Two Odd Encounters

I started thinking last night - no idea why - about two encounters that have become linked in my mind. It's funny the connections you make: A leads to B because of C and, suddenly, you can't think of one without the other. Both these encounters coincided with a 'big day' in my life and both of them involved creatures not normally associated with warm, fuzzy cuddles.

Firstly, there was the night before I went off to Lincoln for my first year at university. I was on edge, especially having just said goodbye to my grandmother (a farewell that would trigger, unfortunately, a rather bad stream of events culminating in her death but that's for another day), and I was sat at my laptop dawdling and putting off going to sleep. I had a high bed in those days, with a desk underneath and a 'bedside' table next to the desk with a purple lamp on it.

Then, suddenly, the lamp started buzzing. I was a little slow off the mark but quickly came to my senses when the wasp buzzed out of the lamp and headed in my general direction. I jumped up, knocking over my can of Coke onto the lampshade and bedside table, and panicked. My inclination was to run away but there was nowhere to run. My dad was asleep and I sort of had to stay in that room. My only option was to catch it and put it out. I think it got killed in the process but that was by accident, not design. When I woke up the next morning I thought I'd dreamed it but, nope, there were the Coke stains on my lamp to prove it. Incidentally, I didn't have time to clean up before I left so there they stayed for two weeks until I came home for a spontaneous weekend.

The second incident happened three years later on the morning of my first day at a company in the North East which shall remain nameless. It's enough to know that they were based in Stockton and I was living in Darlington. I set off ridiculously early to make sure I got an earlier train and just as I was walking down from the town centre towards the railway station something glistened in the dawning light ahead of me. Almost hidden on the bridge on my right there was something scurrying above the water line. A big something. It was the size of an overfed cat but, having had rats as pets, I knew exactly what it was. It looked particularly menacing bathed in orange light. I'll be honest, I didn't want to pass that spot for a few moments and I lingered until I finally realised I'd miss my train if I didn't get on.

These encounters aren't linked apart from the fact they were chance meetings with unexpected creatures and they happened prior to big events in my life. But, with hindsight, it's difficult not to see them as omens of some kind. My first year of uni was...tricky and I made some daft decisions and wrote some dafter essays. That job proved to be a blessing and a curse - it gave me friendship (like my old pet rat Norman did) but it was the place my shyness became an acute problem.

The trouble with us human beings is that we seek meaning in everything. That's probably increased tenfold in writers and avid readers. Everything has to mean something, otherwise what's the point of anything? Unfortunately, that's a question I return to time and again.

Pet Names

To avoid any confusion, I'm talking about 'names for pets' in this post. Not 'pet names' such as 'snuggles', 'cuddles', 'arsenic', and 'bulldozer'. That's a whole different category and one that could make everyone feel rather nauseous. No, I've been thinking a lot lately about animal names and their relationship to fiction: how do you decide what to call your pets and, more importantly, how do characters?

So far in my novel drafts I've only included one pet. There's an excellent piece of advice in some book somewhere that warns writers not to include animals without an exceptional reason. They can be self-indulgent little things that do nothing apart from hold up your plot and, when you forget about them, can leave the reader wondering where the fluffy kitten is and whether you did actually leave it in the burning building. The cat in my novel serves a few purposes, or at least I believe she does. I may be being self-indulgent. But Meg gives my protagonist something to get up for in the morning, she gives her something to talk to, and she serves to illuminate aspects of character by her preference for certain characters over others. As a cat person, I have to say that a cat's opinion can occasionally sway me in something like that. Yes... I know.

But why the name Meg? Well, my protagonist found the cat as a stray and gave her a human name to make her part of her hitherto single-person family. The old saying goes that if you give a cat a human name it becomes more human in your eyes. Now, I don't know what our pet names say about us as a family.

My cat, who unfortunately died last week, was called Stalin. Her sister, who passed away a few months ago was called Vlad. These cats were originally my sister's but part of her agreement to get them dictated my mother should have a say in the names. And she was kind of into her history. I have to say, whereas Vlad was a softie, Stal lived up to her name on some occasions. But not as much as the first cat I remember - Beast. Now, she was a stray and a very violent scrappy cat. I was scratched more than I care to remember when I was younger by that darling. She had a particularly amusing game of hanging around on the kitchen country ready to leap onto the back of our poor, unsuspecting doggy. She was originally called (embarrassing moment coming up) Icolbit, because a child who shall remain nameless couldn't speak and wanted her to come over 'a little bit'. However, 'Beast' was a much more appropriate name for her.

We've had two dogs in my lifetime. Paddy, probably a whippet crossed with something it really shouldn't have been crossed with, was a rescue dog. The first day we got him he ran from the house into the middle of a busy road because he was scared. I'm not sure the car helped his fear much. However, one metal plate later and he was perfectly happy. He still shook at anything, even a raised voice, but he was the most docile, friendly dog you could encounter. When he died my mother was heartbroken, and made the decision to go check out a puppy next door to one of my aunts the very same day. So we ended up with Rosie, a Cairn crossed with a Westie... we think. She's highly excitable and we're currently having some problems with her because she misses Stalin terribly. Once Beast died she became attached to Vlad and when Vlad died she latched onto Stal. She's now lost and confused and thinks we're going to leave her every time we leave the dining room. Rosie was my name choice, and not for very pleasant reasons either. There was a stuck-up girl I hated at school, part of a set who loved the look of themselves in a mirror. Naming my dog after one of them seemed to be the ultimate revenge at the time. Ahem. I promise I have grown up since then.

We've had an array of animals in my family. Maud, a grey long-eared rabbit; Norman, a brown and white rat; Noel and Liam, my brother's budgies. Plus an assortment of mice, rabbits and fish whose names escape me. But, for the most part, they were all part of the family - that is, they were named as if they were part of the family.

I know that including pets in fiction should be avoided if they're just going to be an issue of cuteness and irritation to the reader. But think of Fang in the Harry Potter series: whenever Hagrid was in his hut I wanted to know where the dog was because he was a vivid character in my mind. He helped define Hagrid. Where would Count Fosco be in The Woman in White without his assortment of mice and birds? The attention he pays to them highlights a peculiar edge to his character. And, in the world of television, where would Martin Crane be without his dog, Eddie? Animals can help define and shape character as much as they can annoy the audience by their constant interruptions. The key as a writer is to know when you're indulging yourself and when you're indulging the requirements of the plot or scene.