Monty

Photograph by Matilda Angus

His name is Monty. Actually Montgomery, but he is only addressed that way if he’s doing something a naughty Monty would do. I also call him “Montego Bay” or “Wille Waghond” (Afrikaans for wild guard dog). Sebastien calls him “Monkey dog”.

About the size of a brick, maybe smaller, with a thimble mouth, he epitomizes chutzpah. He has taken the guard duty of Barowfield onto himself, being of the opinion that it was in a shambles when he arrived here about four months ago. At the slightest noise outside, he’ll run from door to door or jump onto the coach and then into the wide window sill to deliver his warning or to inspect. Among other things, 800 kg bulls are charged and snakes confronted. And he’ll end up with the juicy bone initially given to Jasper the Border collie and will protect it so ferociously that none of the bigger dogs will come near him. With absolutely nothing to his advantage or in his favor but attitude.

The love of his life is Roxy the Labrador. Even though she is the size of a bus, with him resembling the badge on the grill. This lends itself to difficult situations. Going down to the river Roxy will immediately wade into the stream or swim in the deeper pools. He almost drowns in puddles and has to swim across trickles of water. He is left shivering on the bank looking down on his sweetheart, a wet Vienna on tooth picks. The image in his mind would most probably be of Casanova drying his muscular body with the adoring looks of water nymphs.

Then at other times he can be a real baby, standing on your lap, stretching as he leans against your chest. Or lying on the back of the coach behind your neck with his head on your shoulder.

Marinetha is leaving this weekend for Gansbaai after their brief spell here on the farm. While drying the dishes I look down at him standing up against my shin, his little head way below my knee. “Will you write to us, once you’re there at the sea?” I ask. He gives me a look saying yes.

I don’t think he will. The guarding service will most probably be in a shambles down there. He’ll have to inspect fishing facilities. It may proof quite challenging seeing that he’ll have to avoid becoming sardine bait himself.

I’ll write. I’ll tell him that we now feel vulnerable, without any protection. But also that something is missing, I don’t know what. Naaah, probably something small.

George