PHIL CALVERT: Christmas comes early for Monty

I’m not a fan of showers unless I want to get freshened up quickly. Instead, I like to lounge in a hot bath, mug of tea in hand and have half-an-hour of peace to read a few chapters of whatever book I am demolishing at present. Poached to perfection, I often have another half-an-hour’s dozing on the bed while I cool down. All very pleasant and very relaxing.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t always work out that way. For the last month our appointments diary has been packed with all sorts of different things to see and do. Indeed, it has been the norm for one or both of us to be out pretty much five nights-a-week. Boredom is never an option, and I suppose it is some sort of compliment to be meeting up with so many different people, doing so many different things.

Wifey sings in a choir, goes to a supper club, while I am keen to see live musical performances. We go to quiz nights with friends and then there are friends rather further afield, all over the north who we try to visit at least once every few months. All very pleasant but quite demanding.

Consequently, my arrival home, feeling immensely tired and hungry and ready for my bath is often tinged with disappointment. No fire burning in the grate. No delicious smells wafting through from the kitchen. Just a shout from upstairs urging me to get in the shower quick as “We are being picked up in 20 minutes!” Sometimes you could do with a bit of a break and have a quiet night in. Monty agrees!

When I go out to work (that’s seven days a week at present) Monty always comes with me. Always excited and ready for the off and eagerly looking for whatever the day may bring. Unfortunately for him. since late November it has simply been a case of going to work. Not that he has a bad time. Trotting, sniffing, and mooching around he has fairly full days.

It is not, of course, quite as demanding as going out on our walks over the moors or through the woods where he can run and run at breakneck speeds, or galloping alongside my bicycle for miles along the canal, burning off his frustrations in impressive displays of speed and stamina. It is also not as much fun as thundering along a beach chasing seagulls or splashing through the waters of streams and lakes, retrieving sticks or upsetting ducks.

Nevertheless, it is not a bad life for a dog. His day starts with our arrival in the half-light at work, and we come home in the dark. On these short, winter days you cannot in all practicality, be out-of-doors any more than we are at present. And there are compensations!

Rory, our previous dog, spent the last few years of his life snoring in front of the fire, He was more of a rug than a pet. Although younger and bursting with life, little Monty has not been slow to appreciate the delights of basking in the heat of the blaze until suppertime and then bed.

Unfortunately, our recent busy social schedule means, we have not lit the fire. Central heating is not the same. Monty has not been happy and he has shown his frustration at being left behind by causing chaos. Cushions have been pulled off the chairs and settee. He has been rummaging in the waste paper bin in the office.

Breaking every, never-to-be-broken rule in existance he has been upstairs when we have been out, barked through the bedroon window (you could see the nose print on the glass) and generally caused mayhem. Strangely though, when we come home, this little innocent always emerges from his bed, tail beating and without any hint of guilt or remorse, ready to be given his supper, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Now I like a slice of toast at bedtime, but some little monkey had pinched the tub of Flora out of the shopping. Perhaps not butter, but near enough. Worse he had scoffed the chocolate orange my younger daughter had bought me for Christmas. Not a trace remained.

As if that were not bad enough, more evidence of his evil deeds emerged the next morning when my elder daughter went to open the third door on her Belgian chocolate Advent calendar. Not a trace remained. Monty had scoffed that too. Boy was he in the doghouse, though I can’t help thinking that for him Christmas had come early!