‘Murphy’ – it’s a spud. It’s also a Gaelic name meaning ‘warrior of the sea’. And the most common family name in Ireland.

Or it could be a $4000, 50kg lump of a dog that’s grown a kind of celebrity status on the beach at Pāpāmoa.

Murphy – ‘The Murph’, ‘Mighty-Murph-Man’ – the Burnese Mountain Dog of Pāpāmoa.

“Do a profile on Murphy,” said the boss. Really? A profile on someone’s skanky old dog? It’s hard because dog owners are a protective, defensive lot. And I get a bit snippy when they expect you to love and understand their dogs as much as they do.

But then I met Murphy. I banged into him, well he crashed into me. And now I’m a Murphophile.

He wandered up to my office desk and stood there rooted, staring at me. Damn near 90cm tall – eye-balling me, staring me down with those big, dark brown, doleful, melt-your-heart eyes. It was a Stanley finding Livingstone moment.

“Murphy, I presume?”

“Handsome fella, eh?” says Murphy’s mum Caitlin Burns.

Majestic

He is indeed. Majestic, just about occupies the full span of your gaze, powerful, but placid – and that stunning, thick silky tri-colour coat of a black saddle, white breast plate and brown undercarriage.  

“Brown? It’s actually ‘rust’.”

“Mighty-Murph-Man” or “My bubber” as Caitlin calls him.

This is a smart, achieving, no-nonsense career woman who lapses into pitched baby talk around Murph. ‘My bubber’ – why is that?

I am told Burnese Mountain dogs, or ‘Burners’, exude intelligence – but Murphy was either off his game, a bit aloof, or he just doesn’t do media very well. Because he didn’t give me much to work with apart from that imposing presence.

“A bit shy today,” was the explanation. “Normally he’s quite boisterous.”

A lie down after a workout with a boisterous 50kg mountain dog: ‘Murph’ and Caitlin.

And a loveable boof-head to boot. He’s only 18 months old and doesn’t quite understand his own size –banging into things, knocking things over. Furniture, children, pot plants, little old ladies, whatever.

Then on cue, Murphy decides his interview with The Weekend Sun is finished, turns and crashes into the wall.

All the way out Murphy’s tail is wagging in a huge arc – whacking doors, walls, desks, people.

He’s weaponised his tail.

Obsessed

Murphy is obsessed with Kit the family cat – constantly showing the cat love. “But obviously they don’t speak the same language,” says Caitlin.

Because Murphy’s 20 times bigger and heavier, and Kit construes his attention as aggression and it ends in tears.

If you pop your mouth, Murphy goes nuts, barks his head off and charges around in circles, a 50kg canine wrecking ball. All fur, slobber and silliness. It’s both weird and wonderful to watch.

“It’s a lot like living with an oversized, moody toddler,” says Caitlin.

“One minute he’s stuck to your side with Velcro, the next sleeping for four hours. One minute he’s demanding snuggles, moments later barking at a stranger, and the next letting strange kids poke and prod him.” A dog of many parts – 95 per cent wonderful, caring, and loving; and five per cent pure goofy.

I just happened to mention to some Katikati people that I was on first-name terms with a Burnese Mountain Dog. “Is it called Murphy? From Pāpāmoa?” His name and reputation have spread all the way up State Highway 2.

Murph’s origins are in a land of chocolate and cheese. He’s a farm and draft dog – herding cattle through Swiss alpine meadows and snowy mountain landscapes and pulling farm carts and machinery. He’s a cold weather dog so that presents issues in a temperate climate.

He gets walked early or late when it’s cooler. And if he shows signs of overheating – panting, drooling, trembling – he gets hosed down and plonked in front of the air conditioner to cool.

‘The Murph’, or ‘Mighty-Murph-Man’ with ‘Mrs Murphy’ – Caitlin Burns.

Murph’s hairy, very hairy, with two beautiful shiny coats – an underlay to provide insulation, and guard hair as a barrier against the wet and dirt. His crowning glory costs about $120 a groom several times a year.

A good time

And he sheds a lot. “I can’t understand why he’s not bald,” says Caitlin.

He also has a commercial bath every two or three weeks and a good brush every day or two. A big dog is like a big car, they guzzle fuel, more than $200 a month to feed him. And Murphy goes to doggy daycare A Dog’s Day in Tauranga City a couple times a week.

Murphy as a puppy.

“His bark only has one setting,” says Caitlin. It’s a deep, booming bark that has scares the bejesus out of fragile passers-by, mailmen and assorted tradesmen. It’s not a bloodlust bark, he just craves a bit of people interaction.

The Berners are short-lived – just eight or nine years. “He’s here for a good time, not necessarily a long time,” says Caitlin. “And I have a lot of love to fit in that time.”

You have landed on your paws Murph.