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) Read online

  Two Dogs Monty

  Bill Day

  Copyright © 2020 by Bill Day

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN 978-0-6450424-0-5

  Created with Vellum

  Acknowledgements

  There are a few people helped me write Two Dogs Monty. Foremost is my wife, Jenny, who gave me space and encouragement. She is my Sonia. Also, my good friend Sue. Her encouragement kept me writing when I was stuck for words. Similarly, Wendy’s enthusiasm for Two Dogs buoyed me up when the process got difficult. Thanks to both of you. Young Olive, Finn, Douglas, Harris, and Bonnie always want to hear my dog stories. They gave me the idea to include dogs in this book. They are legends. I love them dearly. Finally, I must thank Sally and Taz. Sally is my crazy deaf Kelpie and Taz is Jenny’s bulldozer-like chocolate Labrador. I am sure they will recognise themselves in this book.

  Contents

  1. Monty gets a Job

  2. Monty’s First Day

  3. Avoid Ham Sandwiches

  4. Therapy

  5. Trotsky and Helen

  6. Call from Paraguay

  7. B.B.C. Arts: Andy’s Interview

  8. The Man with the Plan

  9. The Tatters Brown Memorial Garden

  10. Helen Goes Gardening

  11. Miss Jessica- Extortionist

  12. The New Woodstock

  13. Matthew and the Colliding Hippies

  14. Monty and the Ginger Cat

  15. The Temple of World Rebirth

  16. Pandemonium Pier

  17. Herring and Bonito

  18. Squid Wars

  19. Tetraodontidae and Dogs

  20. Mandy and the Yak

  21. A Red Rose and Hash Browns

  22. Stockings, Suspenders, and Shotguns

  23. Sarah and Jess get Married

  24. Monty at the Tackle Shop

  25. Kahawai from the Beach

  26. Monty Goes Surfing

  27. The Jewellery Shop on the Corner

  28. The Rage of Enrico

  29. Rescuing Rebecca - The Call

  30. Rescuing Rebecca - The Journey

  31. Rescuing Rebecca - The Temple

  32. Rescuing Rebecca - A Safe Haven

  33. Rescuing Rebecca – About Alice

  34. Rescuing Rebecca - The Homecoming

  35. Gail and the Pitching Machine

  36. Successful Succession Planning

  37. Gerry and the Generator

  38. Monty and the Big Boy Pants

  39. Monty and the Fortuitous Windfall

  40. The Engagement Party

  41. The Things we do for Love

  About the Author

  1

  Monty gets a Job

  “Seabreeze Tower” is a block of red brick units, circa 1950. It stands tall in a sea of development. All around workers in fluorescent yellow raise and slot concrete slabs to make drab, grey buildings. Investors and developers in dark suits come and go to oversee construction. Here and there, others fit expensive kitchens and bathrooms. Plumbers and electricians work tirelessly to supply services to the new and exclusive modern dwellings.

  Seabreeze Tower is a few hundred units set on a large tract of land. It defies the surrounding development. Inside, residents ignore the hubbub and go about their business. Like most people, they do their best, with what they have, in the time they’re given.

  This is where I happen along. I walk on the street because the pavement is smashed. Well, it’s beyond smashed. Slabs of ancient concrete jut at odd angles and expose sand that’s been locked away for decades. Dozers and diggers creep carefully around gnarled old street trees but are indifferent to all else. They smash and crunch like Tassie Devils at a picnic.

  I replay the discussion with my case manager as I walk: “Mr Mumm, to collect unemployment you must look for work, that is your obligation. We give you a list of potential employers in your area. You must visit them. They will either employ you or sign your mutual obligation form. You are supposed to bring your signed form when you report back to us. We haven’t seen a signed form for three months. If you don’t return this form, complete with signatures, we will cut your payments. Or perhaps, get a job and don’t return at all.”

  Mutual obligation my arse - five signatures can’t be too hard.

  So I am working through the list. I’m dressed in my best job-hunting attire - Bintang singlet, board shorts with a fine pattern of seagulls perched on beer bottles, sunglasses, and a black cap embroidered with a bright green cannabis leaf. I’m irresistible.

  I have one more business to visit, the Seabreeze Tower Diner. It’s the last on my list.

  Up ahead I see a low brick wall that surrounds Seabreeze Tower. Beyond is a neon sign that proclaims a diner inside. This old place hasn’t employed anyone since biblical times. It should be an easy refusal and the last signature on my form.

  I vault the low brick wall, walk across a neatly tended lawn, and enter an open foyer. The diner is on one side of the foyer. I’ll just get my form signed and I’ll be off.

  I walk into the diner. An elderly guy stands behind a long counter. He wears a checked flannel shirt and a beret, out of which hangs the blackened ends of banana skins. I decide not to ask. A heavy brass call bell sits on the counter. There are tables with plastic tablecloths and a shelf full of assorted canned goods along one wall. I put on my most indifferent look and address Mr. Bananas.

  “I’m looking for work.”

