“Intrepid, arctic explorers, are we!” I stated this to the muse last night after a tedious but successful day of finishing up The Hushing Days. (The History Channel had been left on, and there had been documentaries. Enough said on that.)
My furry, four-legged highness, however, didn’t appreciate the comparison. Particularly troublesome to her was the fact that in all those early 20th century treks of infamy, the dog is eaten first when the food runs out.
I winced, then quickly assured her that her 15 pounds of fur and attitude wouldn’t be worth the bother. I may have used the word “stroppy” to describe her would-be meat.
She appreciated this even less and retaliated by refusing to come to bed with me last night, clearly showing me what “stroppy” can really do.
I mention this debacle to relate just one of the interesting hiccups a writer faces when mad and accompanied by dog.
Take it for what it’s worth… or, better yet, flush it with malice and forethought.