'The Little Kritsa Dog'

  We’ve had a lot of adventures during our walks in Crete… We’ve rescued a new born lamb caught in a wire fence, found a tiny puppy in the middle of nowhere and managed to reunite it with its mother - And although we’re both experienced UK walking leaders and navigators, we’ve been temporarily ‘lost’ in the mountains more times than we can count…. (our catchphrase is, ‘We’re not lost, just exploring’) - But my most unforgettable walk by far, was on a blustery day in 2019… 

Late January. Grey skies. Gusting winds – and I was taking a brisk, last walk up the Minoan path out of Kritsa towards Katharo, before heading back to the UK in the morning. I’d been bent over my computer at the house all day - getting steadily colder while I worked – and a circulation-boosting, uphill slog was just what I needed to stretch out my muscles.

     I’d been going a little over an hour and a half – one eye on the weather and the light – no-one else about - when I decided it was time to turn around. The clouds had started to pour over the ridge of the mountain from Kroustas, and now, it smelled like rain.

      But then, as I turned and headed back down the road that threaded itself across the top of the Kritsa Gorge, something moved in the corner of my eye. Something amongst the rocks at the side of the road.

     Curious, I moved closer – and there, blending almost perfectly with the red earth and the white rock, was a small, dusty, orange and white dog with spaniel ears. He was lying on his side, one leg splayed out at an awkward angle, and there was blood on his belly where he’d dragged himself out of the road.

He looked up at me – and I looked back -

And now I’d seen him, I couldn’t un-see him again.

It was clear this dog needed help – but how to get it? I was alone, walking – and he was too big to carry. It was at least 40 minutes back to the house in the village.

I touched the top of his head, feeling the warmth of his fur, and the ridge of bone beneath – and he lifted his nose to my wrist.

It was enough.

“Hang in there,” I told him “I’m coming back”

     I took off at a run, using all the short cuts and alleys I knew to get back to the house.

Inside, I grabbed a towel to wrap him in, in case he tried to bite me when I moved him, snatched up my car keys and hurried to my parking place on the hill.

As I was driving back up the mountain, I found myself muttering over and over - “Please be alive”

     When I reached the zig-zag bends above the gorge, I hit the hazard warning lights, turned around and looked for him. It had taken me nearly an hour to get back up there – and now his eyes were glassy with pain.

I sized up how to lift him as I got out of the car and spread the towel on the back seat. He didn’t make a sound as I slipped my arms beneath him and raised him gently off the rocky ground.

     When the dog was safely in the car, I dialled one of our friends who’d been living in the village some years. “Stuart – the vet you take your cats to – do they speak English?

Stuart agreed that they did, and as I relayed the situation, he began to give me directions to the surgery. My brain registered the briefest outline, and I thanked him, rang off and took off down the mountain.

     The sun was sinking as I reached the outskirts of Agios Nikolaos – and once I was there, I couldn’t remember how to find the vet. I called again, and this time, Stuart’s wife, Rosie, was brisk and clear with instructions.

Evening surgery hours had not yet begun, so I sat with the little dog in the back of the car, soothing him with snippets of nonsense Greek while I called the number on the sign outside.

When the vet arrived, I carried the dog inside, his head lolling against my shoulder. She assessed him quickly and asked, “Are you going to be able to take care of him?”

“No, I have to go to the UK at 8.30 tomorrow morning.” 

I cut in as she was thinking, “I can pay something towards his treatment…?”

She gave him a pain killing injection as she checked him over, “No chip. You could try and find out where he belongs? There are rescue centres, but they are really already full this time of year…”

Only now did I notice what a state the little dog was really in – a cluster of ticks clinging to each ear

“But we can try?”

     The first rescue the vet called was run by a British woman called Sue. Thankfully, Sue agreed straight away that she could take one more injured stray. I said that I would call back later that evening, and delivered the dog, dazed and quiet, into a crate at the back of the consulting rooms to wait for her. When I walked away, I hoped desperately that this little dog would make it through the night.

