JK rowling and my billionaire dog..!

JEFF, my German-shepherd dog, who doesn’t think too highly of my writing skills, looked contemptuously at me as I tapped away on my laptop, “How long?” he asked.
“Another half hour,” I said not looking at him, “I’m a bit stuck, and if you don’t disturb my thoughts, maybe even twenty minutes!” “I don’t mean your column,” growled Jeff looking disinterestedly at my computer screen.
“What are you talking about then?” I asked surprised. “How long you going to take to become a billionaire?”
“A what?” I exclaimed upsetting my screen, which scrolled and unscrolled whatever I had written. “A billionaire,” said my dog patiently, “is a someone who makes a thousand million dollars.” “That’s a lot of money,” I sighed.
“So how long you going to take to make that kind of money?” asked Jeff again. “I’m a writer,” I said, “not some rich industrialist or budding politician. Writers are born poor, live poor and die poor!” “Not anymore master. Does this face look familiar?” he asked pawing a newspaper picture lying on the ground, “This one’s a billionaire!”
“JK. Rowling!” I said. “Good, now that you know who she is, maybe you need to know what she earned?” “How much?” I whispered. “One billion dollars!” growled my dog.
“How?” I asked. “By writing well,” said my dog simply. “I thought I do,” I sniffed. “Your bank balance would reveal exactly the kind of writer you are,” said my suddenly very business like dog, as he opened my pass book “now as of yesterday, you have….”
“Sssshhh..” I whispered.
“So master we need to improve your writing.” “We?” I asked. “Well it’s to my interest too,” said my clever dog. “Your billions will directly affect my life style. No more will I have to shiver during winter mornings, for lack of warm quilt!”
“Look at the rug you lie on,” I said, “it’s fit for a king.” “Yeah but I wonder what Rowling’s dog goes to sleep on? Could be a four-poster bed!” “That’s if Mrs. Rowling has a dog!” I ventured. “That’s a thought!” pondered Jeff.
“What’s a thought?” I asked. “If she doesn’t have dog maybe she’d want one.” “I assume the dog she’d want, would be you?” “Yes of course,” “And pray why?” I asked.
“Because I’m a specialist dog, a professional at being a writer’s dog. Experienced to a writer’s mood swings, competent with dealing with irrational behavior, proficient at handling melancholy, sulks and bouts of depression!” “Go,” I said angrily, “go to your billionaire writer!” “But first you’ll have to learn to write.” “Why should I?” I asked, “you’re going.”
“Yes but you need to write a testimonial for me, something which is up to Rowling’s literary standards; a reference letter, from writer to writer. So, I’ve bought some books for you master. The faster you learn to write, the faster I’ll be a billionaire dog..!”

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