MONTY

A Story From My 92 year old Father’s Fourth Book

My yellow Labrador had died at an early age and I was anxious to find a replacement. An advertisement brought forth the knowledge that a litter had recently been born in the north midlands area, and the young lady breeder would welcome my visit. She was an employee on Lord Kilbracken’s estate in Co. Cavan, an area with which I was not too familiar. Arrangements were made for a viewing and possible purchase on the following Saturday afternoon.

It was early March and, despite the weather forecast threatening snow showers to follow the severe gales of the previous week, my friend and I set off for unknown territory, complete with maps. As we moved northwards the weather deteriorated considerably. It began to snow quite heavily at times, the roads were of poor quality and, to cap it all — we got a puncture. All of this delayed us more than we wished, and it was quite dark when we at last drove through the entrance gates of Lord Kilbracken’s estate. We were to rendezvous in the stable yard and follow a difficult path along the avenue, strewn with branches and some trees, casualties of the previous week’s storm. When we reached the house, all was in total darkness.

The dog-breeding lady in tweeds and jodhpurs greeted us with a storm lantern and explained that the electrical supply had not yet been restored. She led us into a large kitchen lit only by a few candles, which lent the appearance of some dark, mysterious cavern. The only other occupant was an elderly woman who offered us food and, after a period of sitting in the gloom round the fire of the big, old-fashioned range, she produced some toast and baked beans, washed down by strong tea.

Following the meal, we inspected the puppies as best we could by lamplight, and I selected one of the remaining three available for no particular reason other than that he took a fancy to clawing the bottom of my trousers and seemed livelier than his siblings. A deal was agreed, the pup was installed in the back of the car, and we drove out of the yard to leave. By this time, the snow had stopped, and the sky had cleared to warn of the coming frost.

We made slow progress over the hard-packed snow and pulled in at Ballyjamesduff to inform home that we were considerably behind our estimated time of arrival. This was a wise move as we were from that point engulfed in a heavy fog, which reduced our speed to a crawl. For much of the journey, the new pup yapped and squealed, leaping about in his straw bed, which did nothing for our concentration. Only within about ten miles of home did the fog lift, and we finally reached our base in the early morning hours.

As I quite soon became familiar with the personality of my new Monty (he was officially Monty the second, his predecessor being Monty) I sometimes thought that the circumstances of the journey to acquire him were a sort of harbinger of the dog himself. From the beginning, he proved both intelligent and strong-willed, making it plain to me that if I wanted him to comply with the normal rules of behaviour I was going to have to work very hard to achieve it. He grew into a most handsome dog and, despite our periodic disagreements, we formed a close bond, and I felt that he was as glad to be with me as I was to be with him.

I suppose he was barely twelve months old when he disappeared the first time. Two days and nights passed of very severe weather, and despite combing the area within about a five-mile radius, there was no sign, nor knowledge, of him. Feeling thoroughly wretched, I had a last look out on the third night before going to bed, when he suddenly materialised out of the darkness and greeted me as though he’d never been away. He was dirty but otherwise unscathed and obviously hadn’t eaten while away. I never knew where he had been, but this episode was the forerunner of many. In time, I got to know the location of some of his haunts and became used to telephone calls, usually late in the evening, to say, “Your dog is here; you better come and fetch him”, his own travels, and from car journeys with me, Monty became entirely familiar and self-serving. At first, I feared for his safety in traffic but, in time, I realised his complete competence. Many times, he not being around, I would drive into town on my own, a journey of about a mile, and would be greeted in the street, or a shop, by Monty, who had preceded me and was thoroughly delighted to see me.

We had a local bus service, single-decker, which plied at hourly intervals between the town and the next village, some four miles apart. The use of this became Monty’s ‘piece de resistance’. An elderly neighbour used to board and alight from this bus outside our gate. With encouragement from her, he would accompany her to the town and then go his own way. At first, he made his own way home until one day, he joined her at the return bus stop and travelled home in comfort. From then on, if it suited him, he would turn up at the bus stop and travel home solo, being let out at our house on arrival. He was as well-known to both driver and conductor as any of the regular human passengers.

The years passed, and sadly, Monty began to suffer from arthritis, as so many of his breed do. I had a veterinary friend who used his expertise by manipulating treatment on occasions to control the complaint, but eventually, as with all animals, I was faced with the fateful decision. I left Monty with my friend as we departed for a family holiday as a cowardly way of trying to reduce my feeling of loss for the twelve years of pleasure we had shared together.

From “Fact and Fiction”. Raymond Tarleton 2021