  “Whazzat?”

  Louder – “I’m looking for work.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “What?”

  “He’s not here. Come back later.”

  “No, I’m looking for work.” I thrust my form at him and he strikes like a death adder. He grabs the paper, mashes it to a ball, and throws it in the bin. This is not going well.

  “I need that.”

  “Whazzat?”

  I raise my voice. “I need my form back.”

  “He’s not here so fuck off.” He points to the door.

  Shit, I need those signatures. I try again. I hold my hands up in a gesture of peace and talk as clearly as I can.

  “Please can I have my form back?”

  He squints at me, “Whazzat?”

  “Can I have my form back?” I gesture at the bin. He gazes to where I’m pointing, picks up the bin, and hands it to me.

  “Outside.”

  I reply without thinking, “Whazzat?”

  “Outside.” He points through the window to a big blue skip bin.

  Choosing the path of least resistance, I stomp off to the skip. On the way, I retrieve my form, which is now smeared with gravy and sauce from a remnant pie. In a fit of bad grace, I hurl the whole bin in the skip.

  I turn to leave but my ears prick up. An ominous but curious clatter and scurry comes rapidly closer. I stop and look for the source. It seems to come from about 100 feet away, down the far side of the building.

  Clatter, Clatter, SCURRY, SCURRY! BANG, a sheet of corrugated iron flies off a small internal fence and two dogs catapult through the gap. They run like the hounds of hell straight at me. I wis
h I had kept the bin.

  It is amazing how time slows in a crisis. In a fraction of a second, I see one is a lithe kelpie bitch with piercing blue eyes and a maniacal grin. She sprints with her head down. Her pink tongue flaps like a windsock in a storm. The other is a brown Labrador of prodigious proportions. His huge, flat head is like Thor’s hammer ready to smite all comers.

  The kelpie sprints in close and leans on me like a Friday night drunk. I reach down to pat her but she is a diversion and my attention is off the real danger. The Labrador comes straight at me like a U-Boat; tail up, snout forward, and rams his nose straight into my groin. With a mighty “OOOFFF” I double over. At the same time, the brown monster snatches my pie flavoured mutual obligation form and swallows it in three big gulps.

  I fall to the ground and make mewing noises. The dogs swarm over me. They push, lick, and nibble at me like I’m a plate of leftovers. I attempt to regain my feet. In doing so I expose my face. The kelpie fixes her icy blue eyes on mine, jumps straight up, and lodges her nose in my eye socket. With a cry of pain, I fall back to the ground. I cover my watering eye with one hand and my aching groin with the other.

  They ignore my screams and continue the assault. The kelpie thrusts its head down my singlet sleeve. The Labrador has my shorts pocket in its mouth and shakes vigorously. I have biltong in that pocket. The pocket rips off and the Labrador lopes off with it. The kelpie follows.

  I lie in the dust, now clad in tattered shorts and a saliva sodden singlet. I look for my cap. The kelpie, cap in mouth, peeks around the corner for a second, then she and my cap disappear as if through a portal to hell. Terrific.

  All is silent and I let the sun filter through my closed eyes for a bit. Just a few seconds and I will head home. I hear approaching footsteps. A voice shatters my peace.

  “What’s your name boy?”

  I open my eyes and see a tall man wearing stubby shorts and a faded purple tie-dye t-shirt. He has black thongs on his feet and a misshapen brown Akubra on his head. His completely grey hair is tied in a ponytail and runs halfway down his back. Wrap-around sunglasses obscure his eyes.

  Mr Bananas stands behind him. His face beams with unrestrained amusement.

  I fix him with my best glare, “Max, Max Mumm”.

  “You start today. Board, food, and whatever I choose to pay you.”

  “What? No way Man.”

  “What else you got to do? Your hired - don’t cry about it.”

  He chuckles and walks to the skip. I limp behind holding up my ruined shorts. “My name’s Raymond Strike but people call me Lucky. I’m gonna call you Monty.”

  “Monty?”

  “Yep, Max Mumm – maximum – full monty – Monty. That’s how it works, see.”

  “I would rather you….”

  “Nah, Monty’s your name and that’s an end to it.”

  He retrieves the bin and throws it to me. “You can put this back for a start.”

  With all resistance stripped away I take the bin and head back to the diner. In the distance, I can still hear Clatter and Scurry. The sound gets closer. I reckon they want more biltong. I hold up my tattered shorts with one hand, grasp the bin in the other, and hobble for the safety of the diner.

  It occurs to me that hobbling, holding up shorts, and carrying a bin are mutually exclusive activities. Control over my flight is tenuous. I stagger just a little as I enter the building and lose grip on my shorts. They drop to my ankles. The bin bangs against my knee. The monstrous noise looms closer. I can hear panting. I stumble through the shop door and look to the relative safety of the countertop.

