Old Man Montgomery

I guess I just have to accept that he’s getting to be an old man. Or, dog, as it were.

Montgomery has been my faithful pal since 1993, when I got him from an SPCA in college in Tuscaloosa, Ala. He was four weeks old, and had gotten the rather unloving start of being left at the shelter door taped in a cardboard box. He had rickets, where his little legs looked like they were bending when he ran. He had worms. Someone had tried to trim his ears in a ragingly inhumane way, so he’s got, to this day, this scalloped trim around them. He was, for lack of a better term, a wreck.

But my purebred Alabama Dumpster Hound had something about him that made him the perfect dog. He just had that look. When I went into the room with the dogs that day, all of the dogs did their usual thing where they run to the front of the cage and bark and yap. Montgomery, though, sat at the back of his cage, and just cut a glance over at me, as if to say, “I’m four weeks old and I’ve been through this. What more can you do?”

Montgomery first lived in the fraternity house, and was always available to loan out to friends in need of a prop on the Quad to strike up a conversation. When I moved to Orlando right after college, Montgomery was my roommate. He was always there when I got home from work, and every night had a delicious dinner waiting on me. Or he had eaten the couch cushions. One of those. I can’t really remember.

While once a ball of energy who could never sit still, Montgomery has slowed down of late. And he shares his grumpiness whenever he can. He barks. A lot. At nothing. He will stand in the yard and just bark. And bark. And bark. We try to keep an ear out for when he starts barking so we can bring him inside, which, of course, means he immediately settles and calms down.

HA! Of course that doesn’t happen. Montgomery merely comes inside and barks more, and louder. Sometimes, I am fairly sure he has my daughter’s toy microphone.

Rarely a night goes by where I don’t make two or three trips downstairs to assure Montgomery that there is nothing to bark at, which he responds by barking at me. I will reach my hand down and soothe him, and he will reassuringly bark at me.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s not barking like he’s going to bite or anything. He just points his head up and barks. And barks.

And then sometimes he barks at Maggie, our Basset hound. Maggie will be lying down, just being a Basset hound, and Montgomery will stand over her and bark. And bark. And bark. And Maggie will have this look on her face that says, “Seriously, I’m just trying to be a Basset Hound here. Knock it off.”

The other night, Montgomery was barking up a storm about 3 a.m. I was well into a good night sleep. And when I get into a good sleep, you can pretty much go ahead and perform open heart surgery on me, because I’m not waking up. My wife tried to wake me to get him to be quiet. After several nudges, pushes, and, I’m guessing, eye pokes, she said I sat up and said, “Just go tell him you’re a Bama fan.” I have no idea what that means or how that was supposed to make him stop barking, but it still strikes me as funny. (Eventually, she put Maggie in another room, and Montgomery went to sleep.)

Even as he turns into a grumpy old man, he still shows occasional signs of being the spry dog I have always known. He used to be an ace Frisbee-catcher, and has always loved fetching tennis balls. Even if he’s having one of those slow-to-get-up days, he still will go nuts if you throw a tennis ball. He will fetch it with the most fervor he can, and bring it back to you so incredibly happy that he has just simply brought you a ball. As my brother-in-law once said: “Montgomery just wants to be Mike’s dog.”

And that’s what he is. He’s my dog. He has always been there to make me happy. Bad day at work? Montgomery’s happy to see me. Car trouble? Montgomery’s happy to see me. Accidentally put a co-worker in intensive care with the unfortunate “exploding desk” prank? Montgomery’s happy to see me. And I have tried my level best to reciprocate that. Sure, he may be getting old and crotchety now, but you know what? I’ve probably been pretty grumpy about silly things over the years (Note from Mike’s wife: You think?), and Montgomery always greeted me the same way: just happy to see me.

In 1993, I had been dating someone for about three weeks when she accompanied me to the shelter to pick out a dog. We walked out of there with Montgomery. She and I have now been married for eight years. He’s her dog, too. And we both agree. He can be a grumpy old man. He’s earned it.