Paws on the Page

Susanna here, writing more slowly this morning because of the dog on my lap.

Stella is a recent addition to our family, filling the hole in my writing room left by the passing of Samson five years ago, and after being with us only a couple of months she’s already fallen in with our routine and made herself at home.
 
Which got me thinking that, in all the books I’ve written, there are pets. My characters are always sharing scenes with cats or favourite horses or a bird, and more often than not you’ll find a dog that features somewhere in the story.

To be honest, it’s not something I set out to do when I sit down to start a novel. Pets just wander in and, like the poodle on my lap here, make themselves at home.

They can do many useful things within a plot. Something as simple as a dog losing his ball beneath a chair can be the catalyst that starts an unexpected chain of happenings. A horse, by needing to be fed and groomed, can draw two characters into the stables for a private talk.
 
But most of all, I find, a pet reveals a person’s character.
 
When I write from the heroine’s viewpoint the reader can’t access the thoughts of the hero, but just as in real life the way that a man interacts with an animal tells us a lot.

For example, in my book A Desperate Fortune, the heroine is carrying her little spaniel, Frisque, all through the dangers of her travels in the company of strangers, with a bodyguard—a man named Hugh MacPherson—who talks little, never smiles, and while defending them has proven himself to be an efficient, unemotional assassin.

Yet…

“In this wild and rugged place the Scotsman’s stamina and strength were things to marvel at. He’d passed one portmanteau to Thomson, who could barely manage that together with his deal-box, but MacPherson kept the larger of the portmanteaus slung over his own shoulder so it rested on his back beside the long case of his gun. The heavy basket-hilted sword was at his side again, the ordinary sword hung at his other hip, his evil-looking dirk sheathed in its place along with heaven only knew how many other blades. A walking, breathing armoury—and yet he moved in silence with a steady gait as though he carried nothing…

As he’d fastened the straps of the portmanteau, he had glanced once more at Mary, who had just set Frisque on the ground for a moment to stretch out her arms. The dog wasn’t a great weight to carry, but holding her arms bent so long left them aching and numb.

MacPherson had watched her. And then he’d advised, ‘Let it walk.’

‘He’s a “him”, not an “it”,’ she had said, ‘and he’s too old to walk so far.’

Frisque had already curled into a tight round of fur on the hard ground, his eyes drooping shut. For a moment MacPherson looked down at him, then bending forward he scooped the dog up with one hand and, before Mary could even offer a protest, he’d put the tiny spaniel in the large and deep hip pocket of his horseman’s coat. Frisque had all but disappeared, only his muzzle and eyes and ears showing, and after a brief scrabble round with his paws to align himself upright, the little dog had seemed delighted.

And after MacPherson had slung the re-packed portmanteau on his back as before with the gun case and set out again, Mary could not deny it had made walking easier, not having Frisque in her arms.”

An assassin he may be, but with that one action he showed me the softer side under his shell.

When I look at old portraits of men with their dogs, I love noting the difference between those who are standing aloof with their hunting hounds posed at their knees, and those who are clearly attached to their pets.

Those portraits show me more about those men than I’d have learned if they’d been posing on their own, just as a pet within a story shows me more about my characters.

Do you have any favourite moments in a romance novel between pets and characters? A favourite pet in fiction (or real life)?

Stella and I would really love to hear about them!