If George were a book, all of his pages would be dog-eared. He wouldn’t live on a shelf- he’d be beside the bed, or under the pillow. He’d be sitting on the kitchen counter, or laying open by a blanket on the couch. He’d have writing in every margin. People would be able to recite his words by the paragraph. He’d be an eclectic mix of history, knock-knock jokes, riddles, and captivating fiction. You’d laugh out loud at his dialogue. You’d fall in love with his characters.
Abbie, George’s old owner, stopped in to see him yesterday. It’s been two years and a lot more white in George’s coat since they’ve seen each other. Neither one missed a beat, both smiling when they realized who they were looking at. Abbie flipped to her favourite page, cuddled in, and picked up right where she left off. Same story, different setting.