The book I started writing yesterday is about a squirrel going to rescue a big, jolly otter she loves; he nearly died at the end of the last book but instead ascended into the heavens.
She will bring him back, but he’ll be changed.
It should take about 2.5 months to write this book, meaning it will fill much of the liminal space between my beloved big orange Sheltie dying, and the time when we can probably get a new Sheltie puppy.
A new Sheltie won’t be the same… but then The Doctor is never the same.
Each regeneration of The Doctor is different, and yet there’s continuity.
Each orange Sheltie is different…
Quinn was much easier going, totally uninterested in learning tricks, and a more jolly fellow than Patrick, the first big orange Sheltie who broke my heart by dying.
When Patrick—my first dog—died, I could barely see through the pain until The Mighty Quinn came on the radio, and I decided I would one day (when not dealing with a new baby) get another Sheltie and name him Quinn.
I’ve had a big orange Sheltie most of my adult life. I’m not sure I know how to get by without one.
My heart is shaped like a big orange Sheltie.
He hasn’t been born yet, but my next big orange Sheltie is coming, as surely as new seasons of Doctor Who will continue to happen.
And I think, his name will be Avery.