An Irishman's Diary

TOOK a trip to Shelbourne Park on Saturday night to see “the wonder dog”, as he is now popularly known. Maybe news of the wonder dog hasn’t reached you yet. It hadn’t reached me either, to be honest, until I heard the greyhound commentator Michael Fortune warming to the theme on radio recently.

He made him sound like a cross between Mick the Miller and Master McGrath. Which would be a problematical cross, I know: both those dogs having been male. But then, Milldean Panther – the new phenomenon’s official name – is already being elevated into greyhound mythology, where normal rules don’t apply.

Still barely two years old, he won all 10 of his races as a pup, setting a new Shelbourne track record for 525 yards en route. Now he was stepping up to the modern classic distance of 550 and expected to make short work of the 29.21 record: set five years ago by his own father (I remember him well).

In fact, not even a sub-29-second time is deemed beyond this four-legged Roger Bannister. Consequently, Milldean Panther is favourite for everything he runs, even against far more experienced dogs.

And although Saturday’s line-up – the semi-final of Shelbourne’s Gold Cup – was easily the most rarefied company he had kept so far, he was odds-on for that too. “Six-to-four [on] the Panther!” shouted the bookies; “Six-to-four the wonder dog!” It so happened that I had my youngest son – not yet seven – with me at the race-track (if there are any social workers reading, I would stress this was an unusual occurrence: he would normally be in bed by then – honest). And he was so excited by race-time that I worried Milldean Panther had been oversold to him in the build-up.

Sure enough, this was to be the night the dog suffered its first defeat, even if it was largely explicable by his youth. Experiencing unprecedented competition from the off, he ran into what doggy men call “traffic problems” at the first bend, forcing him to brake prematurely and change down a gear.

Recovering well, he then hit the turbo-boosters on the back strait. But before you say “AA Roadwatch”, he was caught in another tailback at the third bend and by the time he emerged from it could only finish third.

That was still enough to get him into next weekend’s final, though. And if he’s as good as they think, he will learn from the driving lesson.

A feature of Mick the Miller’s career, according to witnesses, was his cunning ability to avoid trouble, as if fitted with wing mirrors and a satnav. Even negotiating vehicular traffic – a challenge for most dogs – was not beyond him. After winning 51 of his 68 races, he starred in a film and in one scene was seen crossing a road having looked both ways first. Handlers insisted there was no trick camerawork involved.

It remains to be seen whether Milldean Panther is quite that clever. In the meantime, he has already gone where Mick the Miller couldn’t by having a Twitter account. Within minutes of Saturday’s race, he – or an interpreter – was explaining his defeat in first-dog terms, and 140 characters.

My younger son was explaining it too. “The Panther got beaten,” I heard him tell his mother when we arrived home. And it’s always worrying for a parent when his six-year-old child starts talking like a bookmaker.

For now, I’m consoling myself that he probably hadn’t heard Milldean Panther’s full name. Or that, in his innocence, he had forgotten it was only a dog.

THE DUBLIN BIRD MARKETis not on Twitter, funnily enough. So it was via old media – my own eyes and ears – that I was reminded of its existence on Sunday morning, while walking near Peter Street. There, as the bells rang out from nearby St Patrick's Cathedral, a small congregation of men stood around cages on walls, enjoying the quieter music of budgies, canaries and various kinds of finch.

A bird market has existed in this general area for centuries, I’m told. By some accounts, it came from France with the Huguenots. By others, it’s at least as old as the cathedral (which dates from 1220) and, among European cities, only Moscow’s bird market predates it.

Which seemed a very weighty inheritance for the modest gathering on Peter Street. Indeed, trading was less than brisk when I was there.

Most people seemed to be just admiring the merchandise, like the man beside me who studied a pair of love birds until the owner asked him: “Will I put them in a box for you?” To which the first man replied: “Ah, no – I wouldn’t have the money you’d be looking for. They’re lovely birds, though.” And in my ignorance, I wondered just how expensive a pair of well-bred love-birds could be. A lot less than Milldean Panther – for whom a six-figure bid was reportedly refused last year – clearly. But how much? Then the owner made an offer: “Give me forty quid”. Whereupon the previously uninterested customer, without even a pretence at haggling, said: “Done”.

I’m sure he could have got them for €35, although maybe love-birds should be above such petty considerations. In any case, I hope the man took a tougher negotiating stance in the day’s other transactions in this animal-rich city. As he awaited delivery of his box, I heard him tell the owner: “I only came into town to buy a horse in Smithfield.”