friends of the hound is a greyhound adoption group committed to the rehabilitation& rescue of Greyhounds in NSW

TIBERIUS (TY)

In early February, Friends of the Hound asked me to foster Ty for a couple of weeks, as he was stressed, had a bad skin condition, and needed some TLC. My beloved Dylan (a black greyhound) had died of bone cancer just before Christmas, and I wasn’t really ready to foster properly yet, but I agreed. So Ty (full name Typhoon, aged 3 years 8 months) arrived on 4 February.

Oh dear, like name, like nature. The only thing Ty and my gentle, fine-boned, elegant Dylan had in common is the colour black. Ty is big. BIG. Galumphing. Clumsy. A whirlwind. Floor rugs all end up at the opposite end of the house. The backyard looks like a bomb crater. Shoes, shirts, cushions, towels end up piled on the office floor, kept warm by a large, black Percheron chewing a fluffy slipper. His tail is a lethal weapon — not only does it cause large welts and bruises on unguarded legs, but it also makes sweeping statements over coffee tables and scythes indoor plants to within an inch of their lives.

Jenna (my 10-year-old red-fawn princess greyhound with a superiority complex) was horrified. What was this Thing? Dylan had always bowed to her — he’d leap out of her way apologising profusely and begging to be forgiven for breathing. The first time she trod on Ty all hell broke loose! In the back seat of the car, Dylan had always squeezed his body into spaces Jenna was not — now Ty (because of his size) takes up all the back seat, and if Jenna dares to put a foot on him when she overbalances, it’s on for young and old. I’m like the woman in the RACQ ad — ‘Don’t make me come back there!’ Poor Jenna is Not Amused.

But Ty barges on, oblivious to the dagger looks and ostentatious back-turning. He’s a big gangly kid — dorkish, but lovable! I bought him a fluffy pig and a lamb (Miss Piggy and Lambchop respectively) and he throws them into the air, creeps up on them from behind, and carries them from room to room like a mother panther with her cubs. His antics in the backyard keep the neighbourhood amused — he has a habit of anchoring one foot and turning half-a-dozen lightning-fast pirouettes, with a resultant cloud of dust and the wreckage of what used to be the back lawn.

Tiberius (Formerly Typhoon)  

After a couple of weeks of following my every move, dogging my footsteps, constantly being underfoot and hanging round me like the proverbial BIG bad smell, he decided he was home — so I could hardly dash his hopes, could I? In desperation I changed his name to the more regal-sounding Tiberius (still shortened to Ty) in the vain hope that he might acquire a modicum of decorum and gentility — silly me!

Ty has settled in like he’s always lived here, he’s happy and contented, and his coat is a glorious glossy black. At night he sleeps by my bed, roaching against the wall — the curtains are taking a beating, and I’m waiting for the crash in the middle of the night when he brings the whole kit and caboodle, curtains, rods and rod holders, down on top of him. Jenna now puts up with him — they actually hang out together sometimes, and sleep on the same doona on my office floor, but I hear the occasional growl and guess that there’s still a little animosity, or perhaps just a ‘Don’t push me too far, kid’ warning. He’s even teaching himself to be a watchdog — woe-betide any lorikeet that lands on the balcony rail!

He’s a darling boy, albeit BIG (did I mention he’s BIG?), and I couldn’t imagine walking around the house now without the threat of being bowled over by an overenthusiastic all-left-feet draughthorse-cross. The garden’s a series of archaeological digs and the grass will never recover from his excavations, but I’d rather have dogs than the perfect lawn any day! Vale, Dylan — welcome, Ty.