Greebo.
In certain circles, that name conjures up vivid images of a one-eyed, torn-eared grinning tomcat – the bane of wolves and bears and, judging by the number of kittens wandering around Lancre, the proud father of roughly half the local feline population. Outside of Terry Pratchett's Discworld, however, Greebo is my adult male Bearded Dragon. He's my breeding male, so for a few months of the year there's really only one thing on his mind.
The Ladies.
Like so many of the animals that have wandered into my life over the years... Greebo wasn't chosen. He was brought to me because nobody wanted him anymore.
The reason?
"He doesn't do anything."
He does.
I promise you he does.
He just doesn't perform on command.
When Greebo arrived, he was actually in pretty decent condition. A little on the skinny side, but nothing approaching the Gizmo-level catastrophes I've dealt with over the years. No obvious illness, no major behavioural concerns, just a perfectly healthy bearded dragon who had somehow acquired a reputation for being... boring.
And that's where I think we sometimes get reptiles completely wrong.
Bearded dragons are often marketed as a bEgiNnEr species. (Yes, the capitals are deliberate.) Somewhere along the line, "beginner" became confused with "simple", and the two couldn't be further apart. They're intelligent, inquisitive, behaviourally diverse lizards with surprisingly complex environmental and social requirements. They communicate through posture, colour, movement and routine. They solve problems, recognise patterns and, if you spend enough time watching them, they quickly teach you that there's a great deal going on behind those little orange eyes.
The problem wasn't that Greebo didn't do anything.
The problem was that nobody had learned how to watch him.
People get a bearded dragon and—dare I say it—the wrong people expect what they see on social media.
Cute dragon wears a hat - Cute dragon wears a jumper - Cute dragon gets little fairy wings.
All of those things exist. Some dragons even tolerate them remarkably well.
Tolerate being the important word.
Two minutes with Greebo and I knew he wasn't one of those dragons.
The moment I lifted him from his transport box, he was bright-eyed, alert and trying to work out exactly where he'd ended up. He wasn't defensive, not really, but I noticed his beard beginning to darken ever so slightly.
Then things became interesting.
Greebo is a very male bearded dragon.
Big head. Powerful jaw. Large femoral pores. A broad, muscular chest and the sort of forearms that suggest he spends his evenings lifting tiny reptilian dumbbells.
Male bearded dragons don't simply wander around hoping to bump into a female. In the wild, they use their Jacobson's organ to sample chemical cues from the environment, tongue-flicking rocks, logs and branches to detect where another dragon has recently been. Once they've picked up the scent, their eyesight does the rest. And bearded dragons have exceptionally good vision—they'll spot another dragon long before most of us even realise there's one there.
Then Greebo started head bobbing.
Not a gentle nod. Not an acknowledgement.
A full-on, enthusiastic display that would have made a woodpecker question its career choices.
His beard turned jet black.
The colour spread down across his chest.
The orange around his eyes became brighter and more vibrant.
Now I was confused.
Was this courtship?
Was this aggression?
Was he displaying at me?
Could he see another dragon?
Had he caught the scent of a female?
Or was I missing something entirely?
For a dragon that apparently "didn't do anything"...
He was putting on one hell of a performance.
It couldn't be scent. Bearded dragons need to physically tongue-flick an object to transfer chemical cues to the Jacobson's organ. Greebo hadn't touched anything.
So, it had to be visual.
Who on earth had he seen? Then I spotted her.
Minx.
My beautiful six-year-old rescue female and, I might add, an absolutely exceptional breeder.
She'd poked her head around the corner of her eight-foot vivarium. That was it. Not the whole dragon. Not a dramatic entrance.
Just half a face...
...and one inquisitive eyeball.
Apparently, that was all Greebo needed. He immediately escalated from "pleasantly curious newcomer" to "must impress the lady at all costs."
The head bobbing intensified.
His beard became jet black.
The colour spread down across his chest.
The fiery orange around his eyes became even brighter.
He puffed himself up until he looked twice the size he'd been five minutes earlier.
Honestly...
He looked magnificent.
And then reality hit me.
I could never let this boy see another dragon again.
At least, not unless I wanted him spending the rest of the day trying to convince the room that he was the most attractive male in the entire West Midlands.
It turned out I had to be surprisingly careful with Greebo.
Other bearded dragons.
Other agamids.
Gizmo, in particular.
His own reflection.
A rock.
One of his branches.
And, on one memorable occasion...
A shoe.
I'm still not entirely sure what the shoe did to encourage him.
I did breed Greebo and I still breed him to this day. I've even studded him out to friends and colleagues. He is the most enthusiastic breeding male I've ever encountered.
Even if he is as dumb as a bag of hammers.
But Greebo came to me as an unwanted "doesn't do anything" lizard.
And, honestly, for an animal that "didn't do anything", Greebo certainly had plenty to say.
The problem was never Greebo.
The problem was expecting him to perform instead of learning how to watch.
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