The Mascot
This is Ty.
Ty came to us from the rescue as a pup and carrying the moniker Ti. Ti, well he’s not made out of titanium, he has nothing to do with semi conductors, and he sure as hell isn’t a gun carrying, dope dealing, thug. So we rechristened him Ty. That’s short for Tyrone Beauregard Byrd.
Now Ty is a man’s dog, much to the displeasure of my wife. He’s not fierce or tough, but he does have a booming bark and if anyone ever breaks into the house he might scare them away, if they don’t notice his tail’s tucked between his legs. No, he’s no hell hound, but he’s a hell of a hound and he’s a man’s dog. He burps, he farts, and he makes a god awful mess when he eat’s gravy. He likes the ladies and he comes on strong even when it’s unwelcome. He’s constantly sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, literally, and he smells like a – well, like a hound dog. He licks himself and doesn’t care how much noise he makes, or who sees him. If given his druthers, he’ll sleep on the couch in front of the T.V. all day.
I love Ty, because he’s stinky and lazy. Frances hates him, because he’s stubborn and won’t keep his nose to himself. Boy loves Ty, because he’s a boy and Ty’s a dog. If you see Ty in the breakroom scratch his ears and pat his rump. If you don’t see him you’ll probably hear yelling in the factory.