So I’ve got a dog. Not some savage fanged attack beast but a small brown cross who’s good company when I’m writing. I live in apartment so he’s about as rugged as I’m allowed to have. Oh and his name’s Bishop, that’s another story. Anyway my girlfriend, lets call her Supreme Dictator Home Front (SDHF), tells me that it’s Bishop’s birthday when we’re in New York. ‘Cool,’ I respond. ‘Yes it’s his 21st,’ she continues. ‘It’s an important day we need to have a party.’ At this point I stop what I am doing and look at her with a raised eyebrow, ‘Babe (I don’t call her SDHF to her face) he’s a dog!’ There is a pause as my comment is processed, considered and subsequently discarded. ‘I’ve written you a list.’
So here I am stuffing dog treats in to brown paper bags for all of Bishop’s buddies and preparing to bake cupcakes for his human friends… How the hell did I go from being a soldier to this? What the f@ck has happened to my manhood?
I’ve come to the realisation that the real world ‘the one the SDHF lives in’ is nothing like the world I’ve come from. In this crazy world dogs have birthday parties and men – well we do as we’re told. Why? Because we’re building collateral. Because by cooking these cupcakes and prepping these party bags I’m far more likely to get approval for a crazy arse adventure (West Virginia Rapids) or a new toy (Mountain Bike). This line of operation is one hundred percent focused on diplomacy. Oh and if it means Bishop, my writing buddy, has a great time then I guess it’s worth it.
Anyway I’ve got to finish these cupcakes, hang up my apron and get stuck in to writing the next PRIMAL adventure.