Monty and Me: A heart-warmingly wagtastic novel!

I look out of the window at the full moon. It reminds me of a triple cream brie I stole one Christmas from Paddy’s nibbles platter. Betty and I sit close together on the kitchen floor, bathed in the milky moonlight.

‘Go on,’ she says. ‘You can do it.’

I have relived the attack on my master many times in my head, always wondering the same thing. Could I have saved him? But I haven’t told anybody about what happened. I lick my nose, psyching myself up. My heart races. I swallow hard and begin my tale.

‘I knew there was something wrong, even before I saw the man.

Perhaps it was the way the car crawled down our single-track lane, like that creepy cat two doors down who stalks birds. I heard the tyres crunch on the gravel and thought it odd, since our elderly neighbour, Mr Grace, never has evening visitors, and we weren’t expecting any. I should have paid more attention, but I didn’t because I was up to my chest in cool river water, facing upstream, searching for fish. Once I’m fishing, I’m focused.

Paddy was sitting in the back garden working on his laptop as usual, sipping his after-dinner wine, the clink of the glass on the table top a familiar sound. Our home was a semi-detached, red-brick cottage, with low ceilings and narrow leadlight windows at the end of a cul-de-sac. The house was small – a two up, two down – but the garden was canine-heaven: quarter of an acre of lush green lawn, loads of flowerbeds to dig up, trees that dropped a plentiful supply of sticks to chew, and, best of all, on the other side of an easily jumpable gate, was the river.

So there I was enjoying the currents tickling my belly when I spotted a cracker of a fish no more than a few inches from my right paw. Just in time I remembered not to wag my tail. I’ve learned the hard way that the ripples frighten fish away. I opened my jaw, ready to pounce, grizzly-bear-style. Then I heard our front doorbell ring. Paddy didn’t, but my hearing is much better than his. I should have gone to investigate then, but the fish was tantalisingly close.’

I drop my head, ears flattened.

Betty interjects. ‘You weren’t to know Paddy was in danger. Stop blaming yourself.’

I shake my head and whimper. I should have known. It was my job to protect him. I swallow and press on with my tale.

‘I pounced, head into the water, mouth clamped down on what I hoped was a fish. But the slippery sucker zipped off and all I was left with was a mouthful of leaf litter and a nose full of water. When I’d stopped sneezing, I glanced up the garden path. I saw a man I didn’t recognise walking down the side passage. His face was covered with some kind of dark sock with holes in it for his eyes and mouth. Paddy stood abruptly, knocking his chair backwards. I was too far away to smell his fear but I knew instantly he was in danger.

“What do you want?” Paddy said, his voice shaky.

The man said nothing but raised a single gloved finger to his lips. He was telling Paddy to be quiet, in the same way Paddy used to tell me to be quiet when I got carried away barking at squirrels.

I scrambled as fast as I could for the bank, but the water clung to me like porridge and I slipped on a stone. I got up, raced through the open gate and up the path. I detected the sour smell of Paddy’s terror. I heard his heart beating too fast.

I bark. “Run,” I told him, “Run”

But he didn’t run. Perhaps because he was an old man: in dog years he was eight, in big’uns years, fifty-six. Or perhaps because he was paralysed with fear. I’ll never know. I accelerated, my teeth bared, eyes locked onto the intruder, tail rigid and pointed at the sky. My growl was deep and rumbling.

The intruder saw me and his body tensed. Yet he didn’t flee. I was not a surprise. Through the slit in his head-sock I saw him slowly lick his lips as if he wanted to eat me. For a split second I was confused about why he didn’t seem afraid, but I kept coming. The man had a knife in his hand. He stepped forward and plunged the blade into my master’s body. I roared in anger. As I leapt over plant pots to reach him, I inhaled his scent: the acrid tang of funny cigarettes, damp walls, some kind of stinky food not even I would want to eat, and a disease. One I have never smelled before. It reminded me of an insect, but I couldn’t place which one.

Paddy opened and closed his mouth in shock. The attacker pulled out the blade. My dear master clutched his wound and fell to his knees.

“No!” I bellowed, as I jumped at the masked man.

He turned and swept his arm across my body. The blade sliced into my chest, slashing through skin and muscle. I yelped at the searing pain, but the force of my leap drove me forward and I crashed into him, knocking him onto his back. I rolled away as quickly as I could, afraid he would strike again. He missed by inches, and when the knife hit the ground I hurled myself at him. I bit deep into the arm holding the weapon and shook it with all my strength, tearing his flesh. It was his turn to yelp now. His flimsy jacket was no protection at all. I drew upon all my fury to dig my teeth deeper and deeper. The attacker dropped his knife, but then he kicked me so hard in the stomach, I had to let go. I managed to tear away part of his sleeve. I collapsed on my side, desperately trying to catch a breath. The left side of my face was sticky with blood oozing from my chest wound.

The man cradled his mauled lower arm. I noticed part of a tattoo. He spun around, searching for his knife. I was lying on it. I stayed still. He glanced at Professor Salt, who lay motionless, eyes wide open, as if the setting sun was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. But I knew my dear master saw nothing. Those kind brown eyes were blind and cold, like marbles. The killer knew it too. Every time I breathed, it was as if I was being kicked again, but I managed to lift my head and snarl. I knew it was a weak snarl, but he didn’t. He backed away, grabbed Paddy’s laptop from the garden table, took his wine glass and entered the house. For the first time I noticed he was wearing a backpack. He slammed the back door shut, in case I followed. But I wasn’t leaving my master.

