Remembering Monty

"Deep love endures
To the end and far past the end." (Robinson Jeffers)

Dear Monty,

I can’t believe it’s been so long since we said goodbye.

That day when I came home, Bear, Buffy, and Mario all seemed to understand why Mark and I were sad. They seemed to get that you weren’t coming home. They got the finality of it. It was a very quiet day.

I think of you every day…and I miss you.

Every now and then, I’ll awake in the morning but keep my eyes closed. I like to imagine just for a moment that if I were to open them, I would see your nose resting inches from mine, waiting for me to scoot to the middle of the bed so you could jump up and we could spoon for an hour or so. But I know you’re not there.

That’s the difficult part, because you were always present.

You always knew when it was time for me to fix your dinner, and you would wait until then before you would appear and push my fingers off the keyboard. It didn’t matter that I was in the middle of a word, sentence, paragraph, or thought…it was time. And while the others would race ahead, you would press your left ear against my thigh and walk with me down the hallway. I still feel you there today.

We loved the way you said grace before every meal; by leaping into the air three times with such vigor and joy. You trained us to wait until then before placing your bowl on the floor.

Every outside noise meant someone might be here to see you, so, of course, you had to announce them. You never learned an indoor voice.

Going outdoors would elicit the same leaping joy as at mealtime. I think it was because there was always the possibility you might get to ride in the car…and, if so, you always called shotgun. Always.

No matter who it was, you believed everyone’s lap was made just for you. If we were lying on the sofa or reclining in the chair, you were sure to be cuddling with one of us.

When we went to the vet, you would jump up into the lobby seat next to me to sit and wait your turn. One day, for some reason, you insisted on sitting on my lap, much to the amusement of everyone else.

You were born in Montana, hence your name, Monty. You grew up an A-type standard poodle in laid-back southern California, where we learned each other’s language. You stayed with me when Mark went to Georgia to build the house, and when that was ready, you and I drove across the country.

I remember as we crossed the Savannah River, just 40 miles from home, I started to cry. I was going to have to leave you here while I returned to California to work. I wished I could have made you understand I was not abandoning you. Sensing something, you stood up in the back seat and stretched forward, resting your head on my shoulder to comfort me as I drove the rest of the way.

When I did come home that first time, I stood in the gravel driveway silhouetted by the streetlight behind me. You and Bear advanced cautiously, barking loudly. Suddenly, you stopped. With Bear still barking, I watched your nose stretch forward and sniff the air, and then you sprung into the air and landed, all 50-plus pounds of you, in my arms. You knew then I was never going to abandon you.

You had good years here in Georgia. You had brothers and sisters. You would run, play, and sun yourself, all in your very own yard. More importantly, you never missed a meal.

When it became clear that your life was going to be one infection after another, that you would never again leap with joy for dinner, never be able to ride shotgun, or ask us to let you into bed, I knew we had to let you go, to give you back your life. We cuddled those last few hours, just you and me on the cold linoleum floor of that small examination room, but both of us surrounded by the love of our family.

Today, Buffy has taken your spot in bed between us. He can’t begin to fill the space. Bear has tried to convince me he can now tell time, but he thinks that dinner time is whenever he’s finished his afternoon nap. Mario would sleep at the end of the couch and only once or twice relented for a cuddle. Mario joined you a year after you left us. I don't think he ever got over missing you.

It’s not the same. And, I suppose, it shouldn’t be.

For the longest time, our last day was like yesterday, and then it was last week. Now, it’s like it was last month. I think of you every day…and I miss you. And I will always love you.

Dad

Mario (left) and Monty (right) at home