The bell at the front door jingled, and an old man entered the bookshop with his dog, a blast of cold, wintery air following them. The old woman at the counter, Wendy, looked up from her magazine, smiling when she saw them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWelcome back, Jack,\u201d she said, warmly. The old man, Jack, shook of the snow, removed his winter clothes, crossed the threshold, and gave the woman a peck on the cheek. \u201cHow was your walk? It seems brisk out there,\u201d She shivered at her own comment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh, it\u2019s nothin\u2019,\u201d Jack said, casually as he bent down to remove the dog\u2019s leash. Once free, the dog shook the snow of his fur. \u201cBesides, Kermit don\u2019t seem to mind, none. Do you, boy?\u201d Jack scratched the dog on the head, which the animal leaned into. The old couple began to fall into conversation, about some new neighbors or the possibility of the weather getting worse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As they began to talk, the dog began to walk away from the counter to the back of the bookstore. He went past the bookshelves, darting through the labyrinth of mysteries, romance, and children\u2019s books, dissolving into nameless hundreds. At the back of the bookstore, the dog found the door to the basement, complete with a plain, doggy-door. Without a second thought, the dog went through the door and down the stairs without a sound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The basement was a bare, plain void, with a cement floor and pipes running along sides of the room where the walls would have been. It was where the cookbooks, dictionaries, and used books published earlier than 1983 were kept. While the furnace and the pipes made irritating sounds now and then, it was quiet and peaceful. The few customers who came to the bookshop entered the basement very briefly before realizing that they did not want any used books and leaving. That was just fine with the dog. People always insisted on cooing with infant-like babble and rubbing the dog\u2019s head. Sometimes, as an added insult, they would as Jack or Wendy if there was a place where they could wash their hands after getting their greasy fingers on his fur! <\/em>As if he <\/em>was the dirty one and not them<\/em>! The nerve! The utter hubris!<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The bookstore was where the dog survived. It was his home with books, warmth, food, water, and his loving family. The basement, however, was a silent realm. There, he could work happily in solitude. That was where he truly felt alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The dog turned his attention to the things he kept underneath a bench. He ducked under, grabbed the edge of a light blue baby\u2019s blanket, and pulled out a perfectly maintained vintage Gardner typewriter with paper already in it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The dog did not steal the typewriter, nor did he buy it. Wendy had brought it down to the basement to try writing on it. When she was not satisfied with the result, she left the typewriter down there in the basement. At first, the dog was not interested, but one day, he had a thought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018What if..?\u2019<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n With that thought, (oh what a thought!) <\/em>his mind opened. Scenes played out in his head, and stories unfolded. He imagined new ways to see the world, and he imagined new worlds to see. In his mind he could hear the distant rumbling or a starship\u2019s engines, a goddess sobbing in despair, and a roaring waterfall. He could smell fresh grass, honey, and sulfur from volcanic wastelands. He could see stars, mountains, oceans, pirate ships, epic battles, lovers falling in and out of love, and quests upon quests upon quests.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That day, the dog concluded that Wendy likely would not mind if he tried using it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The most difficult part of using the typewriter for the dog was holding his paws up. He sat up on his haunches, balancing precariously like a ball on a spike, holding his front paws out. Careful, so he wouldn\u2019t damage the typewriter, the dog brought the tip of his paw down. He sturdily pressed down on one of the keys, brought the paw back up, and repeated the process over and over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Once upon a time, there was a dragon unlike any other\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The typewriter\u2019s clicks filled the vacant space of the basement. As the dog picked up speed, the clicks were joined by occasional \u201cdings\u201d and the \u201cchuck\u201d of the dog resetting the page and the clicking \u2018clunk\u2019 noise of the rolling carriage. It wasn\u2019t long before the dog ran out of room on the page and had to replace it with a new piece of paper. (Don\u2019t ask how he managed to do that. Only he, or another dog, could say.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n Soon enough, the dog continued, totally engrossed in his writing and letting his imagination run wild on the paper. Before the dog could type The End<\/em>, the door to the basement opened and Wendy came downstairs. The dog backed away, resting on his belly, while Wendy waddled over and looked at the typewriter. She bent down with a groan. \u201cWhat\u2019ve you got there boy?\u201d She plucked the paper from the typewriter and held it in front of her face. \u201cOh, it\u2019s a new one,\u201d she noted. Her eyes squinted as the dog awaited her response. She read it over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHmm, oh a dragon! That sounds scary. Oh, oh my! I wouldn\u2019t want to be that thief, that\u2019s for sure\u2026\u201d When she finished, she patted the dog on his head. \u201cGood work, boy,\u201d Wendy said. \u201cI\u2019ll be sure to put this with the other ones.\u201d With that, she turned around, walked up the stairs, and left the basement, taking the dog\u2019s story with her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The dog lay on the cold floor of the basement, enjoying a tolerable state of mind as authors do when they finish writing. Unfortunately, it didn\u2019t last long.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The existential thoughts came back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jack and Wendy had taken every story he had ever written, even the ones that he didn\u2019t want them to see. They plucked them from the typewriter before he could type The End<\/em>, read through them, and brought them upstairs where he never saw his stories again. They didn\u2019t seem to realize whether he was finished with them or not. He had no idea if they kept the stories in some drawer, or a file, or a safe. Perhaps they didn\u2019t keep them at all. Perhaps they shared them with their friends. Although, it wouldn\u2019t surprise the dog if they instead opted to throw the stories in the furnace, and just wanted to spare his feelings. He didn\u2019t like the thought, but he would understand if that was the case. He was only a mediocre writer. In fact, he couldn\u2019t remember anyone besides Jack or Wendy being interested in his writing. It made sense. If they didn\u2019t know him personally, they wouldn\u2019t care what he wrote. Besides, there was choppy dialogue and repetitive language. It would bore anyone who read his stories. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018You\u2019re just not good enough to be a writer. Throw the typewriter down the stairs. It would have better entertainment value than whatever you were trying to write. Humph\u2026 if you can even call what you\u2019ve done \u201cwriting\u201d.\u2019<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The thoughts were painful, and the words in his head began to sting. But he earned it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was the truth, after all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n If this was all that followed writing, he wondered why he wrote at all. The dog looked at the typewriter again. He wanted to growl or snarl at it, cursing it for the crime of existing. The moment he saw it, however, he stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The typewriter sat on the basement\u2019s cold floor, tantalizingly inactive. The phantom cacophony of \u2018dings\u2019, \u2018chuckas\u2019, and \u2018clunks\u2019 echoed in the dog\u2019s mind, calling out from the typewriter like a cry for help. The dog\u2019s thoughts moved away from self-loathing and personal crisis and went somewhere else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Oh, I remember now,\u2019<\/em> he thought. \u2018That\u2019s why I write.\u2019<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The dog got up off his belly. \u2018I think I\u2019m ready to find out what happens next.\u2019 <\/em>He carefully placed paper in the machine (To reiterate, please don\u2019t ask me how he managed that. Really, only a dog could say), sat on his haunches, lifted his paws up, asked himself the all-important question\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018What if\u2026?\u2019<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2026 and the dog went on from there.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"