I heard the killer move through the house to the study – I knew exactly which creaky floorboard he stepped on – and the rasp of desk drawers yanked open, then dull thuds. He was throwing something heavy in his bag. Then paper files slid against the fabric too. He moved to the sitting room, drawers thrown on the floor. Then the clank of metal.

I crawled over to Paddy and licked his face. Perhaps he was alive after all? I so wanted to be wrong. I did it again and again and his head jerked with each increasingly desperate lick. But his eyes didn’t flicker.

I whimpered, “Wake up! Please wake up!”

I placed my snout above his mouth and sniffed for breath, hoping to feel the slightest waft of air. Nothing. I howled, my nose pointing to the darkening sky. I howled in pain and grief, as we have done for centuries. I howled because I can’t weep like big’uns. I howled because I love my master more than anything.

I stopped when I heard the front door open and shut and the man’s feet crunched on the gravel drive. A car door opened. But not quietly. It was metal screeching on metal. I smelt diesel as he drove away, and heard a tink, tink, tink of something rattling.

I grew weaker and dizzier as the pool of blood from my wound grew. But I would not leave Paddy. He was my world and someone had taken him from me. I howled again, but my head felt so very heavy. I rested it on Paddy’s chest, his white shirt drenched in blood where the blade had pierced his no longer beating heart. I vowed to myself that if I was to live I would never rest until I found the man who took him from me.’

Chapter Six (#ulink_15480d5c-b289-5cf4-8493-1a32098ca9a7)

A wall clock marks our silence as the second hand jerks around the face. I slump to the floor. Betty sidles up to me and lies, belly down, prostrate along the length of my paw, gripping it tightly as if it were a life raft in a big sea. Her head droops.

‘You poor, poor thing,’ she replies, stroking my fur, as if she is paddling her raft. ‘And poor Mr Salt.’ Then she peers up at me, nose twitching. ‘Can you tell me what happened next?’

I return to my story.

‘Some time later, I became conscious of an old, quivering voice. Sounded like Mr Grace next door, but my eyes were shut. I opened my jaw and made a sound, a whimper, or at least I thought I did. I lapsed back into unconsciousness and heard Paddy calling my name. He’s alive! I rushed towards him and he knelt down and hugged me. I tucked my head into his chest and snuffled.

“It’s okay, boy, I’m here,” he said.

We walked side-by-side along the river bank. He threw a ball into the water and I charged after it, enjoying the river’s coolness. I was floating. No effort, no paddling, I was light as air. The surface glistened in the sun and I heard the words, “Fetch. There’s a good boy.”

A piercing and repetitive wailing burst into my dream. It threatened to drag me back to reality. I wanted to stay with Paddy. But the siren grew louder and more insistent. Then footsteps, urgent voices, big’uns shouting. I felt a warm hand on my neck. It was hesitant, the person, perspiring. She didn’t like dogs, I could tell. Was she trying to hurt me? I managed to shift my head a little, which was still resting on Paddy’s chest. The hand was withdrawn in an instant and the woman leapt backwards like a startled cat.

I mustered a weak growl. I wasn’t dead yet and wouldn’t let anyone touch my master if I could stop it.

“Dog’s still alive!” the woman said.

Someone else bent over me. “Got to move him. The man could be too.”

I opened both eyes, or tried to, but the lashes touching Paddy’s chest were glued together with blood.

“No,” I growled, and tried to sit up, but the growl came out as more of a moan.

I recognised the police uniforms and those funny chequered hat bands that look like reflective dog collars. My upper body was lifted from my master’s chest, but my hind quarters stayed more-or-less where they had been. The result was I lay next to Paddy, my head facing him. The ambulance crew crouched over him searching for signs of life. A machine beeped and Paddy jolted, but his eyes still stared vacantly at the sky.

I heard, “Get a vet. Dog’s bleeding to death by the looks of it. He’s a surviving witness, poor fellow.”

“Witness? It’s just a dog!”

More voices. More sirens, car doors slammed, feet pounding up and down the side path. Someone issued orders in that sharp tone of a big’un in charge.

Another man kneeled next to me. His shoes were covered in blue booties and he wore a white body suit. He had black spiky hair and large hands. I knew he was a vet from the smell of disinfectant and various animals he carried on him. Several cats, a guinea pig, a tortoise (now, there’s an odd creature), dogs, even a Jack Russell I think I recognised called Flash, and cows. Lots of cows. Always know when a vet’s been near cows. That smell of shit stays with them for days. Of course, big’uns can’t smell it after they’ve washed, but we can.’

Betty nods knowingly. ‘Cows really stink.’

I didn’t want to say that rats are high up on the animal kingdom stink-ometer, too. Best not to offend her. I go on with my tale.

‘The vet patted my head.

“It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, then he lifted my lip. “Lip colour’s not good. He’s lost a lot of blood.” He drew closer. “There’s some fabric caught between his teeth. Could be from the assailant,” he said, looking at Paddy lying next to me.

As the vet listened to my heart through a tube, a small female hand gently touched my brow. I liked her smell. It reminded me of a vanilla milkshake at the seaside. She stroked my face to relax me as she read my name tag. She was not afraid of me at all. It was Rose.