the daily george

I’ve decided that it would be a cool challenge for me to blog every day between now and the end of the year. The aim is to blog about what I’m writing and reading, of course – but inevitably there will be detours into dog-walking, alcohol, work and other adventures. I can’t help it. Be patient with me – I am finding my blogging feet.

Yesterday when walking the dog, I saw a cat sitting halfway up a tree. I don’t think it was stuck. It seemed to be perched there, trying to work out what the hell to do next. Luckily the dog didn’t notice it, and therefore did not try to chase it down and destroy it with loving chews. I hope that it has found its way home now.

It made me wonder: what is the best pet for a writer? Most writers I talk to have cats. They love their cats, post pictures of their cats making allegedly funny faces, ascribe to their cats all sorts of mysterious intelligence and clearly love them a lot. In fact, it’s tempting to believe that without a cat, you will never be a real writer.

Now, I’ve got nothing against cats. Oh, apart from their inherent EVIL, that is. (Torturing birds, biting the heads off rabbits, looking snooty…) But I think that a dog is the perfect pet for a writer. They are intelligent, peaceful, playful, always willing to listen, and they get you out of the house on a regular basis. This is important: writers who stay indoors all day long and don’t take long, leafy perambulations end up starved of inspiration. We need to go outside. A lot. Dogs make this happen.

Didn’t get as far as I wanted to yesterday with the new short story, so I’m going to turn off the internet and try to finish a first draft today. In the meantime, you can argue about whether cats or dogs are the best pets. (Clue: the answer is ‘dogs’.)

3 Replies to “the daily george”

  1. I was putting this question to myself. No. Try the continuous form: I have been putting this question to myself for some time. My cat, reading my mind, has decided to pose as a dog. Smart, uhu? Judge by yourself:

    1) He rolls onto his back and begs me to scratch his belly. And he also brushes his head against (or under) my hand for me to pet him.

    2) He complains at the entrance door to be let out, but he likes it better when I’m outside, too (so uncat-like!).

    3) He always comes when I call his name.

    4) He retrieves things I throw.

    But I won’t be able to take him to the islands because of the evil Britttish quarantine. Now I’m in a quandary. How can I disappoint–no, betray–him? D’you think I could smuggle him into the proud Kingdom?

  2. Now I’m thinking my dog is more like a cat, as he does none of those things, and really only talks to me when there is a promise of food or a walk.

    How long would he have to be quarantined for? Are you coming here to stay? How exciting! (For us, maybe not so much for you!)

  3. His Majesty would be quarantined for forty days (quarante jours, quaranta giorni, forgot the Latin–see where you steal your words from?)! Forty days in a cage. Next to other cages with pets howling their sorrow to the light bulb. Just because the islands want to protect themselves from rabies. I suspect foxes have it already. Well, dunno. Barbarous custom anyway.

    To avenge my abandoned cat, I could smuggle lizards of a variety unknown on the islands. Imagine the ecological catastrophe. Kidding. I hate ecological catastrophes.

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