blowing hot and cold

I've always been kind of amazed at dogs, the way their noses work. I mean, that they're wet, or damp, or at least not dry, and they're meant to be that way. In a human that would be quite revolting, but in a dog it seems normal, and even quite nice. Especially with black dogs, their noses gleam with a dull shine like a damp pebble from a volcano or something. Anyway, human noses are meant to be dry on the outside and not quite so dry on the inside, but the last few days Susie's nose has been dry AND damp, and hot, she says, and she doesn't know whether to bark or cry. Or howl, maybe, more doggish. Anyway, today she was complaining how her nose has been hot AND cold AND sneezy; hot on the inside and cold on the outside. Like a volcano with snow on it. I'm sure there are volcanoes like that somewhere in the world. Japan, possibly. For Susie, the whole nose thing in the winter especially becomes a big issue (ha, like a bit tissue, or a big achoo) - like, the whole day is dictated by what's happening in her nose! She says this is the problem with central heating and sinus problems and dust - plus having a job which is about sitting still for long periods, so you're always cooling down or having to warm up.

Surely somebody some day will invent the perfect writing environment, where you're not too hot or too cold or too bunged up by dust and heaters, or sweating or freezing in an attic or a basement or near a window?? Probably the perfect environment is June, somewhere in mainland Europe. Maybe with an electric fan and a hot water bottle and a cardigan and mittens and cold lemonade and hot tea or cocoa, and a hat and sunglasses all on a chair next to your desk, and outside a lounger thing under an umbrella, with a nice towel to pull over your toes if they get chilly. Or, maybe it's being in a temperature controlled bunker underground with special full spectrum lighting and the sounds of birds and fountains played through speakers in the ceiling, and a massaging chair and footrest. Or, maybe it's lying on a water bed under a cashmere rug, dictating into a machine.

Or maybe we should be more like dogs and have damp noses and slurp water and pant when we get hot and run around and wag our tails when we're cold. Would life be easier, if we were built like dogs? Susie would say 'show me the dog that's written a novel worth a damn' and I'd say, yeah, but show me a dog that worries about deadlines and criticism and thematic consistency (i don't know what that is exactly, but she seems to worry about it). That's funny, actually, dogs worry, but humans are worriers too. Terriers and writers are the best worriers. Ha! Woof.