How to Have Unlimited Ideas
What the Queen, Donald Trump and My Dog Taught Me About Writing
I rescued Scooby, a lovely black and brown Yorkshire terrier, after he was found being used as a drug mule.
Apparently, airport security knew something was up when they heard an odd sound: they saw a man sliding a ballooned dog along the floor, and no matter how slowly he pulled the dog, he couldn’t hide the rubbery screech.
While security searched the owner, I gave the dog a sandwich I saved from my flight (airplane food has always cleared my intestines) two minutes later the dog seemed to be in labour. One big squeeze and — pop! — his stomach went in and his paws hit the ground.
The poor thing was filled with a bag of white powder. We suspected it was cocaine — 20% of it was, but the other 80% was laxatives.
Unfortunately, the bag leaked. On our way towards the exit, Scooby jumped and backflipped, and flipped again. By the fourth somersault the laxatives kicked in, and a jet of excrement blasted out — he span faster and faster, like a black and brown Catherine Wheel. For five minutes he whizzed through the air before sputtering to an end.
Don’t worry, I’ve been looking after him since then and he’s gradually getting better.
