Most of my conversations for the last two days have gone something like this.

Them: Hey, you were at the West Hollywood Book Fair Sunday. How did it go?

Me: I signed a book to a dog.

Them: A dog?

Me: Sparky.

Them: Really?

Me: I couldn't make that up.

Sparky, the cocker spaniel, apparently has a thing for L.A. crime fiction and sat very patiently at my feet while I personalized his copy. (Still not kidding.) He likes to read in bed after a good bowl of kibble and his evening walk. It relaxes him. Recently he's been going through a noir phase. But he heard Jasper Fforde was good, and now he's leaning toward surrealist humor.

(Okay, now I'm kidding - he's still doing noir.)

And don't think I'm not using this.

I'm going to tell the dog story at every signing from now until the day I die. When that lady said, "Could you make it out to Sparky?" I nearly peed myself from excitement. I started writing the jokes before the ink was dry. The mileage I'm gonna get out of that two minutes could stun an ox. And if you happen to have an ox, bring 'em to the next signing. His book is on me.