  I leap for the counter but it’s one action too many. Out of control, I fall forward and my head meets the counter edge with a crunch. I sink to the floor. The heavy call bell teeters on the edge of the counter for a second then drops neatly onto my forehead with a BING. At the same time, the kelpie appears on the countertop and smiles down at me. She can jump. I should have known.

  Two faces loom above me, Lucky and Mr Bananas.

  “What’s with the banana peel?”

  “Lots to learn Monty. It stops skin cancer. Everyone knows that.”

  With that pearl of wisdom in mind, unconsciousness descends and brings closure to a very crappy day.

  2

  Monty’s First Day

  I wake slowly. My head hurts. I have no idea where I am other than in a room – a nice room. Morning sun cascades through a sliding door and I can see a small patio beyond it. I sense I am near the top floor as I can barely hear the BEEP BEEP of reversing vehicles below. I swing my feet out of bed.

  I walk from the bedroom into a combined lounge and dining room. My now grubby cap sits on the dining table. In the far corner, a single black leather rocker stands before an impressive television.

  I find the bathroom, which I need quite badly. Fresh towels hang on towel rails. Standing under the hot water I begin to wake. A lump akin to a golf ball sits on my forehead but otherwise I’m unscathed by yesterday’s events.

  “Monty! I’m coming in.”

  My employer grants himself access and enters. I wrap a towel around me and sit at the table. Lucky takes a dining chair, deftly spins it around, and sits with his arms folded on the seat back.

  “You must have questions, Monty.”

  “Okay, whose room is this?”

  “Yours while you work here.”

  “So it's yours?”

  “Yep, one of many.”

  “How many?”

  “I own most of the block - all but 6 units, actually. Those 6 are government housing and private rental.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Nice room, do I keep the furniture?”

  “I think so. Ratchet has no further need of it.”

  I look at the leather rocker and see the leather is sound but well used. The headrest is particularly faded. I decide not to ask about Ratchet’s fate. I walk to the patio doors and see the ocean glitter.

  “Wow, you have a goldmine here.”

  Lucky stiffens – “Lots to learn Monty. Now in the bedroom - get dressed.”

  Dressed? I seem to remember my clothes are shredded. In the bedroom, I find folded, clean clothes on top of the drawers. My clothes.

  “These are my clothes. How do you have my clothes?”

  “We picked up your stuff.”

  “From my parents?!”

  “Yep, nice people. You should be ashamed – you’re 32 after all.”

  “How did you find them?”

  “Whazzat?”

  I try again. “How did you find my parents?”

  “I told them you had a job drilling oil in Paraguay.”

  Of course you did.

  “How did you find my parents?”

  “I said you would Skype them in a week. Your Dad wants to see a toucan.”

  “What? Where do I get a bloody toucan, Lucky?”

  “You should have thought of that. Now, let's go, you’re in the diner this morning. You can grab some tucker there.”

  “One more question Lucky, what is my job?”

  Lucky grins. “Monty, you’re my private secretary.”

  Of course I am.

  The trip to the diner is ponderously slow as Lucky stops to chat with everyone he sees.

  “Miss Jessica, how lovely to see you this morning. This is the new boy, Monty.”

  “Monty, what a delightful name, so uncommon these days. Welcome aboard Monty.”

  “Max, my name is Max.”

  “No, I know a Monty when I see one and you are as Monty as they come. Max is such a common name. You could never be a Max.”

  No apparently not.

  “Fingers! How’s the gout this morning? This is Monty.”

  “Lucky, the drops you gave me work a treat. Way to go Monty.”

  He grabs my hand and shakes with the enthusiasm of a Jack Russell at puppy school.

  “Max, my name is Max.”

  “Montymax? I went to school with a Gerald Montymax. Horrible little prick
he was. I might just call you Monty if that’s okay.”

  Sure, why not.

  “Flick! How is your lovely daughter? Let me introduce my private secretary, Monty.”

  Flick peers over her glasses. “You don’t look secretarial material Monty but I am sure you will be useful, what with all that’s going on. Call me Felicity. I like young men to call me Felicity.”

  I raise my hand in a half-wave. “Good to meet you, Felicity. My name’s Max.”

  She pats my arm. “Yes, I’m sure it is dear.”

  Monty three – Max nil.

  And so it goes on, stop, greet and introduce, down 12 flights of stairs. Apparently, the lift is “uncooperative”. At no stage am I anyone but Monty. Monty wins and Max permanently retires.

  As we descend, I notice each flight of stairs opens out to a warmly painted corridor, which runs both ways. Units are evenly spaced along the corridors. A range of plants, umbrella stands, and bootjacks lay outside the brightly coloured doorways. All the units seem to face outwards from the centre, so each has a balcony. The tower sits towards the front of a huge plot of land. It looks as if another building was planned but never built. The ground floor opens into a large foyer that contains the main entry.

  The foyer is sparse. Two tired chesterfield couches and an oak hatstand are the only furniture. The drab furnishings are defied by a riot of abstract paintings that festoon the walls. Opposite the stairwell and across the foyer is the diner, which is more like a dining hall than any diner I’ve ever seen.