Monty

He was the runt of the litter, that was obvious.  All the rest had already been sold and here was the remaining pedigree black Labrador puppy, a little smaller and a lot less smarter than his siblings.  But we were ecstatic.  For years my father had stopped on innumerable journeys and announced that he was going to see a man about a dog and my juvenile heart had soared in happiness every time.  Perhaps we were going to get a dog at last, but of course it was a euphemism for taking a pee.  Such was my longing for a four legged pet, that my heart still hoped that just maybe this time my Dad was actually stopping the car to see a man about a real dog.  So to find ourselves looking at this real little fellow was heavenly.  We didn't mind if he was the runt, he would be our Monty.  And so it was we took him home and into our hearts and he filled our hours, days, months and years with glee. 

His stupidity was legendary.  All it took was my Mum to go to the hairdresser and he didn’t recognise her.  He either forgot when he’d been fed or just remained ever hopeful because he invariably greeted you with a huge empty biscuit tin in his mouth looking both mournful and yet eager.  When we left him at my grandfather’s farm he consumed an entire bucket of pig meal and swelled up like a balloon and had to be raced to the vet to be saved.  For years after that, my grandfather shook his head and muttered that he’d never met a more stupid animal, every time Monty’s name was mentioned. 

He was also the smelliest dog and I remember using roll on deodorant on him to cover his natural aroma.  Washing served only to urge him into a sweat of feverish excitement, as Monty found water second only to food on his list of favourite things.  It could be a puddle, a river, the sea, an inflatable pool, a bath of soaking sheets – he was not fussy.  He loved them all and would throw himself in head first in total abandonment.  Despite threats and shouts and curses hurled at him he would jump in with a yelp of, “I know you don’t want me to, but it’s gonna be so great!” 

His good nature was equally legendary.  He forgave everyone anything.  He was simply incapable of holding grudges.  Either that or his brain capacity was such that it could not hold on to information for long enough to remember the offence.  His approach to the world was a combination of ecstasy,  “there is my food bowl” and complete abandonment to the moment,” here is water, it’s a river and I’m diving off this bridge”.  Restraint was just not in his vocabulary.  Even when told to sit he would do so at an angle with his hind leg hanging out and his tail beating furiously.  Come on you are killing me with laughter, he seemed to be saying, and gradually the shaking tail would become a moving body and then he’d be on the move towards you, so grateful that you were speaking to him.  Then, he couldn’t stop himself jumping up on you, to show how much it meant to him that you spoke.  Sports were also popular with Monty.  He took down my uncle Junior with a flying tackle during a fun game of rugby.  Poor uncle Junior was fly swatted by six stone of flying Monty and lay winded and bruised in the long grass. 

You know, when it’s said that animals are better than people, I get it.  Monty was by far the most good-natured member of our family.  Heads and shoulders above any of us.  He bestowed his love lavishly, slavishly.  If you were not careful you could indeed drown in the saliva of his love.  I am grateful that just once in all the car journeys and stops we made, one memorable day my Dad actually did stop to see a man about a dog.  A really lovable dog called Monty.