Two Dogs Monty: Easy to read, hilarious story of a lad falling in love, two crazy dogs, and a bizarre gang of criminals. (Two Dogs Monty Series Book 1)

by Bill Day

“Hi, Son. How’s your new job?”

  “Excellent, the work is hard but the pay is good.” The menagerie behind me warms to the task. The racket is deafening as each outdoes the other.

  “Are you in the jungle? It sounds noisy.” Just then Gladys lets out a very convincing roar. Lucky follows with the strangled noise of a dying monkey.

  “Oh, what was that? Was that a tiger?”

  “No Mum. There are only jaguars here.”

  “Oh my, do be careful darling boy.”

  “Son, have you seen a toucan yet?”

  “No Dad, but there’s a macaw over in the bushes there.”

  “My God, it's killed an iguana!”

  The macaw now has the top half of the rubber iguana in one claw. It rips the head off and drops it on the floor. As this moment Andy releases the toucan. The toucan swings downward as the macaw distracts me. It neatly hits the back of my head. The toucan is rapidly hauled back up to its perch ready for another attempt.

  “Son, did I just see a toucan attack you?”

  “Yeah Dad, they do it all the time.”

  “Extraordinary. Look out then, here it comes again.” I duck down just as the toucan pinata zooms over my head.

  All this activity piques the macaw’s interest. It takes flight, does three tight laps of the set, and lands on the toucan. The macaw swings from side to side and clings to the toucan pinata. Andy grabs a length of bamboo from the display and begins poking it.

  “Shoo, Shoo,” she whispers but it’s almost inaudible against the now feverish growl, squark, hoot, coo, whistle, warble, and other pseudo-animal noises.

  Andy calls loudly, “Somebody get that bird.”

  “Crickey! That macaw is a devil. Killer toucans and murderous macaws, Paraguay’s a dangerous place son - you’d better come home.” I detect a pinch of humour in my father’s voice.

  “No, all good. I’ll be careful.”

  Rising above the cacophony of animal noises is a persistent hammering coming from the stairwell. A faint voice filters down. “Where’s my fucking macaw?”

  Fingers face pales a little. He runs onto the set to catch the macaw but it takes off and flies just out of his reach. He runs around and around, waving his arms and muttering “no, no, no”.

  Again, “Where’s my fucking macaw. I saw you take her you bastard. Now open the door.”

  I sense disaster. “No! Don’t open the door.”

  Fingers is still chasing the macaw when Andy hauls up the toucan and gives it one last try. It swings down and catches the macaw around the wing. Now firmly entangled and in danger of a broken wing, the macaw screeches in panic.

  “That’s it. I’m busting the door open.”

  “No, don’t open the door!!!

  I hear the stairwell door crashing open and the sound of heavy footsteps descending the stairs. The footsteps falter and the call of “Bloody dogs!” filters down. I hear the clatter of paws and the thump, thump, thump of a body falling down the stairs.

  A semi-conscious heavyset man appears with a thud at the base of the stairs. Trotsky and Helen leap over him and make their grand entrance. Trotsky looks directly at the suspended toucan pinata, runs towards it, leaps, and grabs. He shakes it like he expects food to be inside. Not to be bested, Helen looks directly at the now tiring macaw and does the same. There is a pitiful squawk as the macaw disappears in a cloud of red feathers. Both dogs follow Fingers out the back entrance.

  The semi-conscious macaw owner raises his head just in time to see his imperilled pet clamped firmly in dog jaws. His cry is pitiful - “Gretel, no!” He leaps up and staggers after Helen.

  I can hear laughter. I look around and my eyes land on the laptop. My parents are in tears. “I can see you’re having fun in Paraguay Max. Hi Raymond, are you in Paraguay too?” My Mother flutters her eyelashes like an infatuated schoolgirl.

  I look around and Lucky is standing behind me. “Good afternoon Celia, you look beautiful as always.”

  “Hello Max”, comes a voice all too close. My father is at the back of the set talking to the menagerie.

  “Who made the toucan?” Mandy smiles shyly. “That was a damn fine toucan. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” He bows to Mandy, turns to me and cracks up laughing.

