The Greek Goddess

When we first met Iris, she was standing on a veterinarian’s table with a thermometer up her butt.

“I know you just lost a dog,” our friend had said over the phone, calling from the Adams Animal Clinic, where she worked. “You should come see this one.”

The dog was a beautiful jet black and looked like some type of shepherd mix. And she had a remarkable history: She had spent the first year of her life as a street dog in Halkida, Greece! Halkida is a beach resort area. In summer, the street dogs were well fed from handouts and restaurant waste. But when the beaches closed, so did the food supply. A good Samaritan had befriended a small pack of 3 dogs and was trying to keep them alive despite the dearth of tourists.

Other neighbors, however, had a different solution. Two of the pack died from the poisoned meat set out by residents who saw the dogs as a nuisance. This dog was the only survivor.

Our friend’s instinct had been right. We took the dog home straight from the vet. We searched the web for names befitting our majestic girl, and in a list of Greek goddesses, we found the name Iris.

Iris was like none of our other animals; she was just a wild spirit who lived with us. As you can imagine for a dog who did not want to be restrained, taking her for walks was a challenge.  It took a few months for her to calm down, stop pulling, and enjoy the stroll.

Once Iris accepted our hospitality and settled in, she and I walked around the neighborhood streets, a mile and a half every morning, for 13 years regardless of weather.  Only twice did she not want to go that far—both times it was below zero outside.  I could never go to the woods and let her off leash; the few times I tried that, she immediately disappeared and it took me hours to find her.  One time a friend and I walked our two dogs 15 miles from Lynn to Burlington.  At the end of the walk I was exhausted. As soon as we got to my yard and let the dogs off, Iris and Sydney started chasing each other around the yard.  15 miles was not enough for them!

Iris had the perfect silhouette of a pharaoh hound, an ancient breed seen in Egyptian hieroglyphics and primarily found in the Mediterranean area. They were bred for racing and hunting rabbits. Except for her color, she looked exactly like one, long neck and all. Iris was the strongest, fastest, most athletic dog we ever had. She had survived in Greece by hunting, and she never lost that instinct. She caught everything in our half-acre yard: rabbits, gray squirrels, red squirrels, a flying squirrel, chipmunks, mice, voles, moles, shrews, a groundhog, possum, and even a cat (which I managed to wrest from her before she killed it). Everything was a squeak toy. When it was done squeaking, she was done playing. The only exception was rabbits; for Iris, rabbits were food. I honestly believe that came from her pharaoh hound DNA.

Iris seriously challenged the idea that we had a “fenced-in” yard. When Iris wanted to run and hunt, our six-foot-high fence was no obstacle! She would never come when called; she would just return a couple of hours later. The neighbors all loved it because she chased the rabbits out of their gardens.

We finally had an 8-foot chain link fence installed. The installers couldn’t wait to see if it would hold her. As soon as it was up, they asked us to let her out. Iris charged across the yard at full speed, hurled herself into the air, hit the fence 7’ up and fell to the ground. Proud of themselves, the men left for lunch saying would tidy up when they returned.

Iris passed them as they drove up the street.

It had taken her one minute to dig under the fence and escape. I spent the rest of that summer installing chicken wire under the fence around the yard.

Iris spent 14 years with us. She never played with toys. She rarely socialized with our other dogs except for when they chased her. She always preferred to be outdoors—in the real world.

One day when she was 14, Iris stepped off the couch and collapsed. Her rear legs did not work; she was paralyzed.

We rushed her to the vet. She was too old for spinal surgery at that point, and the doctor suggested pain medication and an anti-inflammatory. She also said, “I can do acupuncture,” and we were encouraged by the possibility that the needles might help. Iris underwent acupuncture weekly for two months.

That night and the next were awful. Iris couldn’t move; she was incontinent. I really thought we would be putting her down. On day three, I was able to lift her rear half with a scarf and she waddled outside and was able to pee and poop. “OK,” Jane and I said. “If we can do that, let’s give her a few more days.”

Iris got one tiny, tiny bit better every single day. I slept downstairs next to her for 8 weeks, taking her out in the middle of the night and slowly letting her support more and more weight on her rear legs until she was finally able to support her own weight. We even found a chiropractor who treated dogs; we took her every two weeks after the acupuncture was complete for the rest of her days. At about 12 weeks, Jane and I were upstairs in the kitchen when Iris appeared. “Well, I guess you can do stairs now!” I said to her, scratching her between her ears.

I was able to go back to sleeping in the bedroom with Iris in her crate next to me.

Iris lived another year before passing away in June of 2022. She was able to do short walks. She ran a little bit with a gait that looked like her rear legs were tied together. She never whined or complained through any of it. She still preferred to be outside, lying in the sun.

Iris and I walked a lot of miles together. I loved that dog, and I miss her to this day. She taught me a lot: to appreciate the outdoors, to respect a wild spirit, and to take injury—and healing—one day and one step at a time.

Bill Boivin is a scientist, retired from 30 years of active duty with the United States Public Health Service.  He is a Burlington Town Meeting Member and Conservation Commissioner.  He and his wife, Jane, grew up in Lynn and now live in Burlington with their 2 mini dachshunds, 7 chickens, and Maya, a ball python.  Bill and Jane have shared a love of nature, gardening, and wildlife for over 50 years.  They have fostered, healed, raised, and loved a remarkable variety of animals in their time together. Learn more about Bill