The Review rarely prints correspondence from dogs, and when it does it is with a sense of sorrow. Yet the following arrived on Monday, scrawled in what looks like gravy, from a Mr. Barnaby of Elm Terrace: “Dear Sirs, I take issue with the word ‘tiresome.’ I am a good boy. Yours, Barnaby.” We were moved, briefly.
To Mr. Barnaby I say: you are a good boy, and you are tiresome. Both can be true. I recommend you read a book, possibly one without a ball in it. You will find that criticism is not the enemy of love but its gruff doorman. Barnaby is cordially invited to the Review’s autumn party, where he will be kept on a very long lead, in the garden, behind glass.
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