  My mother enters the basement from a side door and puts her arm around Dad. She gestures to Lucky. He walks over and puts his arm around her from the other side. There they stand - three grinning conspiratorial bastards.

  “Hello Max, or is it Monty?”

  “You bastards! When did you know I was here?”

  “When Raymond picked up your clothes. We all went to school together. Your Mum would have married Lucky if I hadn’t got in first.”

  “It was a close thing. Raymond is a better lover but he’s so unreliable. We all lived together Max. I had to make a choice when your brother James came along. Brian was entering uni and offered me a future.”

  Lucky shrugs in a “what can you do” sort of way.

  Slowly I digest these facts: “live together, better lover; had to make a choice”. I feel my world turning upside down.

  Mum shrugs, “It was the 1970’s and it was a big bed.” Lucky and my father grin like Cheshire Cats.

  “Your father has represented Raymond since then.”

  “Brian is a miracle worker Monty. He’s been my lawyer since he graduated. I knew who you were straight away. If you’re half the man your father is I am glad to have you aboard.”

  “Anyhow, even if we thought you were in Paraguay, you were busted when your mouse disgraced himself the other day.”

  I admit she has a point.

  “Max, working with Raymond has done you a power of good. We are proud of you.” He turns to Lucky. “I expect you to keep him out of trouble, Raymond.”

  Lucky nods, “Certainly Brian. Now I have a problem I’d like to discuss with you.” The two of them make their way up the stairs.

  “Now Maxwell, introduce me to your friends.”

  I do the introductions and leave Mum talking art with Andy. My mother fancies herself as an artist.

  Flick comes up close, “Let's see how the macaw recovery is going, Monty?”

  That sounds amusing, so we ascend the stairs to watch a sweaty, heavyset man; two dogs; and a red macaw as they wrestle in the car park. After a while, Felicity puts her hand straight up in the air and the dogs sit attentively. She calls them over with the same roll of the hand Lucky uses. They sit at her feet and gaze adoringly. She points to the ground and Helen drops the macaw, which staggers away. Macaw Man gathers his bedraggled bird and angrily makes his way to the front gate.

  “Will you teach me how to do that?”

  “The dogs? Certainly, they can’t stay with me for too long so you will have to look after them eventually. Anyhow, they like you.”

  I look dubiously at the two devils acting like they are model citizens. They don’t fool me.

  “Monty, I am going to say something and I want you to listen. You look at the people here and just see old people but, in our heads, we are as young as you. Our body betrays us but we still feel the same things as you - love, happiness, sadness and loneliness. Everyone here likes you Monty and calls you friend. Can you think of us the same way?”

  I think about the effort people put into the fake Skype call, the friendly greetings I get every morning, even the dreaded ham sandwiches that someone left for me.

  “Yes, I can - I do.”

  “Good, now about your mother. I have known Celia for a long time. She lived here with Brian and Lucky. She loves them both, always has. The boys are cool with that. You need to be cool with it as well.”

  She holds up her hand and flicks her finger towards a small brick outhouse. Trotsky and Helen stroll over and go inside.

  “It’s their dog-house. We will feed them a bit later.”

  She loops her arm in mine. “Now walk me home then go and save Andrea. Celia always was a talker. Oh, by the way, don’t be shocked if your Mum and
Dad stay with Lucky for a while. They have a bit of catching up to do.”

  I fight an urge to block my ears and sing loudly.

  7

  B.B.C. Arts: Andy’s Interview

  After a few sessions with Felicity, I kind of get the hang of deaf dog handling. Helen and Trots take a shine to me and follow me around throughout the day. I cook breakfasts in the diner most mornings and they eagerly await leftovers.

  I move through the various and varied tasks Lucky gives me with the two dogs not far from my side: looking after the low maintenance garden, driving groups to the local shops and picking up supplies for the diner, a bit of cleaning, and whatever else need doing. I am not all that busy. I am mostly on “stand by” as Lucky puts it. I spend a fair bit of time just wandering around the floors of the building, chatting with people as I go.

  “Mr and Mrs Valleri, how are you today.” “It’s Minnie and Pierre, Monty, how many times do we tell you?”

