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This is something silly I wrote about my dog’s visit to an amazing bookshop, and his generally being nonplussed about it all.
Max sat on the stone floor. To his left was a dark red, velvet chair, worn and inviting yet completely ignored. Beyond the chair, to his left and right, stretching out before his wide brown eyes were rows and rows of wooden shelves, floor to ceiling, housing a wonder of books, manuscripts and maps, a rainbow of knowledge waiting to be discovered.
Books about climbing, gardening, cookery, art. Music, theatre, history. Romans, Egyptians, Myans. Travelling. Trashy crime, true crime, true romance. Romanticism in art, in music, in literature.True fiction, false fiction, fiction about fiction.
Life stories, satires, biographies, sycophantic ghost-written indulgences taking liberties with the truth. Quotes and miscellany, and books of statistics, lists, historical facts. Children’s books, adult’s books, comic books with nothing but pictures described by adults as ‘graphic novels’ in an attempt to disguise their inner child.
Teach Yourself How to climb, garden, cook, to be a musician, a playwrite, to understand  hieroglyphics and pars sentences. In Egyptian hieroglyphics. Self-Help books offering insight into how to be a better person, make those around you better people, how to make the world a better place.
Atlases and maps, the world’s geography laid bare one page at a time.
Books about Churchill and Hitler, Shakespeare and God. All gods. Bibles, books about the Bible…Img_0522
Dictionaries and first editions, signed editions, limited editions, editions of books even the publisher wants back.
A history of the world in words, Max was oblivious to them all. His eyes were fixed on the door which led to the birds strutting on the grass outside, pecking and flapping and demanding to be chased.
He pulled himself up onto his four legs, stretched out his back, and with a flick of his tail bounded out into the afternoon sun.
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