     Later, on the phone to my husband in the UK, I relayed the drama of the afternoon - that the vet thought it was unlikely the dog would be claimed, and that I felt responsible for this little soul. We already had two rescue dogs in the UK – an energetic Weimaraner, abandoned by two different UK owners before she was 18 months old – and a placid, loveable, sofa-hound of a pointer who had been rescued from a municipal shelter in Cyprus by Paralimni Dog Pound and Rescue¹ one week before he was due to be euthanised.

Craig wasn’t keen on taking on a third dog, especially a ‘Brittany Spaniel’, a breed we’d never heard of before, who might be lame. “He’s a little dog. How would he keep up with our two?” he asked, reasonably.

     When I spoke to Sue again, she told me that Hector’s House² was funded entirely by donations and helped to rehome stray dogs – mainly to Northern Europe. It was clear she felt if this little ‘Kritsa Dog’ lost his leg, his chances of being rehomed were not high.

Sue Hawkins, who runs Hector’s House, Crete

I promised to send her a donation for his treatment now, and that I’d raise more when I got home, but that at present, it didn’t look like we’d be able to provide a home.

     In the weeks that followed, Craig and I both raised funds for Hector’s House and for ‘the Little Kritsa Dog’s’ operations.

“He needs a name” Sue said. “Any ideas?”

“Woody’s a good name” Craig said when I asked.

“Woody?”

“From Toy Story!”

So, Woody it was.

     When we flew back to Crete, Woody had already had two operations on his shattered leg and there was a cage of metalwork protruding from his shoulder, holding the bones in place. He was being fostered by another British couple, Tracee and John who also had a rescue operation called Amber’s Hope³, in memory of a dog they had lost to poison some years before. But it seemed likely this operation was not going to be a success. Woody was quiet and withdrawn when we met him with Sue at the local beach – and I watched hopelessly as Craig resisted all my attempts to get him to engage.

But then, a few weeks later, we received a video clip on Messenger -

Woody had had a third operation – and was galloping along the beach at full speed on three legs. Craig took one look, and said “Let’s call Tracee and talk some more”

     Towards the end of our video call, it was agreed that Woody would come to live with us. “Thank God!” I said – “Because I’ve already bought him a bed, and it’s in the cupboard under the stairs”

Tracee erupted with laughter “- Lucky Woody”

   Sometimes, I have ‘conversations’ with Woody about whether it was worth him losing his leg to come and live with us – and I wonder if he remembers being picked up from amongst the rocks.

I’ve searched my memory, but I can only remember one truck passing me on the Katharo road that afternoon, so Woody would have had to be very unlucky to be hit by a car. Was he the victim of an accident there, or was injured elsewhere and dumped? I’ll never know.

      What I do remember clearly, is lying in bed that night, listening to the rain beating on the walls of the house, as the storm that had been threatening all day hit hard – and being thankful that we were both warm and safe. I don’t believe it was a storm that Woody would have survived.  

     Now, when we meet people on our walks, they always want to know how Woody lost his leg. Craig has a different story each time. None of them are true.

His favourites include a battle with a crocodile on the Nile, and an encounter with a shark that got too close to land. He once told a group of small children that Woody came from the Bermuda Triangle, where all dogs are born with three legs.

When he delivers his punchline, and people realise they’ve been ‘had’, they usually look to me – “So how did he really lose his leg?”

“Listen,” I say… “It’s a bit of a story…”

Unless otherwise noted, all photographs used in Claire In Crete are copyright of the author

1. https://www.facebook.com/paralimnidogpound

2. https://hectorshousecrete.org

3. https://www.facebook.com/groups/794485610604303

Hector’s House Crete, Amber's Hope, Crete, and Paralimni Dog Pound, Cyprus, are all charities funded by donations. If you are able, please donate the price of a cup of coffee to one of them. I and the dogs will thank you from the bottom of our hearts!