Monty and Me: A heart-warmingly wagtastic novel!

I creep up, as quiet as a mouse – or a rat – although Betty has to be one of the chattiest rats I’ve ever met. I’m making good progress when the tread of a middle stair makes a rasping sound. I lift my paw and freeze. Rose’s breathing is still a slow rhythm. She hasn’t heard. I continue and hit another loose floorboard and this one makes a terrible screech. Again I freeze, paw raised. Rose’s breathing pattern remains unchanged.

On the landing, I find only one door is shut: Rose’s bedroom. There are three other rooms. One is a bathroom – I smell drains, toilet cleaner and fruity shampoo. I tiptoe in to find an ancient bath and basin in a very stylish yellow, something like the colour of vomit, and a toilet with a split wooden seat. Dangling from the chain-pull is a rubber basin plug instead of a wooden handle. There’s a mirror above the basin, the surface mottled with damp. I peer up at some shelves littered with lotions. But I can’t see a torch. A silvery face suddenly appears at the bathroom window and I jump backwards, almost knocking over the bin. It’s that same squirrel again, tail flicking aggressively. What is his problem? To confuse me further, I swear I can hear him humming the theme tune for Mission: Impossible. I remember it from the time Paddy and I watched the movie together on TV.

I back out and am about to enter an empty bedroom when I detect something I’ve only ever come across once before: the smell of a human sickness that causes people to waste away and die. It’s not easy to describe but it’s like a mix of sunburnt human skin and rust. I back away. I really don’t want to go in there and it takes all my willpower not to whimper. It’s faint so I know the person isn’t there any more. I pace round in circles, willing myself to get on with the search, and, holding my breath, I enter.

The room has curtains and a bedspread in matching florals. The double bed has a carved wooden bedhead. Dolls in dresses, with glass eyes and long eyelashes, are arranged on the bed near the pillows, and a tasselled lampshade over a reading lamp sits on the bedside table. On that table are two gardening books and on top of them are some reading glasses. I breathe.

I’m drawn to the many photographs on a chest of drawers, some faded, some in colour, some black and white. In them, the number of people gets fewer and fewer, as the woman who is in all the photos gets older and older. One particular photo stands out. It is of two women arm in arm and both look to be about Rose’s age. One is tall with dark curly hair, wearing dungarees that flare out at the bottom. The other is of petite build, with mousy brown hair that flicks outwards on either side of a central parting, and pale blue eyes. She’s wearing chunky gold earrings and a skirted fawn suit with huge shoulder pads. I am struck by the similarity between this last woman and Rose. But this image was captured a long time ago. I sniff this photo and pick up the aroma of decaying rose petals – the smell of sadness. The wardrobe is closed but I know that the clothes hanging inside belonged to a woman who smoked cigarettes and liked a particular perfume. I think she was Aunt what-you-me-call-it.

My head hangs and my tail droops. I am overcome by the room’s melancholy. I almost give up my search when I spot a pair of fluffy slippers and a torch under the bed. Perhaps she had it there in case of a power cut? I take its long rubber handle in my mouth. It’s a relief to leave the room. The torch is heavy and hangs at an awkward angle but I manage to carry it down the stairs and into the kitchen.

‘Now what?’ asks Betty.

I put the torch down and look out of the window at the full moon. ‘We go outside and get Dante’s attention.’

‘Mate, door’s shut, in case you haven’t noticed.’

My mouth curls into a smile. ‘Leave that to me.’

Chapter Nine (#ulink_c1e3968b-3aef-521b-a403-3680adbd7848)

The stable-style back door has a wrought-iron handle that reminds me of a rawhide chew with a knot at one end. I jump up, place my front paws on the door, take the handle between my teeth and drop my head. Trouble is the door opens inwards so the first time I do this, I succeed in unlatching it, but my weight shuts it again. The next time I get it right. I use my paws instead of my mouth to push the handle down and teeter on my back legs, dropping to all fours as soon as I can. The door opens a fraction but that’s all I need. I squeeze a paw and then my head into the gap, and force it open. I grab the torch and Betty and I walk out into the moonlit garden. I can see everything as clear as day, including the sleeping ducks and a couple of startled hares, eyes as wide as my water bowl.

‘Now what? Now what?’ Betty squeals, as she hops about with excitement.

