Montgomery Fulton aka Monty, Monty dog, beautiful boy, @Montydog101 on Instagram, is our much adored, pure-bred, Golden Retriever.

Most of the day he lives in air-conditioned comfort while recounting his morning walks or dreaming of yet to have adventures during his evening rambles.

He is a sweet-natured, gentle but huge boy dog. He’s a rubbish retriever and looks at balls and sticks with barely disguised disdain when they are thrown over his head. He also hates water and loathes the sea and the shower in equal measure. Washing this dog is a battle of strength, will and persistence. It’s interesting that the other males in the house melt away when this is a task which needs to be completed. I emerge from the dog shower, wetter than the darned dog every time.

I’m really not sure how it happened but in every other respect, bar his water repulsion, we seem to have acquired the canine version of the Roscoe boy.

Neither contribute much to the running of the household but both demand huge amounts of time and attention. They both need regular grooming and are smelly and stinky in equal measure. They sulk and pout and manage to look cute, tragic and demonic all at the same time. They are unbelievably fussy eaters ( this morning the dog turned his nose up at sweet potato and fish and only ate half of his scrambled egg, bacon and kibble alternative) Although I’ve tried starving Monty into submission he’s more stubborn than me. Talking of which they are both incredibly b-minded. I often battle with 86lbs of dog determined to sniff and pee a particular tree or bush while I’m set on walking in a straight line. With the result, my arm muscles are toning up nicely. Meanwhile, the human version seems equally incapable of walking straight and in addition finds it necessary to lean on me when I drag him out as my dog walking companion. They both run off chasing skirt and would rather ‘hang’ with friends than have anything to do with me; until they want something.

But this week, there has been a shift. After parent/teacher/ child morning, Roscoe and I took Monty to be neutered. At some expense I purchase a ‘comfy cone of shame’ for this occasion as somehow (?) I know the dog is going to be fixated on his bits. Or what is left of his bits. Apart from being groggy from the anesthetic, he is deeply unhappy at the infamy of having this soft, plastic, Velcro contraption strapped around his neck. He follows me around bumping into various walls and furniture using his now tunnel vision and sense of smell to find me. Eventually I give  in and take it off, keeping him close to make sure his nose is not stuck where it isn’t supposed to be. Later, so I can get to bed, I try to re-fix it around his neck. He is so disgusted he turns and looks at the wall while sweating profusely. The perceived psychological battle is won, the cone comes off and I stay up until the wee small hours, checking on him. The following day he looks at me through huge sorrowful eyes. He’s in a lot of pain and can barely move. Once more, I sit  up during the night.

I’m in a Zombie-like catatonic state by Wednesday so woefully under-prepared by Craig announcing he is off to Antigua. In all my written and electronic diaries, this is a day early and it really messes up my schedule. I am too tired to shout. I am too tired to cry. I focus on moving my engagements to accommodate the boy and his canine companion. I try to stay out of any arguments about school work and delivery. There’s no energy left for a war.

Thursday comes and the dog is now looking a bit more sparky. Thank goodness one of us is, I feel as if I’ve been hit by a 10tonne truck. By now I’m force feeding the canine paracetamol every 4 to 6 hours and this is making a huge difference to his demeanor and pain levels. It’s just paying havoc with my sleep pattern.

Friday arrives and finally the dog seems a bit more like himself apart from he needs to sit down on cool tile most of the time as his bits are obviously still paining him. After drugging him once more I drag myself off to boxing class and have to really concentrate that I dive and drive in the right combination. For the third consecutive evening, I drive into downtown Bridgetown as I’ve committed to attend the Kickstart football AGM. I sit there looking all studious, making notes and looking interested. Truth is I’m shattered and writing is the only thing keeping me awake.

Today I sleep in and wake to the dog being sick on one of the only 2 carpets we have downstairs. Why? There is veritably copious amounts of pale tile floor, why is the carpet the place to be sick? Naturally there are no other males around. As I scrub and dab and scrub once more it occurs to me Roscoe would do similar for attention.

After barking aggressively at some workmen next door, Monty appears at the breakfast table obviously and visibly “excited”. I’m dumbfounded, I haven’t endured nearly a week of virtually no sleep, devising ever-increasing creative ways to force feed him paracetamol and putting my life on hold, for this dog to still look like he could have a good time.

It’s fair to say that after vociferously quizzing Craig on how this can still be possible, and yelling at Roscoe to get downstairs to get ready for football, the hormonal levels in the Fulton household remain high…