  “Hey Mickey G. When you going to marry that girl Rosie?” “That girl won’t have me, Monty. Ties me in knots she does but I keep asking.”

  “Morning Muscles, you coming down for breakfast.”

  “Sure thing Monty. Don’t burn my fucking toast this time!”

  And so on.

  Andy has been flat out with interviews and speaking engagements since her therapy session. Her paintings are now growing in demand. How quickly fortune changes.

  Today is a big day; BBC Arts have flown a team over for an interview. We all meet in the basement. Andy speaks.

  “They want to move through the building and talk to people involved on the night. I don’t want any fuck ups, that is, no Monty and no dogs.”

  Everyone looks uncomfortable, “Monty did his bit on the night, Andy.”

  “Yes Fingers, everyone saw his bit. Some of his bit is still stuck to Lucille’s ground floor awning.” She looks over at me. “You could at least clean that up.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” chips in Lucille from unit 5. “It’s dried up and doesn’t smell unless it rains. I look at it now and then and laugh.”

  “Whatever, no Monty and no dogs - end of discussion.”

  Lucky intervenes, “Whatever you want Andy. Monty, can you and the dogs stay in lockdown until the interview is done?”

  Sure why not.

  So I am in my room. I open a beer and go to sit down. The dogs hear the fridge open and poke their heads inside. I have a pile of egg and bacon pies from the cool-room that have seen better days. I give them the pies. Replete, they snore, twitch, and occasionally scratch. Their stomachs gurgle as the unfamiliar and large meal digests.

  I settle into the recliner to read. Helen wakes up, raises her head sleepily, and belches. Hers is a fully-fledged belch worthy of a drunk at happy hour. She looks over with piercing blue eyes then goes back to sleep.

  Trotsky, not to be outdone twitches his back leg and lets out a prolonged hiss of gas, the stench of which fills the room immediately. Most farts, be they dog or human, waft slowly across a room. Trotsky pollutes all areas of a closed room simultaneously. It’s a rare but undesirable skill.

  It’s eye-watering. I hold my breath and focus on my book. Helen jumps up, hacks loudly, and regurgitates a small pile of egg ’n Bacon pie on the carpet.

  Terrific.

  Trotsky gets up, casually eats it, and flops back down with a sigh.

  Wonderful.

  I try to read. They continue - burp, fart, vomit, lick. This is going to be a long afternoon. I open another beer. There’s a knock at the door.

  “Open the door Monty, it’s Andrea.”

  I open the door with some trepidation. Andy is with a prim looking young woman in trendy, artistic dress. Behind her stands a camera and a sound technician with assorted portable paraphernalia.

  “Monty, this is Ms Gail Summer, from B.B.C. Arts. She wants to see where the control room was set up.”

  I stand aside and they all breeze in.

  Helen looks up with interest. Gail Summer stares at her, open-mouthed. “Look at her blue eyes - so beautiful.” She bends down, puts both hands under Helen’s muzzle and scratches her chin. “Ohh you are so beautiful. Who’s a pretty girl – eh?”

  Helen belches in her face.

  Ms Summers stands up with an “oh”.

  “She’s deaf,” I add as if that explains her behaviour.

  “So this is where you directed all the action, Andrea?”

  “Yes, we had a console over there and monitors where we could watch the live stream. All the lighting and music was pre-programmed by me but the drone work was done in real-time.”

  “With amazing results, your installation was the most widely viewed in human history. I understand you have been nominated for an Australian Contemporary Art Award.”

  There is a barely audible hissing. Trotsky fills the room and the effect is immediate. Ms Summers’ nostrils flare. “What in god’s name is that smell?” The sound and camera guys are laughing, “It’s the dog - the big brown one farted.”

  Andrea turns on me. “Get that dog out - now.” There is some menace in her words. I raise my hand to call Trots and Helen. They completely ignore me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling the dogs.”

  “Oh for goodness sake.”

  Andrea walks over and tries to move Trotsky. There is another prolonged hiss. “Uuurrgg”, responds Andy. She reaches for Helen as a lighter and less flatulent target. Helen, being grabbed around her very full stomach, breaks free, scurries away and vomits in the corner. Trotsky spies this new treat, bounds over, and consumes it in one gulp.

