The summer a shaggy Mr Optimism arrived

There is a wonderful scene in Christmas rom-com The Holiday in which tearful Iris (Kate Winslet) says, with newfound I-don’t-need-that-cad resolve: “You’re supposed to be the leading lady of your own life, for God’s sake!”

All well and good for Iris. But since the summer of 2022, or at least within months of that milestone, I have not been the leading lady of my own story. And I can live with that.

Monte has the blond, centre-parted hair of a 90s teen heartthrob.Credit: Marija Ercegovac

Monte, a shaggy-haired cavoodle, was born in Orange that shimmering, hot January before he joined us in the west – Sydney’s inner west, otherwise known as Cavoodle Country.

He boasts a full body-wag, a breathless, high-pitched squeak oft reserved for women in activewear, and the floppy, centre-parted hair of a ′90s teen heartthrob. But his true gift is his unmatchable ability to instil joy.

Monte has changed almost all my daily social interactions. He is an icebreaker, even when I’m not looking for one. He is a nosy parker, conducting neighbourhood and domestic surveillance, who’d do well at ASIO if spooks could decipher Dog. And he is the undeniable focal point.

I am the Just Ken to his Barbie (he has the blond highlights for both of us). The Thelma to his Louise. To be clear-eyed about it, he is probably also the Beetlejuice – with a slightly chaotic energy and a somewhat haunting presence, especially around mealtimes – to my Lydia Deetz.

A walk down my suburb’s main street used to be an unremarkable affair. It was unlikely to involve conversing with strangers.

It is now apt to include multiple stops for pats and perhaps a Schmacko or three at the dry cleaner. For Monte, the merest hint of eye contact from a passerby is an invitation to squeaky interaction.

“That’s a ragamuffin,” I once overheard a garden centre worker say approvingly. The cap fits.

Monte, pictured here before a kayaking trip, burst onto the inner west scene in 2022.Credit: Michaela Whitbourn

I used to socialise sans hound, but my furry shadow is now a very welcome – nay, mandatory – addition in many settings.

A journalist friend was so disappointed I hadn’t brought Monte for a walk in our neighbourhood that we had to go back and get him.

In the manner of many Hairy Maclary-style cuties, Monte has attained the status of minor local celebrity. He has a regular hairdresser. I don’t. The number of neighbours who know his name far outstrips those who know mine. Basically, I’m his roadie.

“Have a good day, Mont!” called the little girl up the street as she left for school. Mont!Delightful.

People approach dogs and their humans with an openness that might otherwise elude social encounters, perhaps because dogs exude a non-judgmental energy (although I am not convinced that Monte doesn’t judge me, silently and regularly).

I now have many other four-legged friends. Coincidentally, Monte’s older sister – they share the same poodle Dad – lives up the road. They run together joyfully, cheek to cheek, in the park.

It took us a while to figure out that the striking similarity in their looks was genetic rather than generic.

Monte’s trainer called him Mr Optimism and Adrenaline Junkie. He’s no lapdog and doesn’t really like cuddles so much as leaning against you on his own terms.

He respects very few boundaries but is not penalised for it, on account of those big Cavalier eyes. He once licked a stranger’s salty, sweaty leg as we waited to cross the road at a set of lights.

He has taught me to approach the world with greater love and optimism. Are strangers just friends you haven’t met yet? For Monte, the answer is yes.

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