We adopted a retired greyhound; What we got is more half pussycat, half baby giraffe

Sunday, 12 July 2026

On 31 July commercial greyhound racing in New Zealand will cease. Hundreds of greyhounds will need new homes. Five years ago former Reserve Bank Governor Alan Bollard and his wife adopted Holly. They expected a retired racing dog. They got something rather different.

Holly arrived with the quiet confidence of someone who knew she was good at her job. She had been well cared for and had earned a packet for her trainer. I can no longer remember why we adopted her, but within days we realised she was not a dog in the conventional sense.

She’s half pussycat, half baby giraffe – sleepy and placid one moment, all elbows and legs the next.

For the first few weeks we lived in mutual bewilderment. Holly slept in a crate before graduating to the laundry. There was some cleaning up to do, but that improved as she settled. She also learned not to insert her needle-shaped nose into my face while I sleep.

Surveying her new turf, Holly decided the apartment was a perfectly adequate racing track. Greyhounds can reach around 75 kilometres an hour. No damage has been done. Yet.

Most of the day is spent sleeping. She curls up and does nothing for hours. Then, without warning, she unfolds like a pop-up tent. The languid pussycat vanishes and the racing athlete reappears, streaking around the place on impossibly long legs.

Living with a retired racing dog means accepting that some habits run deep. Holly was trained to go. We have had limited success with “come back”.

My worst moment came when I let her off the lead. She disappeared into the bush at breathtaking speed, triggering a four-hour search involving six friends and a drone. Holly was blissfully unaware of the drama.

We learned her internal clock is set to dinner. Every evening at precisely six o’clock, Holly appears from wherever she has been sleeping to alert us to an administrative oversight: dinner should now be addressed.

When all pressing business has been attended to, possum meat devoured, she circles tightly twice, sometimes three times, then topples sideways into a heap of legs. It's less sitting, more managed collapse.

Some greyhounds take over couches. We run a stricter household. Holly knows furniture is off limits and obeys even when we are not there. She does, however, take one of my wife’s shoes whenever she is left alone. Always the same ritual. She selects a shoe and leaves it in the middle of the room as if she’s filing a formal complaint.

Holly can spot another greyhound instantly. They approach, carefully sniff, then stand together in awkward silence like two teenagers waiting for someone else to start the conversation.

Other dogs fascinate her. She watches them carry sticks, chase balls and plunge into the surf. Occasionally she tries to copy them, but always like someone who has arrived halfway through the game without knowing the rules.

Greyhounds carry very little body fat, which makes them poor swimmers and not particularly buoyant. Holly enjoys long walks instead and inspects every smell with forensic concentration. Usually other dogs' urine.

Holly feels the cold and has a growing collection of jackets. She also has a rather fetching pair of pyjamas. My wife cleans her teeth, trims her nails and treats the corns on her feet. Holly's, not my wife's.

Barking is rarely part of the conversation. Instead, she greets me with a cavernous yawn that involves her entire body. I am not sure why I find this a compliment, but I have started yawning back.

We took on a retired racing dog. What we acquired is an extraordinarily gentle companion who sleeps a great deal and quietly rearranges our lives.

We live on her terms.

Unless she sees a rabbit.

Dr Alan Bollard CNZM FRSNZ is Professor of Practice at the School of Government, Wellington School of Business and Government. He was the inaugural holder of the Chair for Pacific Region Business and served as Governor of the Reserve Bank of New Zealand from 2002 to 2012.