  Ms Summer watches aghast. Andrea sinks into the recliner with tears welling in her eyes. The technicians film the dogs with glee. I sense I have seconds to act. I jump on the coffee table to accentuate my dog handling powers and extend my hand straight upward - into the ceiling fan. The light cover that sits under the fan disengages and disintegrates on the coffee table. Shards of glass spray over the floor.

  This proves enough for the dogs who give me their undivided attention. I leap down, twirling the “come to me” sign with my hand and land on a large shard of glass. Undeterred I hobble to the door, reef it open, and the dogs sprint away down the hallway.

  Andy glares at me, “Sit down and don’t move.”

  I sit, my foot dripping blood on the carpet. She stomps into the kitchen, comes back with a nearly clean cloth, and throws it at me.

  “Put that on your foot and don’t speak.”

  She pastes a smile back on her face, turns to her interviewer and replies. “Yes, I am nominated. Of course, there is stiff competition and it would be unusual for installation to be awarded, but I’m hopeful.”

  “Your installation only lasted an hour but is now immortalised on the World Wide Web. How do you feel about the ephemeral nature of your original work?”

  “Oh, all art is fleeting. Canvas rots, paints fade, religious zealots deface ancient sculptures. It is all about the timeline.”

  The sound technician is staring out the balcony. He opens the door and walks out outside. His head pop back in.

  “This is the room isn’t it?”

  “Room?”

  “Yes, the room where the shitting scene was filmed. How did you do that? Was it real poop?”

  Andrea stares at him. She seems lost for words. He points at me. “Was it you?”

  “Um”, I go to answer.

  “I said don’t speak.” I am silent and unmoving.

  “It was you! Can I see your tattoo?”

  “It’s a birthmark.”

  “Really? I must see it.”

  Gail Summer tries to get her interview back on track. “I was getting to the finale. The final defecation sequence was what gave your work universal coverage. It was in many ways the true genius of the display. How did you go about it?”

  Andy sits red-faced. Tears are beginning to well again. “It wasn’t…..”

  I chip in. “Yes, it was me. Andy set me up w
ith rubber bags of chocolate pudding. I tried to talk her out of it but she knew what she was doing. Tell them about your new project Andy.”

  Andy is too far gone. There is a panicked look in her eyes, which fades away quickly. She is closing down again - rapidly.

  “Look at her, she is planning her new project as we speak - genius.”

  Ms Gail takes some notes and looks at the technicians. She holds her finger to her lips in a “be silent” gesture. The camera person takes a few quiet stills of Andy’s far away face.

  I pause for the barest second then just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “I can tell you she is going to turn these grounds into a permanent art space. The grounds themselves will be her enduring artwork. She will design the building exterior, gardens, and grounds to accommodate various art projects. It will be open to whoever cares to use it. Did I get that right Andy?”

  There is no reply.

  Now in a panic myself I run with the idea, “It will be called the Andrea McTavish Art Space. The opening weekend will be a huge art festival. Come one, come all - visual artists, musicians, performers, all are welcome. It will be her greatest work.”

  Andy still doesn’t respond. I hold up my finger in a “wait just a second” gesture. I hobble into the kitchen and search the fridge I leave a trail of blood blobs along the way. I find what I’m looking for and walk back to the dining area.

  Ms Gail is trying to interview Andy. “That is an ambitious project, Andrea. What is your time frame? What will you do to prepare? Do you have permits and approvals for this new project?” Andy stares blankly.

  I call Andy and lob a tomato at her. It hits the coffee table with a splat. Ms Gail stops talking and looks at me. Andy stares at it and then up to me. I throw another - hard.

  Andy’s hand shoots up, catches, and crushes it. Pulp runs between her fingers and over the coffee table. I think she’s back. I throw another just to be sure. She catches it and, quick as a flash, hurls it back. Her perfect throw splatters ripe tomato on my forehead. She is definitely back.

  She turns to the camera with a steely gaze. “Approvals? I don’t need fucking approvals. If any bastard has a mind to stop me, they can come and try. We open next weekend. Now, if you excuse me, I have work to do.”