Yesterday evening, I went to the dog run with Topsy.  As we walked down the hill towards the lake, I was knocked to the ground by one of a pair of Irish wolfhounds that must have been doing about 30 mph (50 kph). I’ve injured my knee so painfully that I can barely walk, and I spent today in bed. The wolfhounds were bigger than a Shetland pony, probably four or five feet (1200-1500mm) tall at the withers.  It had no trouble in flattening me.  In fact, it was so intent on pursuing another, smaller dog that it probably didn’t even notice as I went down. Even after I’d hit the ground with a cry it went charging along like a freight train. No thought of an apology or a dusting down of the frail old codger. Enormous bodies and appetites, Irish wolfhounds, teeny-weeny brains.  In typical Norwegian fashion one of the ten-or-so onlookers asked me which of the Irish wolfhounds was to blame, the small one or the big one?  “The big one”, I said.  They both looked about the same size, actually. “Oh no,” he said, “it was most probably the smaller one.”  “So why did you ask?” I said, like I wanted to stop for a dog-spotting lesson.  As I limped back up the hill and homeward the woman who appeared to be the owner of the dogs asked me if my knee still hurt.  “Yes, it does,” I said, thinking that on Monday, if this were the USA, I’d probably be suing her for several million dollars.  Next time we go to the dog run I’m wearing cricket pads and a motorbike helmet.

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