasts. Somehow people take them more seriously when they are wearing clothing. I suspect, since I'm close to Hollywood, they may think it is people in costumes.

And I think anyone who is wanting to learn about what it is like to be owned by an IW needs to spend a day in high public contact with one and see if they can stand it. Last week as I sat having dinner at the harbor with clients we counted 17 DIFFERENT people who walked by in the 2 hours and ALL made a comment about horses. It is rather as if they'd all been issued the same reactive script, and feel no compunction about blurting it out unbidden. If you are a shy and private person walking an IW around will either cure or kill you. No one will ignore you then!

Sort of like having a lot of visible tattoos, as a matter of fact. The public feels that stepping outside the norm gives them the license to intrude on your reality.

More than once I saw my dear departed IW mentor Alan Cowen defuse an agressive pit bull owner's violent boasting with a calm and rational description of how an IW can pick a dog up and snap its neck with one shake of its head. Aggro people with aggro dogs often stop and stare and let their dogs strain on the lead, as I stand in a braced position holding my split lead and shouting "Keep moving, dimwit!" as my mild-mannereds instantly go into 300-plus pounds of "fierce when provoked mode." Not pretty, and never something you want to elevate into a contact blood sport.

So there's my dog rant, and if you come to get a tattoo at my studio there will always be more recent tall tail tales.

My good correspondent Dave Carmody recently waxed poetic on the origin of the Irish Wolfhound, and I append it here. Tremble in fear mere mortals who would consider attempting to tame and be owned by one of these mighties:

"Yes, It's coming to me now. Why yes, in the evolutionary process these two fine beasts are actually part equine and part canine. Ancient texts indicate them to be a mix of Lippanzer stallions and Celtic battle hounds. Truly one of natures stranger twists. They were used as valiant steeds by the wee people in the battles of Middle Earth and of the 200 Year Bog War. Unfortunately they came to crave the tast of Human and Orc flesh from feasting on the fallen on the battlefields. For many years they ran wild killing not only sheep, but shepards, as well and dashing into villages to snatch children and the elderly. They were then hunted almost to extinction save for several breeding pairs that were smuggled by Gypsies to remote areas of the Black Forest in what is now Germany. They have been bred and trainied there for centuries, sold only to eccentric and exclusive clients in places like South Africa, Croatia, Paraguay, Maccau, Burma, Sri Lanka, and......Santa Barbara. You got your two in trade for some tattoo work you did on an elderly German man with a lightning bolt tattoo who has been living in Paraguay since 1944. Although they are generally well behaved they get excited when walking by cemetaries, riding in the Hearse, or anytime they are hungry and near Humans. You try to keep them well fed at all times because of that unfortunate incident in 1999. Funny how nobody ever came asking about that drifter."

Yikes!