Last night at The Crippled Bee I urged my companions to bring forth beer, and then, in turn, the very best of their writer and pet related stories.
Why so? After all, I care not for pets myself. Why people will insist on wandering around our beautiful parks and woodlands accompanied by a yapping, hairy, four-legged professional-shit-depositor on a lead has always been a mystery to me. A goldfish in a bowl? Unless it’s nestling on a bed of salad, with a fig-flavoured balsamic dressing, it’s not for me. A rabbit in a hutch? I don’t think so. Bunnies belong in Hades’ lair.
Still, one must appreciate that, beyond my own (clearly) superior tastes, there are other points of view. Writers and artists have, throughout history, frequently turned to animals – as inspiration, as part-time companions, as – dare I say it? – close friends. Like it I don’t, but pets abound in the annals of obsure european literature. Who can forget Hector Spinkel’s Bornean Whoolah Bird, or Louis Marchant’s monkey-faced owl? Literary history crawls with animals: lambs lightly leap, moles courageously dig and cheetahs simply wizz through its never-ending pages.
So, I hear you say, isn’t it time someone created some sort of ‘Pet’s Corner’ for fans of obscure european literature? Perhaps you’re right. In any case, though I wouldn’t go so far as to predict that this will be a regular feature (what ever happened to my daily routine series after all?), I hereby announce that I will, over the coming weeks and/or months, be sharing a few of those aforementioned writer and pet-related stories with you.