I drop the torch in the grass and nuzzle the handle until I find the bumpy bit Paddy used to push to switch it on.

‘Press this,’ I say to Betty.

She does so, and jumps back as a powerful beam of light illuminates the middle section of the garden. The hares do backflips and dart for the nearest cover. I angle the torch so that the big oak tree is floodlit. It’s like I’m calling Batman from his cave. I twist the handle a little, first one way, and then the other, so the beam shudders against the tree’s tall branches.

‘Oh wow!’ says Betty, clapping her paws together.

I can’t speak – I have my mouth full. I just hope that Dante is near enough to see it. He’s very fond of bright lights and shiny things. Well, a bit more than fond. It’s his obsession. Just as mine is food, his is all things glittery. It’s landed him in all sorts of trouble, and I mean trouble with The Law. Big’uns’ law.

‘I say! You there! What do you think you’re doing?’

I almost drop the torch in shock. I can’t work out where the nasal voice is coming from. He sounds like he has a clothes peg on his nose.

‘There!’ Betty says, pointing at the oak’s wide trunk.

Lowering the torch a fraction, I see an upside down squirrel clinging to the bark with its claws.

‘I don’t wish to be rude but this behaviour just won’t do. This is a nice neighbourhood,’ he continues.

Since dogs and squirrels have existed, we’ve always played Chase. We chase squirrels on the ground and they scamper into the trees. Gives us the opportunity for a jolly good bark. No harm done. But this squirrel is clearly in no mood for fun. I lay the torch on the lawn and go for the friendly approach.

‘Hi there. Name’s Monty, and this is Betty. What’s yours?’

‘Nigel. Your local Animal Neighbourhood Watch representative.’ He puffs out his chest. ‘Very important work. Without my constant vigilance, this quiet hamlet would descend into anarchy.’

‘It would?’

‘It would,’ says Nigel, flicking his tail. ‘Look, I don’t want us to get off on the wrong paw, but there are by-laws about this sort of thing.’

Betty and I exchange glances.

‘What sort of thing?’ I ask.

‘Disturbing the peace, of course. You can’t flash lights like that at this time of night. It’s just not neighbourly. The hares are complaining of migraines already.’

‘We won’t be much longer. We’re trying to attract someone’s attention.’

‘And what will be next? A rock band? Drunken brawls?’ The squirrel scampers up the trunk and stops on a branch. ‘Mark my words, young hound. Your actions tonight are the first step on the slippery slope to oblivion.’

In a flash of vibrating tail, Nigel disappears into the dark foliage. He’s humming the Mission: Impossible theme tune again.

‘Who does he think he is?’ Betty protests.

‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’ I say, gripping the torch between my teeth and waving it about.

It’s not long before I hear a familiar chattering in the dis-tance. Initially, I mistake a large bat for Dante. Then I see the magpie, heading straight for the flickering beam. As he crosses it, his black and white plumage is illuminated – it’s Batman in a white T-shirt.

‘Bleeding Nora,’ says Betty, as she runs under my body to hide. ‘He’s a big bastard!’

I lower the torch and bark, as quietly as I can, ‘Dante, it’s me, Monty. Down here!’

I glance at the upper windows but Rose’s face doesn’t appear. The magpie lands, claws outstretched, a few feet away. Betty cowers. In the torch’s beam his striking features are visible – black beak and head, white above his wings and on his belly, and long dark tail feathers that shimmer a peacock green.

‘Is this your idea of a joke?’ he snaps, stomping towards me, his black, beady eyes angry. ‘You’re giving me a headache.’

‘Dante, calm down, I need your help and had to get your attention.’ I try to keep my voice to a quiet woof so that Rose doesn’t wake.

The magpie goose-steps up and down. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Monty, find someone else to tap those bloody keys. I have better things to do.’

‘No, no. This is important.’

‘What? Doggie lost his bone?’

He’s in a foul mood. Not good.

‘My master’s dead.’

Dante dips his head, as if scooping up water, and his tail lifts high. He then returns to his normal stiff posture.

‘Dead? Oh dear me. I see.’ He clears his throat. ‘That explains what you’re doing so far from home.’ He resumes his pacing. ‘I did wonder what all that commotion was about on Friday. Lots of shiny badges and glistening equipment.’

I step closer, forgetting my jittery friend sheltering beneath me. She darts to one side, before I tread on her.