Finn File 2 - Who Was Monty The Lurcher?

In this, the second of the Finn Files, I think I ought to explain a little more about who I am and why I’m doing these internet blogs. 

As I said in the first file, I am following in the footsteps of my old mentor Monty, who died a while ago. Monty had his own newspaper column - and much to the chagrin of Martin Hesp, he used to get a lot more letters of support and fan-mail than the journalist himself.

Which is why I was invited to contribute to this website. It’s Hespie’s sneaky way of trying to get more people to click on the site and make him look important. 

But who was Monty, and why was he so popular? In answer to that we’ve edited a short video for this page which you can watch - and I thought you might also like to read an edited version of one of the newspaper columns he wrote…. 

In his column last week old Hesp was trying to convince readers how much he cares about his so-called “man’s best friend” and generally putting it about that, despite being a journalist, he’s a wonderful well-balanced fellow who is often overcome by love and its favourite escort, guilt, just like any other man.  

Well, I’m here to tell you that is a load of old tosh. 

The old toad went off on holiday leaving me to run the fort with not a glance over his shoulder or a whiff of remorse. 

And good riddance, I say. He’s welcome to his plates of spaghetti or whatever they serve in somewhere called Italy. Doesn’t sound very wholesome to me. But then, not much does. 

I’ve become a bit choosy about food. Over the past couple of years I’ve trained up the poor, long-suffering, woman-of-this-house to buy only the most expensive doggie-treats. The old fascist she’s married to moans like hell about it, but I’ve only got to give Mrs Hesp one of those pathetic looks that I’ve got a PHD in, and she’s off down the pet store buying the luxury stuff. 

If it was up to Hesp himself I’d be catching my own rabbit food out there in the hills. Having said that, I’ve got to admit the old fool does go in for a bit of that himself. Every walk we take nowadays (when he’s not off on some freebie holiday he’s scrounged) is ruined by him picking mushrooms or blackberries or whatever it is. 

And there is nothing - I mean absolutely nothing - I hate more than going out on patrol, only to have the real business of the day wrecked by him coming to a halt all over the place. Fungi foraging annoys the hell out of me. It’s all - stop-start, stop-start. I can’t be expected to go out on a proper rabbit, squirrel or general scent-sniffing patrol like that!

The other day I gave up and started to walk home on my own. Blimey! The old rogue hit the roof! Which shows how selfish he is. We were up in one of my favourite fields - a place I love because there’s a weird mineral smell in one spot and every time I go there roll about in the grass so that some of whatever it is will rub off and condition my fine coat of hair. That only takes me about 60 seconds - unlike mushroom picking which takes him hours. At least it did on this occasion when there were lots of those nasty field mushrooms everywhere. 

Hespie must have known it would be like that because he came prepared with a little knife and a bag. There he was stooping and picking - walking five paces - and stooping and picking again. For half the afternoon! 

I wish I could use one of those telephone things. I’d have rung his boss at the newspaper and told him the real truth about the “editor-at-large”. It’s apparently a term used for a senior journalist who is allowed to go anywhere he pleases to dig out interesting stories. Well, Hespie goes wherever he pleases all right. But I can’t see what hours of field-mushroom gathering has got to do with journalism. And my bet is his bosses wouldn’t either, if they knew about it. 

But do you know how the old fraud gets round it? After selfishly wrecking my walk he’ll go back to the house, take some photographs of his friggin’ fungi looking all folksy in some old basket, then write an article boasting about how many he’s picked. And he calls that work!

Between you and me, this writing business is nothing like it’s cracked up to be. I’ve knocked these few words out in not much more than ten minutes. Rolled right off the top of my handsome head, they have. But the editor-at-large makes a right old song and dance about it. He disappears off into that office of his and tells his long suffering missus he can’t do this or that because he’s too busy - when all the time he’s having a snooze in that big leather chair of his.

The lying rascal was even trying to convince you lot about his hard work last week, talking all that nonsense about packing his suitcase. He didn’t touch a single thing he took away with him - poor old Mrs Hesp had to pack the lot while he was in his office writing something about pretending to have a dog’s life. 

Dog’s life? Doghouse - that’s where I’d put the blighter. 

So that was dear old Monters giving his newspaper readers a real picture of life here at Chateau Hesp. I’ll be doing the same when I return next time…