We decided Monty-the-failed-guide-dog required companionship. Disregarding the disaster that was Archie-the-rescue-dog – *historical readers may recognise him as the one who payed the ultimate price for his part in the mauling of a neighbours goat * we figured a second fur buddy might alleviate Monty’s boredom. Boredom, mind you, we had anthropomorphised into a veritable state of ennui.
He looks so sad, doesn’t he?
Sad or bored?
I’m not sure but I think he just sighed. Look! He did it again.
Think that was a yawn.
Well it was a sad yawn.
So it was decided, a ‘sibling’ for Monty was just the ticket.
And also, if we’re completely honest….
I was tasked with researching reputable Labrador breeders, because any other breed would have been way too confusing for him –
No, this Chihuahua will not grow any bigger than your average turd, this is the only size they come in.
I’m sorry, but the Greyhound will ALWAYS and FOREVER outpace you in the race for the tennis ball.
I don’t believe the Standard Poodle is necessarily prettier than you, mate, but she HAS learnt how to transfer funds to an off-shore account and you, well, you’re still struggling with sit…
Labrador it was then. With prices ranging from ‘does it come with a diamond set collar and small family sedan?’ to ‘are you sure it includes all four legs?’ , we finally found a hobby breeder and his veterinary nurse wife who bred for love and pocket money. Lawrence of Labradoria was an affable rural chap with hands like hams, who lovingly scooped up each wriggly fur ball for our inspection, while looking loath to part with any of them.
Overwhelmed by a riot of tumbling black and yellow, we eventually settled on the roly-poliest little female squish ball, with a coat as black as pitch. We drove home testing out the shortlist of possible monikers, including Della, Ella, Bessie, Minnie, Betty, Doris, Myrtle and Gloria, before agreeing, cue music…her name was Lola…she was a show-lab…
Has Monty decided Lola’s the best thing to enter his life since lamb and sardine grain free kibble? Not exactly. Has Lola filled the dog-companion shaped void in his life? In a way, sure. She’s filled, overflowed and buried it in exuberant, unflagging, relentless energy; permanently attached to him by either swinging off his jowly neck rolls or clamping onto his hind leg like Bill the Weasel attacking Foghorn Leghorn.
In Monty’s world, Lola is omnipresent and I think he genuinely questions just exactly what he did to deserve all this harassment?