"OMG!" I said out loud sitting at a table at Taaffe's on Shop Street. It's a prominent pub known for it's original Irish Music and I was there rather early in the day having a bit of Irish Coffee. "I that an Irish Wolfhound?"
And I left my backpack, my drink, and my coat behind as I dashed off to pet him. I had to run a block and a half to catch up with him.
I've really been wanting to see one in person here. He stood taller than a Great Dane and was as shaggy as my Briard, Blyss, was so many years ago. And he was just ambling through the touristy area of the town seemingly on his own. His owner was a six and half foot tall man who did bring the dog down to size.
"What's his name?" I asked. "Can I pet him?"
"Of course," his owner said. "Go right ahead, he loves the attention! His name is Rover."
It's so odd to find yourself starstruck like that. I mean, I realize he's just a dog. But to me he was a symbol of what Irish Woflhounds meant to this area decades ago. They were actually used to hunt wolves. And they are huge, yet gentle. Rover was all that and more. And seeing him was just one more really cool thing about Galway, to me. They have Irish Wolfhounds here.
The guy at the table I'd left behind looked relieved when I returned.
"Everything's here," he said. " Right where you left it," he said.
"Oh, I wasn't worried," I replied. "I've got friends, like Rover, there, to make sure things are fine!"