Monty and Me: A heart-warmingly wagtastic novel!
Introducing loveable dog detective Monty – the must-have book this Christmas!You might think that dogs can’t understand us…but you’d be wrong.Apart from an obsession with cheese, Monty is a perfectly rational animal. So when his beloved master is stabbed to death, Monty decides to use his formidable nose to track the killer down.Luckily he manages to find a home with Rose Sidebottom, the young policewoman who’s investigating the case. But with her colleagues turning against her, and the wrong man collared, she’s going to need a little help…
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HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Copyright © Louisa Bennet 2015
Cover design © Emma Rogers 2015
Cover images © Shutterstock 2015
Louisa Bennet asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008124045
Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN: 9780008127664
Version: 2015-11-03
To Ann Young, Zina Daniel and Maureen Larkin.
Table of Contents
I bound from the car and, nose to the ground, zig-zag around the front lawn of my new home. I hoover up downy feathers that stick to my wet nose and I sneeze, sending the feathers flying. As a pup, I once tore a cushion to shreds searching for the duck inside. I found loads of feathers but never found the duck. I’m still searching. Can’t be that many naked ducks about.
‘So, what do you think?’ Rose asks, smiling.
What do I think? I think those bitter white tablets the vet gave me were worth it after all. I can’t feel my stitches and my paws seem to float above the grass as if I’m dreaming. I run over to Rose, tail wagging like a windscreen wiper in a downpour, and lick her hand. After being cooped up in a cage at the vet’s, I need the wind in my fur, big time. So I charge up and down, leaning into each turn like a motorcycle at Brands Hatch, almost tripping over a faded wooden sign on the overgrown grass that once welcomed visitors to Duckdown Cottage. It even has a white duck painted on it.
Duck!
I bolt down the side of the house to where the duck droppings are so potent it’s like fireworks going off in my head.
‘Monty!’ she calls. ‘Leave the ducks alone.’
She can’t be serious! Duck and pheasant retrieval is what I’m bred for. It’s a calling.
I go into selective hearing mode and charge for the pond, revelling in the glorious combination of mud, poultry poo and stagnant water. It’s the canine equivalent of Chanel No. 5. Most of the quack-pack sit serenely in the shade of a willow. A matronly mallard leads them in meditation.
‘Om shanti,’ the mallard intones.
‘Om shanti,’ they reply.
The others snooze, plump bodies balanced on one of their twig-like legs, eyes closed. It’s too much. I can’t resist. Time for a bit of duck toppling!
I charge at them, plumed tail held high like the battle flag of an invading army, and bark with excitement. The ducks panic, running around in circles, then scatter. Some head for the water, others bolt across the lawn, wings back. Before Rose can grab my collar, I dive for the pond, water splashing over me, cool and exhilarating.
‘Monty, stop! Your stitches!’
Mouth open, I pounce on a black and white tufted dowager and come up with her in my jaws.
‘Get off me, you slobbering fur-ball!’ she quacks and kicks me in the muzzle.
I can’t tell this squirming mass of feathers and webbed feet that I’m not going to hurt her, because I’ll drop her if I do. Sodden but proud, I trot out of the pond and deposit the ruffled bird, unhurt, at Rose’s feet. A gift. I am expecting praise, ears up, long pink tongue dangling, mouth turned up in what the big’uns – that’s our term for people – often think of as a smile.
‘Bad dog!’ she scolds, trying to catch her breath.
