He's doing fine. He's very easy. He's settled right in and is no trouble at all.
I did a search on his name. I didn't find any Afghani connection, but plenty of Persian, Iranian ones. I don't know (I should investigate this) how much of a connection there is between the Afghani and Persian languages (I vaguely know that more than one language is spoken in Afghanistan.) There was verification of the meaning - I found two references to 'vahshi' meaning "wild".
Vahshi is far from wild! He is seven, after all. Though I can detect traces of his wilder younger self at times. He's very interested in the cats and does a little bit of chasing, though he stops as soon as I call to him.
He's scared of our staircase. He was an outdoor dog, in western Sydney, in an area where there aren't many two-storey houses. So being inside must be strange for him and then being asked to climb a steep staircase to go to bed is too much. He balks at it and runs away, looking frightened. We have to push him up.
When I'm home, he follows me around and lies at my feet. Harry used to do that too, though in a more anxious way. Lottie doesn't do that - she's much more self contained. I think that's a gender difference in staffies - the boys are more dependent and veer between machismo and timidity. The girls are no-nonsense butches who take their central position in the household for granted.
Vahshi sleeps in a basket in our room and he sleeps very deeply. He's in that basket from 11pm to 7.30am and doesn't move! When we get up in the morning, he sits up but stays in the basket, waiting to be told to come downstairs. The ideal dog!
I've been able to tether his lead several times when we're out (at the school, at the entrance to a shop) and he just sits there and waits. I took him to soccer training the other day and he lay down on the grass beside me. If you'd known Harry, you'd realise how miraculous this is. Harry would go into a frantic barking fit if he was ever tied up or left alone, even within eyesight - when he wasn't barking, he was chewing his lead in order to get free.
I ran into another school mother who has a staffy the other day for the first time in months. She was surprised to see us with two brindles - I told her that Harry had died. "He had such personality" she said. Which is true. Although I'm appreciating Vahshi's steadiness, I also miss our little clown, the way he would spin in circles of excitement when I brought his dinner out.
This woman told me about another lymphoma death - of the man whose dog sired her dog. Richy was a gay man who we met several years ago through our dogs in the park. We'd bump into each other in other places too and became friendly. I knew he was ill. I hadn't seen him for months - this, it turns out, is why. His dog has gone to live at Byron Bay. He was a remarkably handsome staffy called Frank. I've been thinking of Richy today, so I'll post this photo of Frank, as something to remember him by.