A Dog Named Monty

The first dog I ever owned was a purebred Chocolate Lab. My wife and I got him when I was working at ESPN in Connecticut, before we had kids.

We did everything wrong as first-time pet owners: we shopped at a puppy store, and we bought him on impulse. It was a profoundly stupid purchase. We named the dog Dexter, after our favorite wine bar back in Orlando.

The only thing more stupid than Dexter’s acquisition was Dexter himself. He had retriever bona fides — blissfully happy in snow, would fetch anything throwable — but beyond that, he was a glorious idiot. A dog, interrupted.

Dexter was a full-time flight risk. He was constantly slipping out of our yard for a walkabout. He was a regular visitor at my son’s elementary school, where the staff would call us to let us know he was there, again. He was prone to falling into pools. Once, as I was pulling into the veterinarian’s office for a routine visit, Dexter leapt out the window of the moving car and gashed his forehead on the pavement, which led to this conversation:

Vet tech: “So I guess you’re here because of that cut?”

Me: “Umm, no. That just happened.”

That was Dexter.

When I changed jobs, Dexter moved with us from Connecticut to Florida, along with our two kids. Dexter aged, as dogs do, and he didn’t get any smarter. He developed hip dysplasia, as Labs often do, and became sedentary. Our kids aged, as kids always do, and everyone knew that Dexter’s time was limited. We started to think about another dog. A transition dog.

A Saturday in March, 2009. The whole family is at PetSmart in Casselberry, Florida to get dog food. There was a rescue shelter set up inside the store with adoptable dogs. We noticed a litter of cinnamon-colored mutts with furrowed foreheads. The shelter director told us that a Good Samaritan had turned in the litter after seeing them being given away out of a truck. The director figured they were about 7 weeks old, and those seven weeks had not been easy. The pups showed signs of abuse. The shelter had been told that one of the mutts’ parents might be a German Shepherd, but there was no way to tell. 

My daughter Ellie, then 6 years old, zeroed in on one puppy. He was less bonkers than the rest of his littermates, and more resolute. He was street smart; savvy enough to recognize the weak link in our pack. Ellie practically begged us to take him home. We didn’t plan to adopt a dog on that particular day, but it turns out we didn’t have a choice. We named him Monty.

Rescue dogs hit different. It took Monty about two days to figure out how things worked in our house. He glommed himself onto the alpha dog, a Chester to Dexter’s Spike. Monty knew how to survive. We walked them together on a double leash, and Monty was constantly up under Dexter’s muzzle. Dexter, now aging, would snap and bark at his interloper, but Monty didn’t care. He was grateful to have a home. As a friend once told us, “that dog would take a bullet for you.”

When Dexter passed in 2011, his life doubtlessly extended by Monty’s presence, there was a new alpha in town.

Monty graduated out of his crate and began sleeping on one of the kids’ beds each night. He was tireless at play, a fierce competitor at tug-of-war. Monty never cared much about fetching, but he never fell into the pool, either. He was obsessed and infuriated by the squirrels that taunted him from the backyard. We became accustomed to seeing his hackles rise and hearing a low growl. He was fiercely territorial and protective. He was grateful.

Despite bringing in a trainer, we could never get Monty to remain calm around other dogs when on leash, but that was truly the only blemish on his record. He lived to be around people. Everyone who entered our home was his favorite person ever. If I was home alone, he would follow me from room to room, lying down when I sat, keeping one eye on me to see if I moved again. He had several favorite spots in the house: the top of the stairs, where I would see his velvety ears in silhouette. The threshold between our breakfast nook and the back patio. Under the sink in the laundry room, where it was warm and dark.

His legs started to give out about three years ago, and it became difficult to walk him even one block. His interest in the squirrels waned. He spent the bulk of his time prone, usually across that threshold to the back patio. We did our best to keep him active, and while his mind was willing, his body was fading. He stopped going upstairs, and it became laborious for him to even stand up.

Our oldest child, Zach, just started a Ph.D. program in Virginia, and he flew home for winter break on the Sunday before Christmas. His sister, a college sophomore in Boston, had arrived a couple of days earlier. On the Monday morning after Zach came home, Monty couldn’t stand up at all. He was trembling, and wouldn’t eat. My wife and I took him to the vet, who ran down the options for a 13-year-old rescue mutt. The list was short.

We knew this day was coming, but we had always avoided the conversation, until we had no option. The dog’s quality of life was poor. He was in pain. He wasn’t getting any better. Inaction on our part was selfish. We knew these things to be true. It was my wife who pointed out that Monty’s quick downturn happened as soon as the second child returned home, as if the dog was waiting for everyone to arrive. Maybe, she said, he was telling us it was okay.

We made the decision on Monday to bring a vet to the house on Wednesday.

The vet was thoughtful and professional. She plied him with treats and explained the process. One important decision: where to do it. We decided to let him lay across the threshold, half inside and half outside, where he could see his yard and sniff the air. The four of us took up station around him, scratching his neck and holding his paws. He was happy. He had a belly full of junk food, and all his people were there. With a sedative administered, he drifted off to sleep with the sounds of our voices in his ears. Then another injection, and it was done.

I assume there will come a day when I stop reflexively checking for him in the laundry room, or in the corner of the living room where his bed used to be. We got rid of his beds and his food dishes; we’re keeping his collar and his leash, which originally belonged to Dexter. There’s still a basket full of chew toys that nobody has the heart to touch. We’ve vacuumed several times downstairs, and we’re still finding single strands of cinnamon-colored hair.

Writing this has been a struggle, not because of the emotion involved, but because I can’t do the dog justice. I wish you could have met him, because you would have loved him, because everybody loved him, because he loved everybody, unconditionally. As much as he might have taken a bullet for us, I would have done the same for him.

Rescue dogs hit different. I miss him so much.