The life and crimes of Tim the terrier

A summer series devoted to pet owners and their beloveds. This week: reporter Kelly Dennett pleads the case for her tearaway terror terrier, Tim.

Last year I returned to my mum’s home to find Tim the jack russell terrier cross a changed dog. Unsteady on his feet, a bit blind, a bit deaf, a bit grey, we had all watched as he’d become a little slower and a little quieter in his old age (15+).

One afternoon, as I sat next to him, gently stroking his little face, his panting slowed, his tail slackened, his eyes dimmed, and I wondered: was this it? Had Tim waited for me to return so he could quietly bow-wow out?

Then, Tim’s eyes snapped open. His paws landed, his quick pant returned with a smile. His mission accomplished, off he toddled, to his special mat, tail swinging, eyes bright. I had been duped.

Mum had rescued Tim when I was about 16. We lived rurally and mum’s walks led her to the barking cries of a pup who appeared to be locked up 24/7. Despite my pleas, we’d never had cats or dogs growing up. An assortment of lambs, calves and goats had been and gone, and mum and dad had learned that feeding and training would rest on their shoulders. Besides, everybody in the family bar mum was allergic to animal hair.

In the end though, mum managed to convince the family of this wailing, unhappy dog to hand him over. We’d give him a good home. Despite promises of a puppy, at nearly a year old and being a small breed, this rescue was fully grown, with short legs, a round tum and brown spots. He was full of energy, and tore around the house in circles, barely stopping to say hello, our presence an irrelevance. He had been named for a long-haired, brave lioness: Simba. I promptly changed it. Tim had been living with a Korean family and understood absolutely no English commands. This would not improve as time went on – Tim would ignore all commands for the rest of his life and, indeed, barked at the top of his lungs at all hours.

The only occasional inkling we received that he understood us was the look of guilt that crossed when we caught him in his latest act. The family from whom we’d ‘‘rescued’’ him promptly turned around and got another dog.

In Marley & Me: Life and Love with the World’s Worst Dog, journalist John Grogan wrote, ‘‘Dogs are great. Bad dogs, if you can really call them that, are perhaps the greatest of them all.’’ (Grogan also ponders whether there are no bad dogs, but in fact bad owners. I too have considered this.)

By the end of his blessed wee life, Tim had a long rap sheet.

Chased cars out the driveway and down the road. Escaped through gates and fences to chase cars. Chased cats. Couldn’t be off leash, ever. (During a rare moment at a near deserted beach, Tim attempted to abandon us for another family, plainly ignoring us for an awkwardly long time as we cajoled, while he inserted himself into this other group as if he didn’t know us.)

Tore down the living room curtains while the family was at the beach for an hour. Barked first thing in the mornings. Refused to leave rabbit holes. Barked at the rabbit holes. Refused to stay on his special designated mat. Ate the cats’ food. Tore apart his bed. And the next one. And the one after that. Barked at strangers. Barked at night.

For the longest time, because we had two cats (who were absolutely seething), Tim was allowed inside only as far as his mat. His refusal to adhere to this (listen for the tip-taptoeing of little claws across lino floors) saw him turfed outside, where, for heartbreakingly long periods, he’d sit resolute outside the glass doors, peering in with hopeful eyes, until the night fell and those round saucers became red and then eventually we’d not see them at all because we’d close the curtains.

After a few years I managed to dupe my mum into halfheartedly believing Tim’s behaviour was because he was lonely, and one afternoon convinced her to take home a sweet, big-pawed puppy who we named, in typical one-syllable fashion, Sam. Sam was allegedly also a terrier, but as he grew it was plain that we had in fact inherited a big, bold, staffy cross.

In the beginning Tim did seem to like having Sam around. He’d pull Sam up the stairs by the ruff of his neck and showed him the ropes around the kennel. But by the time Sam had fully grown, Tim shrunk with fear around him. Regret set in. The equilibrium would eventually return when Sam died suddenly and Tim,

having

learned nothing about interpersonal pet relationships, and eschewing faux grief, happily returned to King position, harassing the cats and running away.

When mum came to be sole charge of the pet kingdom, she often talked about her guilt that Tim was on his own all day while she worked. Even though he had shelter, a place to pee, and fresh food and water, she’d race home at 5pm every day to let him off leash, the memory of the family down the road no doubt replaying in her mind. The cats did nothing to ease this guilt. They’d learned to come and go as they pleased, opening windows at will, and often taunted Tim from the other side of the glass doors.

Lockdown eased that guilt. Tim’s entire long life reached its

brilliant peak in his senior years – when he could finally have his humans around 24/7.

He’d keep

mum and I company, trekking from one side of the house to the other as we toiled in separate industries. He did not question the round-the-clock pats.

After that first lockdown though, Tim’s demise was as imminent as it was unthinkable. His eyes turned glassy, and he hobbled everywhere. But although Tim no longer followed mum on lengthy farm walks, he still greeted strange knocks and vehicles with ear-splitting barks, still scoffed the cats’ biscuits as if his life depended on it (I promise you, it didn’t), still wandered from room to room seeking affection. Occasionally he’d boldly stare at you while lifting a leg onto the carpet.

Tim’s propensity for going on night-long rabbit hunts waned, and he stuck closer to the house, often sleeping most of the day on his special bed. Gone was the nightly marching of Tim to his kennel. Upon calling his name over and over on cold, or rainy days, we’d often find he’d taken himself off early, and was snoring happily.

By winter 2020 Tim was quietly sharing the same fireside space as the two cats and it seemed that after more than 15 years the easy-going little friend we’d hoped for had finally arrived.

At night while brewing tea I’d cover him in a blanket and tuck him in like a baby, and he’d huff in approval. If a movie ran too long he’d amble down the hallway to find out what had happened to us. I noticed that when mum exited through the front door, he’d stare at it until she returned.

In 2021 the day finally came. Mum discovered Tim with his back legs collapsed and she took him to the vets where he went quietly to sleep with mum holding him. In the preceding months both of the cats had died, one after the other.

Tim, our terror, our roaring lion, had outlasted them all.