Here’s a sneak peek at something I’m working on right now.
Dad put both hands flat on the table in front of him and stared at them. ‘You need to shoot your own dog.’
‘What? Where did that come from? Is this non sequitur week?
‘I can’t let you do it, Anton. Sometimes, a man needs to shoot his own dog.’
‘Aargh! Repeating it doesn’t make it any better! What are you? A character in an old western movie?’
‘That’s so dumb, “A man’s gotta shoot his own dog.” No he doesn’t! Why not save it? Get it the right treatment, an operation, whatever. I mean, that sort of stoic guy stuff is a cop out. Who are you thinking of, the dog or you? If I don’t take care of my dog I’ll look bad? Sheesh. All over the wild west, I bet dogs lived in constant fear, just in case their masters glanced at them with the ‘That dog’s seemin’ a mite poorly’ look in their eye.’