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Monty and me.
Jennifer Anniston and I. Spookily alike!
I avoided Marley and Me, when the book first came out, and I gave the film an equally wide berth.
I’ve already been there, done that, and bought the slightly chewed tee shirt.
Once upon a time, I was single, house proud, and needing a fur-shedding pet like I needed dengue fever. I sat contentedly at the centre of my own neat little girly universe. My sleep was unpunctuated and serene. My carpet was a fashionable pale grey that showed the tiniest atom of dirt, but that was OK, because dirt just didn’t happen.
Then, one day, an energetic, affectionate creature bounded into my life. And his dog.
I realised, with a shock, that I had found my soul-mate. The problem was that he already had a basket-to-grave arrangement with another. A successful relationship is generally about compromise, but on the subject of Montgomery, Stuart was immoveable. The age old dilemma. Love me, love my dog.
After a number of sleepless, thoughtful nights, I hit on a cunning plan. The awful creature (the dog- not Stuart) could come to stay for the weekend, and it would become blatantly obvious that the house was simply not big enough for the three of us.
Saturday came, and Montgomery played obligingly into my hands. He was always eager to please.
A Golden Retriever is a large dog, capable of bounding to a surprising height. Being eye to eye with one is truly memorable .
He proceeded to beat up the place with enthusiasm, flinging slime across my precious soft furnishings, colliding shudderingly with doors and making short excursions outside, apparently, judging by the detritus appearing in instalments on the carpet, to eat the garden. He would punctuate proceedings by panting mistily up to me with a satisfied grin, as if to seek congratulation for the devastation. I was not impressed. The front end of a dog is something that only an enthusiast can love.
Maybe it was a law of diminishing returns, or the rather splendid bottle of claret that I opened, to anaesthetise myself against the trauma, but after a while, I became aware that the Beast was no longer in evidence. A search revealed him behind the sofa, fast asleep. The demented force of nature had unexpectedly turned into a small, vulnerable teddy bear, curled into a neat ball, eyes tightly shut against the bright sunshine. He took up a surprisingly small amount of space.
Despite myself, I thought, “Awwwww”.
I did not decide, in that moment, that my life would be incomplete without a four footed friend. The weekend brought a number of reverses – particularly when I discovered that our little visitor had a disturbing habit of barking hysterically in his sleep , but when the man moved in to stay, a few weeks later, two major items travelled with him. A brand new sound system and a three year old dog. Stuart and I married, early the following year. When one of our friends asked if Monty was going to be a bridesmaid, we were not entirely sure that she was joking.
Having won me over, the dog then launched upon a relentless career of burrowing into my soul. There was a blisteringly hot day, watching him bound tirelessly over the rocky heights of Kinder Scout, a night of anxiety (and bubbles), after he ingested a bar of soap, a dank winter afternoon driving home from a country walk, in fading daylight with all the car windows open, an ecstatically happy dog on the back seat filling the air with the aroma of stagnant water .
Once we struggled with the lead as he strained to make the acquaintance of an equally fascinated German Shepherd. As we repeatedly yelled “Down Monty!”, we became simultaneously aware that the Shepherd’s owner was bellowing “Down, Rommel!”
One day in high summer we took him to Sherwood Forest, where he attracted the attention of a party of kids with learning difficulties. They were enraptured.
Usually an incurable fidget, he seemed to understand that his place in life at that moment was to sit with sphinx-like calm, whilst the children took turns to run their hands over his warm white fur.
Unlike Marley, Monty was not a destructive creature , but he comprehensively broke my heart, when he died, unexpectedly, aged ten. Throughout his life, he had been a natural entertainer and a constant friend. He daily reminded us of the simplicity of happiness, asking little besides food, a daily walk and the occasional glass of merlot (He was a dog of sophisticated tastes.) Despite his conscientious hoovering of any object that dropped from the kitchen work surface, he taught me that there is far more to life than an immaculate house.
After he was gone, we wondered if we would ever again “give our hearts to a dog to tear”, as Kipling put it, but time is a great healer. So, for that matter, is a Golden Retriever Puppy. Enter Monty’s distant cousin, George.
He is now a cheerful, robust adult. After a walk in the country, he is muddy and vile. He suffers from the galloping alopecia of his breed. He leaves slime on the three piece suite – but –what the hey! – it’s leather and easily wiped.
I love the dull thud as he collides with doors. I am benign over unexplained appearances of plant life on the carpet. I even adore the warm mist of his breath, and the gentle brush of a damp, glacial nose against my hand. I am a lost cause. Dogs are just great.
George and I , by the grave of Lord Byron’s dog, “Bosun”