My golden wonders

Monty Don on how his dogs, Nigel and Nellie, have become the real stars of his TV show

Here he comes, Nigel, my golden retriever, his tail wagging as yet again he hogs the limelight, the real star of BBC2’s Gardeners’ World. He crept into television bit by bit. It was never my plan to use him on screen; he simply did what he always does and followed me round the garden. But gradually more and more shots included him, largely because he is a terrible scene-stealer, with an uncanny ability to strike exactly the right pose for the camera.

I remember a particular day filming at Longmeadow, my home in Herefordshire, when the production team had spent hours meticulously setting up different shots of me wheeling a barrow. As I set off, pushing the barrow, I heard one cameraman say, ‘Hang on – just a mo’… the sunlight’s just perfect… don’t move… good boy – perfect.’

And as I came round the corner I saw Nigel lying exactly where I was to park the barrow, finding the one shaft of sunlight that had broken through the cloud all morning, his tail wafting like a preened, russet ostr ich feather, filtering t he l ight . He looked up and saw me – with I swear, a smirk – and then demurely lowered his head on to his paws.

The director called out, ‘Cut!’ The sun went back in. Nigel shuffled off out of the way. Both cameramen congratulated themselves for capturing the magic moment and the director beckoned for me to do my stuff now the star had completed his turn.

It happens time after time as he insinuates himself into every scene, edging me aside to become his straight man, a walk-on to feed him the best lines. It is uncanny how he’ll always find the one position where the combination of sun, flowers, the whole composition of the scene, comes together to work perfectly around him.

Another reason we use him so much is that he’s a quick learner, who picks up what to do and can then repeat it as many times as necessary. Unusually for a dog, having to do half a dozen takes of the same shot doesn’t faze him. Like a true professional, he hits his markers every time.

Admittedly, I do have a couple of incentives. I always have a pocketful of biscuits and occasionally reward him with a tiny morsel. But my even more potent weapon is a small yellow tennis ball that, critically, has a squeak. I press it just as the director says ‘Action!’, and Nigel looks across to see where the noise and glorious hint of tennis ball aroma is coming from.

What I hope his face communi- cates to viewers is happiness because Nigel is a dog who smiles a lot. Not the crinkly, toothy grin that some dogs produce when they see you – which is not really a smile but a submissive gesture – but the relaxed, slack- mouthed beam of someone pleased with life. He beams, his tongue out, the corners of his mouth high, his eyes soft and shining.

It helps that he is good looking – beautiful even – but what distinguishes him from other dogs is charisma, an unrivalled ability to inspire affection. He radiates goodwill. I feel happier seeing him; he feels tremendously happy; we are all thoroughly cheered up. Somehow he has been blessed with a rare something that actively improves the lives of those around him – even remotely via television.

Every week parcels and presents arrive for him and he gets more cards at Christmas than we do. When he had a terrible accident and broke his back some years ago – more of which next week – we received sackfuls of letters.

For a long time I couldn’t quite understand it. What was it that he had that was so different from any other dog? Finally I worked it out. Nigel has the rare gift of taking our love and making us feel enriched and enlarged by doing so. It is not what he gives back to us so much as what he allows us to give to him. He empowers us to feel love. That’s Nigel’s very special gift.

HE’S MR BEAR TO HIS FRIENDS

All my life, I’ve had dogs but from the beginning, Nigel was different. He came into my life eight years ago when my son and I went to see a litter of seven-week- old golden retriever puppies in the Forest of Dean. One immediately caught our eye, sitting apart with a slightly goofy smile, more Lenny the Lion than leonine. So cute!

However, I was sternly practical. ‘Look at them carefully,’ I said to my son, ‘check the line of the backs, how they hold their heads. We want a dog that is bold and confident. Resist any temptation to rescue the smallest or most timid.’ But I knew this was bluster. We were irresistibly drawn to the one that hung back and barked most while looking directly into our eyes. The bark was neither hostile nor afraid – simply talkative.

So we chose him, paid our deposit and drove home, wondering what to call him. There had been some discussion already and certain names had strong lobbies within the household. One school thought that anything remotely pet-like was capitulation to the forces of bourgeois degeneration. So Bracken, Rusty, Max, Captain, Jake or Barney were definitely out. They fought hard for the least suitable name one could think of. Keith was favour-

‘Nigel gets more cards at Christmas than we do’