Source : the age
When I anticipated moving from the inner-northern suburbs of Melbourne to Sydney’s east, I imagined the obvious adjustments: Needing to invest in matching athleisure wear ensembles, punitively priced cocktails, shaving my legs more frequently and falling in love with jacarandas. I knew that by 9pm, the streets would be sequestered and mute.
This, I was ready for. My dog becoming a celebrity, though, I was not.
Madison Griffiths with her dog, Fil.
At eight years old, my Scottish deerhound Fil (pronounced Phil) endured many chilly Melbourne winters at my side, spending crisp mornings galloping about in Northcote’s All Nations Park alongside a faithful rotation of rescue greyhounds dressed in polar fleeces. In that area, there was a fair few hounds with bristly coats like Fil. During our nine-hour drive north along the Hume, I imagined he’d find his new harbourside life and the sand beneath his paws a welcome change.
In the six months since I moved to Elizabeth Bay, Fil has become an overnight celebrity. Because among an abounding sea of cavoodles and chihuahuas, my gigantic hound leaves a lasting impact.
Small groups follow us emphatically around the Potts Point market, doting on his every move, insisting Fil is their “spirit animal”. Aspiring filmmakers have stared at him, elated, determined to cast him as the main character in their fantasy film. I’ve heard his name shouted out on Eastside Radio, and strangers will slow down when passing in cars to cheer Fil’s name.
While sauntering through Rushcutters Bay, people will discretely “pap” him. With my hair still wet from the shower and my eyes still half-glued together with sleep, I’ve had photographers insist on taking snaps of us with their D-SLRs. Four minutes into our daily walk this morning, a stranger approached him, eager for a pat.
There’s a barista near the marina whose face lights up when he spots Fil waiting in line with me to order. Each time, by the time we have taken a seat, the barista arrives at our table cradling a bowl of his specialty “puppacino” – a small dish of whipped cream doused in cinnamon, especially for Fil.
I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t become a little overwhelming. Late last year, my boyfriend, Fil and I unwittingly stumbled into a dog show in Potts Point, where the “most popular rescue dog” category was about to be called. Naturally, I tried my luck and led Fil into the fray.
Standing next to a three-legged staffy, a mutt who had been rescued from Thailand and a handful of panting hopefuls, I didn’t think Fil stood a chance without a particularly astounding sob story. But, lo and behold, my “hairy greyhound” was crowned the winner.
Fil enjoying the harbour.
A month later, while meandering toward the markets, someone hollered in our direction. “Fil! Calendar boy!” It turned out that Fil had been photographed without our knowledge, and his picture was used in the 2025 Potts Point calendar. Come December, Fil will find himself pinned to every fridge and corkboard in the area.
Before moving, I was worried I’d struggle to assimilate. With many a tattoo and sporting a vibrant, red wolf-cut, I feared I’d look as if I had been plucked from a Brunswick barber-shop and transported squarely onto Bondi Beach, squinting my eyes while nearby locals unfurled their yoga mats and drank matcha. But with Fil by my side, who arguably looks like a wizard-turned-greyhound with a mane, I can be anybody. He has taught me that, in a world full of designer dogs, a scruffy freak is not a bad thing to be.
So far, the newfound celebrityhood doesn’t seem to have gone to his head. Despite his magnificent presence, he trots around the park. He does as dogs do and plays with all sorts: Boston terriers, golden retrievers, working dogs, dachshunds. Every turned head that cares to watch him is paired with a big, toothy smile.
He licks his lips and waits to be served a dollop of cream and a sprinkling of cinnamon. He stands eagerly on the shore of the harbour and watches the boats hover and sway.
Fil doesn’t know his size – or even that he is famous. Fil doesn’t care.
Madison Griffiths is a freelance writer based in Sydney and the author of Tissue.
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