Q:hey i really like that last thing you drew can you draw my OC who looks suspiciously just like me but with a lot of muscles riding a bear thnx
Comics for Dogs 4.
This has deep echoes of Farley Mowat’s The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be floating around in it.
There was no other wanderer on that road, yet I was not alone, for his tracks went with me, each paw print as familiar as the print of my own hand. My boots were sucking in the mud, as a truck came howling along toward me, and passed in a shower of muddy water. I glanced angrily after it, for the driver had almost hit me in his blind rush. As I watched, it swerved sharply to make the bend in the road, and vanished from my view. I heard the sudden shrill of breaks, and the roar of an accelerating motor, and then it was gone. I did not know that in its passing, it had made an end to the best years that I had lived. The tracks that I had followed ended here, nor would they ever lead me again. The pact of timelessness between the two of us was ended, and I went from him into the darkening tunnel of the years.
There are, uh, happier moments in the book than that. But. Mowat is beautiful when talking about his love for animals, and his pet dog was his first love.
9:17 p.m. Earlier I said these mozzarella sticks taste like garbage. I would like to amend that statement. They taste worse than garbage. I would prefer to eat garbage, because then there would be the chance I would get to eat a bite of something good someone started to eat but couldn’t finish, or paper.
The water outside TGI Friday’s is black now.
9:23 p.m. I keep thinking I hear people say “Caity.” I write down in my notebook that I am “definitely hallucinating.”
I put my head near the table to write more and the scent of old marinara and burnt rubber fills my nostrils. I sit back up.
9:36 p.m. A waiter tries to give me another table’s Boneless Buffalo Wings. Do not tempt me, Satan.
Ivor Novello & June Tripp in The Lodger: A Story of the London Fog (1927)
When the rumour goes abroad that some notable man has been actually crushed,—been positively driven over by an entire Juggernaut’s car of criticism till his literary body be a mere amorphous mass,—then a real success has been achieved…